The Bloom After The Blight
by mrsrockatansky
Summary: Sequel to The Lion And The Light. In a post-Blight Ferelden, Florence Cousland must come to terms with the loss of her magic, while Alistair Theirin needs to lead his crippled country towards recovery. Matters are complicated further by royal babies, foreign politics and the return of the Howes. The fisherman's daughter from Herring has a whole new set of challenges to face...
1. Alistair's Dilemma

Chapter 1: Alistair's Dilemma

A week had passed since the official ending of the Fifth Blight, and the city of Denerim was tentatively venturing back towards normality. It was a great tribute to the _character_ of the people of Ferelden; that they had suffered through the worst and most terrible threat that any nation in Thedas could face _(and it had to be said, Ferelden was hardly the most capable country when compared to its neighbours)_ and come out with a dogged sort of optimism. There may have been the odd smouldering crater where the Darkspawn siege weapons had made their mark; the refugee ships still set sail with Fereldans determined to seek better fortunes in the Free Marches; yet the majority of citizens were determined to roll up their sleeves and just _get on with it._

It was common knowledge that their poor nation – poor in _every_ sense of the word, since Ferelden had never been wealthy even during more peaceful times – had been grievously wounded by the Darkspawn horde. The teyrnir of Gwaren was all but destroyed, as were a dozen smaller settlements; including the new general's own seat at South Reach. The Archdemon's army had cut a swathe from south to north, razing crops and tainting land as they went. Acres of valuable arable land had been left polluted and unusable, the animals either poisoned or consumed by the horde.

Yet, the people of Ferelden were a doughty folk, fiercely proud of their ailing homeland and unafraid of the hard work that it would take to restore it. Already, refugees were forming small collectives that they named _restoration committees;_ planning strategic returns to their devastated hometowns. Those men and women who had served as soldiers in the great Ferelden Free Army and fought in the final battle against the horde, now turned their minds to the future.

Fortunately, the people had a firm foundation upon which to build their hopes. They had a new Theirin on the throne, one cast so strongly in the vein of Maric that the elders of Denerim swore blind that Alistair Theirin was the very reincarnation of his father. Like Maric, Alistair had proven his worth in battle; risking Royal life and limb to partake in the final fight against the Archdemon.

Located on its high rise overlooking Denerim, the Royal Castle had managed to avoid any superfluous damage from the Darkspawn attack. The servants had been safe within the thick stone walls, which had been bolstered after retaking the land from Orlais. Now the palace resembled more fortress than Royal residence; but as a result, it had managed to withstand the stray trebuchet volley launched towards it by the oncoming horde. There was some minor damage to the east tower and part of the sewerage system needed repairs where the Darkspawn had tried to tunnel their way through solid bedrock, but on the whole it had survived the Blight relatively intact.

The threat of civil war also seemed to have dissipated with the ending of the Fifth Blight. The new king appeared on civil – if not particularly cordial – terms with the disgraced former Teyrn Loghain; who had been horrendously maimed during the final battle. Mac Tir had taken the Grey, but, due to said injures, it was uncertain whether he would continue to follow the calling. The King's Council had been reformed with the new Teyrn Cousland at its head, alongside the Arl of Redcliffe, the Banns of Rainesfere and the Waking Sea, and the commander of the Royal Army, Leonas Bryland.

In addition to a Theirin king, and a reconciled peerage; the people of Ferelden also had another cause for hope. The armies of men, elves and dwarves - which had been so instrumental in defending Denerim - had not been assembled by a member of the established peerage; but by a girl barely out of adolescence, catapulted out of obscurity to make an indelible mark on Fereldan history. This same girl – a hidden scion of the Cousland family – had also been the one to strike down the Archdemon; ultimately ending the Fifth Blight and saving their nation from destruction.

Chantry priests across the city led services in Florence Cousland's honour – exalting how the Maker had compensated her for her bravery by purging both the taint and the touch of the Fade from her body. The removal of the young Cousland's magic was thus recast as a heavenly _reward_ ; that she was now forever free from the Fade's insidious influence.

Yet it was not so much _this_ that gave the people hope, but the lady Cousland's swollen belly. The teyrn's sister was quite visibly with child, and the king had publicly claimed parentage. Alistair's acknowledgement was not strictly necessary; there were already a _plethora_ of tavern songs that portrayed king and Cousland as lovers. These ranged from romantic ballads to lewd refrains that no retainer would dare utter in earshot of his liege-lord.

However, those who assumed that the strife within Ferelden's peerage was mended would have been sorely surprised at the scenes transpiring in the Theirin bedchamber; exactly one week after the Blight had been ended. It was the same evening that Florence Cousland had appeared at the great entrance of the Royal Palace, proving her survival to both her army and the curious townsfolk of Denerim. Those civilians who had made the trek up through the hunting grounds were the first to bear witness to the lady Cousland's swollen stomach, and enjoyed the consequent smugness of delivering the news to enthralled crowds in the taverns below.

After the young Hero of Ferelden had set out her twin arcs of burning remembrance on the turret roof, she had professed herself to be weary; still raw and shocked from the news that her spirits had departed forever, her connection with the Fade severed. The soul of the old god had purged her of extraneous influence; she had entered Fort Drakon as both mage and Grey Warden, and had departed as neither.

Alistair, in his new protective role as father, immediately dismissed Eamon's suggestion of a meeting of the Royal council; instead overseeing his beloved companion's retirement to bed with hawklike vigilance. After only an hour, there had come an insistent knock at the door: the core of the Landsmeet had come to king when king would not come to them.

They were greeted with Alistair nursing a simmering rage over his dozing lover's bedside, his anger expanding until it reached the wood-beamed ceiling. Unlike most Theodesian Royal quarters; the Theirin bedchamber was sprawling but austere, the furnishings relatively plain, if well-made. Murals of Mabari and warhorses had been daubed onto the plaster walls, interspersed with the occasional stuffed trophy. The most prominent piece of furniture in the room was the bed; raised on a stone step, with four dark posters of wood reaching up to the ceiling. Wide enough to house four, it was covered with a mismatched array of blankets and animal furs.

Florence Cousland – colloquially known as _Flora_ – now lay snoring in the midst of a tangle of bedding, curled up against a tawny fur with a cushion clamped to her cheek. Alistair stood over her like a mother bear defending an injured cub, his handsome olive features flushed with anger as he turned his wrath on his uncle.

" _No,"_ he hissed towards the Arl of Redcliffe, nostrils flaring and Maric's characteristic temper evident in the twist of his mouth. "Absolutely not. Out of the question!"

"Alistair, " started Eamon placatingly, starting forward. "Son- "

"Don't _'son'_ me!" retorted Alistair a fraction too loudly, then made an effort to mute himself with a glance down at his snoring companion. "I can't believe you'd even suggest it. Flora has saved this country – and your life, uncle, and your town, _and_ your son – and you're suggesting we _lock her back up?"_

The king's nostrils flared indignantly and he paced an angry circle about the bed, lifting the golden band from his head and letting it drop onto the furs.

Eamon shot a meaningful glance towards the others, who were standing a safe distance away near the hearth. These consisted of Ferelden's most influential peers – including the only remaining teyrn, Fergus Cousland – and a handful of Flora's companions.

Fergus took a deep breath, stepping forward to face Alistair square-on. He raised his palms to show amiable deference, attempting to snare the king's gaze with his blue-grey stare.

"No one is suggesting that we _lock her up,_ Alistair," he murmured, bravely standing his ground as Alistair turned a predatory green-flicked glare in his direction. "But the Grand Cleric has agreed to publicly confirm Florence's non-mage status – _after_ she spends a month under constant surveillance by the Templar Order, in their nearest monastery. Revanloch is only a short ride from the city walls."

Alistair sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb Flora as she mumbled bleary and incoherent. His sister-warden no longer dreamt – a consequence of her severance from the Fade – but she had picked up the tendency to babble soft nonsense while sleeping.

"But, a whole _month,"_ he said, bleakly. "I can't be without Lo for that long. I _need_ her, Fergus."

"You could visit her every day," Fergus replied, with a quickness that suggested he and Eamon had already discussed the subject extensively. "Besides, I don't imagine that she'd want for company. I think visitors will be queuing up to see her; myself and Finn in the front of the line."

"Aye," Leonas added quietly, the arl standing stiffly beside the hearth. "The lass is like a daughter to me. I'd happily go and read with her of an afternoon."

There came general grunts of agreement from Flora's companions; all clustered on the other side of the bed, save for Sten and Morrigan.

Alistair passed a tired hand over his face, rumpling the hair at the top of his head. He glanced down once more at Flora, who was now flat on her back with her mouth open, the blankets tangled around her swollen waist. Reaching down, he moved one of the heavy furs up to her chin, tucking it in around the edges.

"I don't understand why it needs to be publicly endorsed by the Chantry, anyway," he muttered, bitterly. "It's obvious that Flo's lost her magic. The Circle has confirmed it, the Templar Order has tested her blood. She's less susceptible to the Fade than you or I in her current state."

There was an elongated pause, during which Fergus glanced at Leonas, and Eamon at his younger brother. The Arl of Redcliffe gave a slight nod, and Teagan spoke up, quietly.

"Because if the Chantry confirms it, then the Landsmeet will corroborate it," the bann explained, his green Guerrin eyes focusing steadily on Alistair's own.

"So?" retorted Alistair, belligerently.

"Well, don't you want to make her your wife?"

There was another long silence, which expanded to fill the room like a thick, portentous miasma. Wynne glanced swiftly at Leliana; both women had predicted and extensively discussed this potential series of events.

Alistair blinked for a moment, his pupils expanding and constricting in rapid succession. His mouth twisted, and he dropped his gaze to Flora's limp, bandaged palm as it lay motionless on the blankets.

"Of _course_ I do," he said at last, bleakly. "I've wanted to marry her since Satinalia. I just… I just never thought it would be possible."

"Well, Alistair," replied Eamon, his voice soft and persuasive. "If you agree to this, it _will_ be possible. The Landsmeet would approve, you could take Florence as your bride, and your child would be born legitimate."

 _A Theirin on the throne, and one in the cradle. The dynasty would be secure. And the country's stability would be ensured._

"But would _mi florita_ even desire this path?" Zevran interrupted, his voice shadowed. "You talk about her as though she has no choice in the matter. She hardly embraced becoming a Cousland, why would she want to become a _queen?"_

The elf was leaning against the hearth, arms crossed and a scowl writ across his tan, tattooed face. The assassin had mastered a peculiar duality of gaze; where he could focus on one aspect within his purview, while simultaneously keeping an eye on something in the background. In this case Zevran's stare was trained hawklike on Arl Eamon's lined face, yet he was continually glancing down to where Flora lay snoring in bed.

There was another long silence; and this time, it was Alistair's turn to flinch.

"That's my fault," he said eventually, voice raw. "I can't help this bloody parentage of mine."

Wynne cleared her throat, moving her wrinkled fingers absentmindedly over the notebook she kept hanging on a chain at her waist.

"If Florence becoming queen would give hope to Ferelden," the senior enchanter mused, in measured tones. "I believe that she would do it, despite her reservations. She has a sense of duty second to none."

Alistair, still perched on the edge of the bed, turned to face his former sister-warden. He leaned down and kissed Flora tenderly on the edge of her forehead, lips brushing her hairline. One hand went to settle on the curve of her belly, prominent enough to be visible even through the thick furs that covered it.

"If she's in a monastery outside the city, I can't protect her," he said, throatily. "She can't shield herself any more, and she's got no type of… no combat skills. She can't even wield a _dagger._ How am I supposed to defend her and our child if she's not by my side?"

"Well, she'll be surrounded by church soldiers," Finian said, reasonably. "I've visited one of those monasteries before. You can't move without a Chantry Mother breathing down your neck."

"I know," snapped Alistair, uncharacteristically harsh. "I spent ten years in one. It doesn't mean that she'll be _safe- "_

"What if I stay with her?" piped up Leliana, her musical Orlesian tongue standing out above the native Fereldan tones. "They'll permit me to stay, since I'm a lay-sister. If I promise to stick to Florence's side like one of her Herring limpets, would that help to assuage your fears?"

Alistair's gaze moved appraisingly over the bard, whose innocuous smile and demure Chantry robes masked one of the most skilled fighters that he had ever known. Leliana, to his knowledge, had never been bested in combat – had not permitted even a scratch to mar her creamy, perfumed flesh – and a keen intelligence lay behind the earnest blue stare.

There was a tense pause; Eamon glanced at Leonas and Teagan at Fergus. Finally, Alistair let out a long sigh, his face crumpling.

"Fine. But I'm going to tell her."

Wynne cleared her throat, the pointed sound interrupting Alistair's hand before it could settle on Flora's pyjama-clad shoulder.

"Alistair?"

Alistair stared at the senior enchanter, his handsome face creased with weariness and guilt.

"What is it, Wynne?"

The old mage grimaced, pale eyes settling on where the snoring Flora lay tangled in the blankets.

"I wouldn't mention to her the possibility of becoming queen yet," she murmured, quietly. "Florence has enough to cope with at the moment, with the loss of her magic. Let her work through that first."

Alistair gave a tight nod, before waking his former sister-warden with a soft kiss to her mouth, cupping her cheek against his palm.

"Sweetheart?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: I'm about 25 pages in, so I decided to post the first chapter! The story picks up immediately after The Lion and the Light finishes - and we see what Eamon's proposal is! I didn't want the loss of Flora's magic to have no consequences - and I thought it was realistic that there would need to be this official verification process of her non-mage status. So no it's not going to be HAPPILY EVER AFTER for Flo, I don't make life that easy for her, hahaha. I also wanted to show the result of 'hardened' Alistair's character development - he's not afraid to stand up to Eamon.


	2. Breaking The News To Flora

Chapter 2: Breaking The News To Flora

Flora yawned into the cushions, lifting her bandaged hand to her head sleepily. Seeing Alistair's handsome, concerned face hovering over her, she gave him a reflexive smile; then remembered the disappearance of her spirits and flinched, the loss still a raw and painful wound.

"It's so strange, not going to the Fade," Flora whispered, registering no one's presence save for that of her best friend. "When I sleep now, there's just – _nothing._ I suppose it's peaceful, but… I'm not used to it."

Alistair leaned his face down to hers, feeling a sudden lurch of sadness deep in his gut as he gazed into his former sister-warden's wide, unsuspecting grey eyes. In an attempt to assuage his guilt, he pressed a kiss first to her forehead, then to each cheek, then to the end of her nose.

"I love you," he said, the words emerging as earnestly as they had done when he had first uttered them; in a draughty bedroom at Redcliffe Castle. "I love you more than the world, Flora of Herring."

Flora blinked at him, finally registering the presence of the others crowded around the walls of the Royal bedchamber. None of them looked particularly happy, but it was Alistair's grieved face that disconcerted her the most.

"Flora- "

"What's wrong?" she asked in a small voice, pushing herself up on the cushions and kicking the furs from where they were wrapped around her legs."What's happened? Is it more Darkspawn? I'll run after the armies and get them back- "

"No, sweetheart, nothing's wrong," Alistair hastened to reassure her, his hand smoothing down a thick strand of sleep-rumpled hair. "I- it's just… the Chantry says- "

He trailed off helplessly, the words tangling together on his tongue. Eamon stepped forward, clearing his throat and snaring her wide eyes with his steady Guerrin gaze.

"Florence, the Chantry needs to put you under observation for some time before they can publicly announce that you've been cured of magic- "

" _Cured?!"_

Flora sat up a little straighter in indignation, nostrils flaring. Eamon pressed onwards; already envisioning the stability that a popular queen and legitimate Theirin heir would bring.

"The Grand Cleric and Knight-Commander have agreed to house you in the Revanloch monastery, during which time you will be kept under close observation by Templars. After that, the Chantry will- "

Flora sat bolt upright, her eyes widening in dismay.

"You're sending me away?" she croaked, red blotches quickly rising to the surface of her cheeks. "You're sending me away and _locking me up?"_

Visions of the Circle flooded Flora's mind and she scrambled out of bed, clearly agitated, ducking Alistair's entreating arms.

"Darling- "

Alistair immediately rose to his feet and headed to the other side of the bed; Flora avoided him with surprising agility considering that she was five months weighed down with child. Her voice rose in hurt and confusion, indignity writ stark across her fine-hewn Cousland features. A sudden hormonal surge accompanied this distress, and tears began to well in the corners of her eyes.

"You want to send me away because I'm _useless_ now! Because I can't cure the taint!" Flora wailed, entirely missing the point. "I don't want to be locked up again, I can't, _I won't- !_ I'm going away, I'm going back to Herring- "

With a melodramatic toss of the head, Flora sailed out of the room with her dishevelled ponytail streaming behind her; despite the adolescent angst, there was a genuine poignancy to her pyjama clad figure as she scuttled barefoot down the Royal corridor.

Alistair swore under his breath, shooting Eamon a dark look as he made to follow his distraught companion. Wynne reached out a hand to intercept him, lined fingers curling into his leather sleeve.

"Wait, Alistair. You're hardly the best person to reassure Florence, since you didn't even _want_ this confinement to happen in the first place. I'll go after her."

Alistair's eyebrows rose as he took in the senior enchanter's thoughtful expression, indignity infusing his own voice.

"You surely don't approve of this idea, Wynne?!"

"I think that the girl has the opportunity to be in a very unique position," Wynne retorted, her sky-coloured eyes giving a flash. "I think she could do a lot of good as your wife, and it would be nice to have a leader sympathetic to mages, for once. It's only for a month, Alistair. Doesn't Ferelden deserve the best possible Queen?"

Alistair gave a defeated half-nod, reluctantly grasping the enchanter's argument.

"Of course Ferelden deserves the best," he muttered, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. "And Lo _is_ the best. But she won't do it, Wynne, you saw her just now- "

"Oh, she _will_ do it," replied Wynne, her tone sharpening a fraction. "I'll talk some sense into her."

"I'll come with you," offered Leonas Bryland, a rueful and humourless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The arl – who was the only one in the room with an adolescent daughter – was well-accustomed to handling bouts of feminine distress.

Flora had burst from the Royal bedchamber so quickly that the guards did not even have time to open the doors for her. Careless of her dishevelled appearance, she stormed down the corridor; caught halfway between distress and indignation.

She passed pairs of soldiers clad in gold and crimson Theirin livery, who scrambled to do the pike-shift from hand to hand to mark the approach of a Hero of Ferelden. The portraits of the great rulers of Ferelden loomed up on either side – Maric, Moira, Brandel – and Flora duly ignored them.

As she neared the portrait of the hunted _halla_ at the top of the staircase, she sensed someone with a longer stride rapidly gaining on her. It did not sound like her former brother-warden – this pursuer was heavier on their feet, and they sounded slightly out of breath.

Despite this, they had no issue in catching up with her – a relatively simple task, considering that their quarry was only a handful of inches over five foot, and carrying an extra sixteen pounds of weight on their abdomen.

"I'm going back to Herring _now!"_ declared Flora tearfully, catching sight of Leonas Bryland out of the tail of her eye. "Don't try and stop me!"

"I'm not going to try and stop you, child," Leonas said, and she shot him a suspicious glance. "You're perfectly entitled to go wherever you please."

Flora wiped her nose on the Theirin-crested pyjama sleeve and eyed Leonas, slowing down a fraction as they approached the _halla_ portrait together.

The Arl of South Reach bore his usual faintly disgruntled expression, one hand still heavily bandaged after a Hurlock had taken several fingers during the final battle. He wore a Chantry amulet bearing Andraste's seal on one side, and the emblem of his doomed seat on the other.

Once he saw he had her attention, Leonas reached into his tunic and pulled out a small leather-bound book, with a pencil attached by an unravelling string.

"Now, what supplies will you require for your journey back to Herring?" he asked, his voice mild. "I'll be happy to provide whatever you need, Florence, as well as an escort. I won't have Bryce's daughter travelling alone and unprovisioned."

Flora blinked, coming to a stop just beneath the hunted _halla._ Its wide, mournful eyes and miserable expression mirrored her own, as she stared at Leonas Bryland with abject forlornness. Abruptly, she sat down on the top step of the stairs, resting her chin on her knees and staring gloomily at her bare feet.

Grunting slightly as his stiff limbs protested, Leonas lowered himself onto the step beside Flora. They sat together in silence for several minutes, with she giving the occasional hiccup and he quietly offering her his handkerchief.

"I'm not really going to go back to Herring," said Flora at last, in a small and tearful voice. "But why are they putting me in _jail?_ I haven't been _on the rob_ or nothing."

Leonas wisely stifled a chuckle at her northern patois, taking back the square of linen.

"Of course you've done nothing wrong, pup. And it's not _jail_ , it's a Templar monastery. Not the most entertaining of places to be sure, but it's certainly no dungeon."

"And only for a month, Florence."

The senior enchanter manifested from the shadows of the corridor, kindness and sternness breaking even in her voice. Wynne did not deign to also sit on the step beside Flora, but she did brush her hand kindly over the rumpled, dark red head.

"One month, and then the Chantry will publicly announce that you are no longer a mage. No matter what happens in the future, no Circle – or Templar - will ever lay claim to you again. Think of the peace of mind that will bring to those that love you, child."

Flora twisted her head to gaze up at Wynne, her grey eyes damp and miserable as rain-clouds.

"Everyone keeps calling it a _miracle_ ," she whispered, rubbing at her nose with her sleeve. "It doesn't feel like a miracle. It feels like part of me is gone. It's _painful."_

"It will be painful, Flora, but even painful wounds heal without magic, with time," the senior enchanter replied, softly. "One day you will wake up and it will hurt a little less than the night before; and then that will happen again and again, until the pain is but a quiet sigh in the back of your mind."

Wynne's voice was distant, and she seemed to be speaking of something other than the removal of Flora's magic.

"You promise it will?"

"Yes, child."

Flora nodded, swallowing her fear as she had needed to do so many times before in her short life.

"Alright," she said with only the slightest tremor to her voice, lifting her chin slightly. "I'll go. Arl Bryland?"

"I've told you a thousand times to simply call me Leonas, pup, but – yes?"

" _Arl Leonas,_ I'm sorry that I can't grow your wife's arbour-garden again, like I said I would," Flora said earnestly, remembering how she had coaxed forth blossoming life in the South Reach garden "Well, I can still help you with it, but… it'll need to be the old-fashioned way."

Leonas let out a half-bark of laughter, to hide how touched he was. He dropped his hand to Flora's head and gave her hair a rough tousle before pushing himself awkwardly to his feet.

On the way back to the Royal bedchamber, Wynne reached out to touch Flora's arm; the young Cousland instinctively dropped back to walk alongside the elder mage.

"Take this month of confinement as an opportunity to learn who Florence Cousland _is_ without her spirits," the senior enchanter murmured, her clever blue eyes moving over Flora's face. "You're a beautiful girl and men will fall over themselves to make life easy for you. Don't rely on anyone overmuch, until you... _re-learn.._. your own self. Do you understand what I mean, child?"

Flora nodded slowly, biting absent-mindedly at her lower lip.

"I hope they don't _actually_ fall over," she replied at last, solemnly. "I won't be able to mend any broken bones from now on."

Inside the Royal bedchamber, Alistair was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, Teagan perched beside him murmuring assurances into his ear. Two servants were discretely piling more logs onto the great hearth; despite it being a mild summery night, the royal palace was perpetually cool and damp.

Flora entered with Leonas and Wynne at either side, her head bowed with embarrassment at having made such a dramatic exit. At Zevran's delighted exclamation of _mi florita!,_ Alistair looked up with naked hope scrawled across his olive features.

"Sorry for making a fuss," muttered Flora, not quite able to meet anyone's eye. "I'll go to the mon- _monister_."

"Monastery," corrected Finian under his breath, flashing a quick smile at his sister.

"Monastery," repeated Flora, immediately before being swept into Alistair's desperate, affectionate embrace. He clutched Flora tight to his chest, feeling the firm swell of their child between them; burying his face in the untidy abundance of red hair and inhaling her scent.

"My love," he murmured, desperate to provide some reassurance for the both of them. "Leliana has volunteered to stay with you, so you won't be alone. I'll have guards patrolling the perimeter of the monastery day and night. I'll make sure that only the most experienced and devout Templar are set to watch over you. You and the baby will be safe, I swear to the Maker."

Flora had stopped listening after Alistair had mentioned Leliana; needing no further guarantee. Twisting her neck slightly, she smiled across at her fellow redhead, who waved elegant Orlesian fingers in her direction.

"I look forward to a month of quiet contemplation and giving thanks to our Maker for our redemption from the Blight!" chirped the bard, indomitable as always.

"And I'll come and visit you every single evening, darling," Alistair continued, eager to compensate for this added burden on his already grieved lover. _"Every_ evening, I swear it. It'll be what keeps me going through all the eight hour council meetings."

Flora knew that Alistair was feeling horribly guilty – she could see it writ plain across his face – and suddenly wanted to alleviate his dismay. She reached up and touched his cheek, tracing the line of the Theirin jaw with the tip of her thumb.

"I'll look forward to your visit," she said, pulling Alistair's head down to her own so that she could press a kiss to his cheek. "I can practice my reading and writing while I'm there. I'll set myself the goal of learning how to spell my own name."

A relieved Alistair smiled anxiously, then bent to press his lips against hers.

"My lovely Lola," he murmured, quiet enough for just her to hear. "Andraste, I'm a blessed man."

Finian added his own guarantee of frequent visits, promising to bring her some easy written exercises that they could work through together.

Flora's gaze moved sideways, to where Zevran and her brothers were standing near the hearth. For a split second, before the elf noticed Flora looking, Zevran looked tired and older than his near-three decades. Flora narrowed her eyes at him; Zevran spotted her and immediately blew over a little kiss, accompanied by the characteristic wink. Flora was not fooled by the elf's quick masking of emotion, especially since she had relied on her own solemn _mien_ to hide her feelings more times than she could count – _literally,_ since she found it hard to count beyond twenty-nine.

As the others drifted out in small clumps after Alistair's pointed cough, Flora sidled over to where the elf was adjusting the buckle on his glove.

"Zevran?"

The surface smile returned, quick and bright as lightning across a summer sky.

"Yes, my buxom beauty? Ah, your bosom looks so ripe and full in that tunic, _carina._ Being with child suits you."

Flora refused to be distracted by Zevran's lechery, knowing that he was prone to use it as a diversionary tactic.

"Is there something that you're not telling me?"

"Many things, _mi amor,"_ the elf purred, immediately. "But many of them involve what I should like to _do_ to you, and we are in polite company."

"Zev- _raaaan…"_

Flora pulled a face at him and the elf relented a fraction, darting her a quick look.

" _Nena,_ just promise me one thing- "

Her brows drew together and she focused on him, giving a solemn little nod.

"Eh?"

"That – that no matter what position you hold in life, you'll always be able to spare a minute or two for your Antivan elf companion, _hm?_ I count you as a… as a _good friend_ , and I should be sorry to lose you."

"Of course you won't _lose_ me," Flora retorted, perplexed. "Why would you ask such a thing? What _position_ am I going to hold _?"_

Zevran shot her a wistful smile, then dropped into an exaggerated bow.

"Ah, no reason, _mi sirenita._ Tell me, will you be adopting Chantry dress during your residence at the monastery? Full length robes and ornamental headpieces?"

" _No!"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: At the end of the day, Flora is a Herring girl, and Herring girls just get on with it! I actually think it's a good thing for her to have some time in quiet isolation – to mourn the loss of her spirits properly – without getting immediately caught up in Ferelden politics. Losing her spirits is almost like losing family – they had been with Flora through Herring, the Circle, the Blight… and she does need to grieve, though she doesn't realise it yet. Plus, Leliana can prepare the unwitting Flora for becoming queen (starting with NOT storming out of a room like a stroppy teenager, haha).

Also, this is completely unrelated, but… I called my one-shot series Ghosts and Ritewine, while only knowing that ritewine was some traditional Grey Warden drink. I went and looked up ritewine on the DA wikia, and apparently it's the name for bottles that Wardens have gobbed into for years! Until the bottles taste like their backwash? IS THAT TRUE? Eewwwwghhhhhh!

Replying to reviews in the review thank you!


	3. I'm Not Made Of Glass!

Chapter 3: I'm Not Made Of Glass!

After everybody else had taken their leave, king and mistress sat side by side on the Royal bed; his arm slung protectively around her shoulders. The candelabras had bled down to waxy stumps, leaving the room cast in a faint red glow from the smouldering hearth. The fire spat and hissed as it shot sparks up the chimney breast, rolling forth waves of cedar-scented heat into the bedchamber.

Flora, to distract herself from the prospect of a month spent under intense Templar scrutiny, was counting the Mabari painted around the border of the hearth. These plaster hounds were interspersed with crimson Theirin lions; some depicted as frolicking about and others lying down peacefully together.

"I don't think that's very realistic," Flora said at last, frowning up a loll-tongued Mabari paw-in-paw with a Theirin lion. "I think that the lion would eat the dog, not hold hands with it."

"Have you ever met a lion, my love?" Alistair replied in half-distracted tones, focusing on the profile of his sister-warden as she gazed up at the painted murals. The firelight brought warmth to Flora's pale skin and lit bright filaments in her dark red hair, bright skeins running through her braid like copper wire fresh from the forge. The golden fleck in her iris – a memento of when Flora had been able to breath life as easily as air – was illuminated by the reflected heat, a fragment of gilt against a watercolour background.

"I've never met a lion, but I've heard that they're fierce," Flora said, stifling a yawn. "I think that they must be like the… the _sharks of the land."_

Alistair stifled a laugh, then felt his gut constrict in sadness at the prospect of parting from his best friend for an entire month. He wrapped his other arm around Flora, lowering his head to her shoulder and burying his face in the familiar texture of her hair. Her scent was as comforting as a hot meal and a soft bed after an arduous journey; and he took a long, unsteady inhalation.

"Maker's Breath, I'm going to miss you, Lola."

"You'll see me every day," Flora reminded Alistair, running her fingers across the broad, muscular expanse of his back as he pressed a kiss to her hair.

"Yes, but- " Alistair broke off, his mouth having discovered her earlobe buried in a tangled mass of scarlet. He nuzzled his face against it for a moment, then kissed the lobe gently, teasing the outer curve with his tongue until he heard her breath catch in her throat.

"We'll have Templars and Chantry Mothers breathing down our necks," he murmured, his thumb dropping down to caress the delicate line of her collarbone. "We won't have a moment of privacy."

Flora inhaled, feeling something deep within her instinctively respond to her brother-warden's low murmur. She tilted her face up, letting her fingers trail over his leather-clad chest.

"You could always get some winches," she said, then blinked as Alistair gave a snort of humour. "What?"

" _Wenches,_ sweetheart. Who told you what a _wench_ was, anyway? Don't tell me, the blasted elf!"

"No! Bann Teagan was talking about them."

" _Teagan?!"_

"He didn't know I was there," Flora explained, tracing a line from her brother-warden's heart to his abdomen. "I was sitting in the corner and being quiet."

Despite no longer having the healer's sight, she could still easily remember each vital organ's location.

 _Heart, lung-bags, stomach pouch. Kidneys._

Alistair let out another soft grunt of amusement, his palm dropping to cup Flora's breast through the linen of her pyjamas.

"Anyway, I don't want _wenches._ I want you, my beautiful girl," he murmured thickly, brushing his calloused thumb over where he knew her nipple to lie. "And I won't be able to _have_ you for another month. Unless…?"

He gave her breast a gentle, suggestive squeeze; circling its stiffening tip with his thumb. Flora gave an experimental wriggle, and her body responded with a dull throb, limbs still sore from the final battle.

"I think I'm too achey," she said reluctantly, and Alistair immediately withdrew his fondling fingers; substituting groping with a chaste embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

"Of course, my darling," he breathed, hand dropping to rest protectively on Flora's swollen abdomen. "Let's just have a cuddle instead. Besides, I've got lots of fond memories to reminisce over in the meantime."

Alistair winked at her and Flora smiled back at him, resting her head contentedly against his shoulder.

Both awoke in melancholy mood the next morning, curled up warm in a tangle of entwined limbs. Alistair sat yawning on the edge of the bed, watching his best friend pack up her scanty belongings in the battered leather pack that she had owned since Ostagar. Despite the optimism of the sun, gleaming with bright hopefulness through the leaded windows, neither one of them were in the mood for its cheerfulness.

"It's only for a month," Alistair said out loud, as though trying to reassure himself. "Four weeks. And I'll see you every evening. _Every evening,_ Lo, without fail!"

Flora let out a little grunt, having packed _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ out of habit. With slight astonishment she took it out again, placing the leather-bound tome on the blankets.

"I'd like a new book to read," she said, wistfully. "Do you think Fergus or Finian might ever buy me another one? I could pay them back … somehow."

Alistair refrained from mentioning that the Landsmeet had promptly agreed to grant the arling of Amaranthine to their new Hero of Ferelden; and that a bank vault within Denerim was already beginning to receive customs duties in Flora's name.

"Flo, say the word, and I'll have a whole _library_ sent down to the monastery," he replied, impulsively. "Anything you want, just say, and I'll get it for you."

Flora shot him a slightly appalled look, nostrils flaring as she tied up the laces of her pack with a fisherman's knot.

"I'd need to live as long as a Par Vollen sea-turtle to finish reading a _library."_

As promised, Flora's companions - both noble and common - gathered on the palace forecourt to escort her on the road to the Revanloch monastery. It was a beautiful summery day, the salt-taste of the sea drifted lightly on the air and the city of Denerim spread out like a storybook town on the banks of the estuary below. It was hard to envision that the Darkspawn horde had been baying for blood outside the city walls only a week prior. Denerim Castle rose up like a protective guardian over the Theirin seat, stoic and sprawling; not the most attractive of Theodesian royal palaces, but certainly one of the most formidable.

The stable-boys led out a selection of thoroughbred Ferelden Forders, each one groomed to a glossy sheen The largest one naturally went to the tallest man present; the new Theirin king. As the others mounted up around him, Alistair – for the first time in his life – experienced a flash of anxiety as he gazed up at the lofty saddle.

"What's wrong, lad?" Teagan, sporting the ochre and cream colours of Rainesfere, nudged his own steed over with an expert knee.

Alistair gnawed on his lip, then glanced over at his pregnant mistress. Flora was standing on the gravel, talking earnestly to the mounted Finian – possibly entreating him for another book.

"Maybe Flo should ride in a carriage, or something- " he began, hesitatingly. "If she falls from the horse…"

Teagan, who had once seen his elder brother equally protective over Isolde, reached down and clapped Alistair's shoulder, reassuringly.

"You can call for a carriage if you wish," he murmured, in a low enough voice not to be overheard by Flora. "But I don't believe that you'd ever let her fall. Have some _faith_ in yourself, Alistair, you're one of the best horsemen in Ferelden."

"Not as good as you, uncle," replied Alistair, smiling reflexively as Flora wandered over to him.

"Finian says he's going to see if there's a sequel to _Exotic Fish of Thedas!"_ she breathed, eyes wide with awe. "Imagine!"

Alistair grinned at her, forcing down his fears and assuming a cheerful expression.

"Right, darling, up we go- careful now- "

Gripping her around the waist, he propelled her gently upwards onto the saddle. Flora looked slightly confused – usually, Alistair mounted first and then hauled her up behind him like a sack of potatoes.

To Alistair's relief, Teagan reached out to grip Flora's elbow as she perched astride the saddle, keeping her firmly in place while the king planted boot in stirrup and lifted himself up behind her. Once seated squarely across the leather seat, Alistair immediately clamped a protective arm around his sister-warden's swollen waist.

"Why are you treating me like I'm made of GLASS?" hissed Flora indignantly in his ear. "Last week, we were galloping along the city walls with a giant dragon breathing fire at us, remember?"

Alistair went a shade paler: he remembered only too well.

"I'm not going to apologise for wanting to keep you safe, Flora," he replied, with a thin vein of Theirin steel running through the words. "You can't summon your shield anymore."

Flora slumped slightly, the loss of her spirits still a raw wound. Alistair sensed her sadness and pressed a kiss to her hair, seeking out her ear with his lips.

" _I'll_ be your shield, sweetheart," he replied, softly. "You've spent almost a year protecting me: let me do the same for you."

Flora swivelled around as best she could in the saddle, reaching her arms up to wrap around her handsome brother-warden's neck. Alistair embraced her back as tight as he dared, kissing her on the forehead, nose and lips in rapid succession.

"Whenever you're ready," Eamon called out across the cobbles, no rancour in his tone.

At the boundary of the Royal hunting grounds, a pair of soldiers approached to inform them that there were throngs of people lining the streets. The city guard had managed to clear a path, but the party should be prepared for crowds. This caused a slight delay as additional Royal Guard were summoned from the barracks, in sufficient number to form a steel blockade around the king's company.

Fergus saw that his sister was looking slightly apprehensive, and called out to reassure her.

"They're not expecting an _attack_ , Floss! They're supposed to keep the people from crowding around you. Don't worry about it, petal."

As the guards had warned, the streets of Denerim were indeed thronged with people who wished to see both their new king, and the girl who had slain an Archdemon. Additionally, they wanted to confirm with their own eyes the rumours that had sprung up yesterday; that the lady Cousland was heavy with a _Theirin_ child.

Several of Flora's companions enjoyed the attention – Oghren was basking in the reflected glory that came with being one of the _mighty_ _heroes_ who had gathered Ferelden's free army; and expected to never pay for a drink again in his life. Leliana, who was wearing her most demure and elegant Chantry robe in preparation for the monastic confinement, accepted the praise of the crowd with refined grace.

Zevran, meanwhile, was keeping as unobtrusive as possible near the back of the company. He had formulated vague plans for the immediate future, and they did _not_ involve having his features emblazoned upon the memories of every citizen in Denerim. Wynne also did not relish the attention, although it was nice – she mused quietly – to have the people cheering at her, as opposed to glowering with suspicion.

The party meandered down on horseback through the noble district, the wide cobbled avenues affording plenty of space for the crowds to gather. The various households had come spilling out onto the streets; a rainbow myriad of retainers clad in the different colours of their liege-lords. There was green for South Reach, ochre for Redcliffe, violet for Calon; and the men of Highever marched proudly behind their teyrn and his battle-scarred brother, who had gone up a great deal in their estimation. These crowds managed to restrain themselves, since most of them had seen both Flora and the new king either during the Landsmeet, or up in the royal palace.

Once the company crossed the canal into the market district, the nature of the crowd changed slightly. It was now made up of ordinary Denerim townsfolk; who were fiercely loyal to their home-grown Theirin dynasty and equally proud of their unlikely, solemn-faced young Hero. Rumours spread like wildfire around the various neighbourhoods as people slowly recognised the lady Cousland as the girl who had spent hours down the docks healing refugees; who had offered her services free of charge to anybody who required mending. They had already been told in the Chantries of the 'Maker's miracle' that had purged both taint and magic from their young commander's blood; and were eager to congratulate her on this dual deliverance.

Now they called out for Flora's attention, waving and cheering; and if not for the silverite ring of Royal Guard, they would have pressed forward to surround the king's horse. Instead, they tossed scarlet ribbons and posies of flowers in the company's path, thrusting Chantry tokens onto the pikes of the guardsmen.

Alistair, the gold band of Landsmeet-granted authority placed prominently on his head, smiled easily down at his people. The Theirins had always had the gift of charisma, it ran strong in their ancient Alamarri blood. He raised a hand to acknowledge the calls, keeping his other arm tightly anchored about Flora's swollen abdomen.

Flora was used to riding amongst crowds, since they had made frequent appearances on horseback before their army. However, she was unused to being the target of such unanimous applause – she did not even cope well with individual praise – and felt deeply uncomfortable.

 _It wasn't even me who ended the Blight. It was you. And you're gone._

She paused, heart in mouth, but – as expected – received no reply.

Alistair felt his former sister-warden slump on the saddle before him; and assumed that it was merely due to her discomfort at being amidst so many people.

"We'll be through the city gate soon, my love," he murmured, resting his chin for a moment atop her head. "Then it won't be so crowded."

Flora let out a small sound of miserable acquiescence, still brooding on the loss of her spirits.

Alistair let the reins drop for a moment, using his strong thighs to control the movement of the horse. Turning his best friend in his arms, he kissed her squarely on the mouth; stroking the soft peach-fine hairs on her cheek as tenderly as if they were alone in the bedchamber.

The crowd gave a ripple of excitement, a smattering of applause breaking out at such a public display of affection. A little elven girl ran forward with a determined expression on her narrow, fine-boned face, darting past the guards and thrusting something up towards Alistair's boot. The king reached down a gloved hand to retrieve a long crimson ribbon, reminiscent of the scarlet banners that had been tied to the pikes and sword-hafts of Ferelden's first free army.

Alistair gazed at it for a moment, explicitly touched, and then swiftly tied the skein of crimson silk in a bow around Flora's high ponytail. The crowd demonstrated their approval loudly, with hands and feet and gaping mouths.

Eamon shot a quick glance towards Leonas and Fergus; both men returned the pointed look with brief nods of acknowledgement.

 _The people want her with Alistair. The Landsmeet wants her on the throne. All that needs to be done now is to convince the lass herself._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Oooop so here's update three for this week! I'll post the next chapter either Thursday or Friday. Both Alistair and Flora are still in the habit of referring to each other as brother- and sister-warden, even though that's technically not true any more.

The wenches thing was inspired by Oren, poor little sod! Alistair is still in his ridiculously over-protective phase. I wanted to show his slightly 'harder' personality in that he's not afraid to defend his concern for Flora's well-being. The chapter title also has a dual meaning, since Flora is actually far weaker now than she was in the previous story – she has no way to defend herself, and she's also emotionally fragile due to her recent 'bereavement' re spirits leaving, etc

I also realised that I forgot to explain what a 'free army' was, and I kept referring to the elves/dwarves/mages as one in the last story. Sorry! It's a name to refer to an army not gathered by a monarch.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	4. En Route To Revanloch Monastery

Chapter Four: En Route To Revanloch Monastery

As predicted, the crowds began to wane once the mounted party reached the city walls. To everyone's relief, the road from the south west gate neatly skirted the Alamarri plains, where they had all spent far too much time over the past six weeks. Instead, it followed a pleasant, if windswept, grassy route along the clifftop that stretched south from Denerim. The sky was as clear and bright as a blue jay's wing; the occasional wisp of cloud hanging over the placid expanse of the Amaranthine Ocean.

"What a beautiful Justinian day," Leliana enthused; by some miracle managing to appear cool and serene despite the warm temperatures. The bard was cloaked in the full garb of a Chantry lay sister – complete with delicate white finger gloves – and yet not a single bead of sweat rose to mar her unblemished forehead. "It is as though the Maker Himself approves of our journey today. What a blessing it is; to be able to enjoy such fine weather without fear of the Blight! Zevran, does this weather not remind you of Antiva?"

The elf, riding near the rear of their party, took longer to reply than was normal. Finally, Zevran lifted his white-blond head and returned a dazzling smile to the bard; though his eyes were still mired in thought.

"Ah, it cannot compare to my beloved Antivan sun, yet I _will_ admit that it is far better than what I have come to expect from the Fereldan climate!"

"Those outcrops are known as the Teeth of Angmar," Teagan called over his shoulder to Flora, who was swivelled in the saddle to gaze at the ocean. "Legend has it, a giant named Angmar once used to come here to sharpen his teeth against the rocks."

The bann made a gesture towards the irregular basalt outcrops that punctuated the otherwise sheer and even white cliffs.

"We used to get the occasional giant in Herring," Flora replied, solemnly. "They'd wander down from the Storm Coast. They'd leave you alone, as long as you left them alone."

An odd sense of melancholy had settled in her stomach, as though she had eaten something sour and disagreeable. For a moment, Flora could not diagnose the cause of this sudden sadness; and then they passed a half-rotten tree stump that tugged at her memory.

"I came down here with Riordan," she said, suddenly. "When we went to get the Darkspawn blood for Loghain. We rode this way."

Behind her, Alistair fell silent and Flora knew that he too was picturing the same terrible image: the senior warden, broken on the cobblestones of Fort Drakon, bones pulverised and organs damaged beyond even Flora's precocious ability to mend.

"We did him proud," Alistair said quietly after a moment, gripping the reins in one experienced hand as he steered the horse around a pothole. "The… the funeral is this Sunday."

Flora twisted around in the saddle, an anxious question already forming on her lips. Alistair went to reassure her, shifting his weight forward to kiss her mouth.

"I've already organised for it to take place up at Revanloch," he murmured, watching the relief suffuse across her face. "I know you want to pay your respects, Lo."

Flora tried to smile gratefully at him, but her mind was still bloodied from the aftermath of Riordan's fatal leap. Instead, she leaned back against her brother-warden's chest and he enveloped his arm about her; pressing affectionate lips to the back of her head.

They rode onwards, following the grassy trail that surmounted the gently undulating cliffs. The seagulls cried and wheeled overhead, casting an appraising eye over the small company and deciding that they were not of interest.

Before the hour had passed – as Eamon had promised – Revanloch monastery came into view. It was perched precariously on a rocky outcrop; a formidable building constructed from grey basalt, weathered so extensively that it appeared almost as ancient as the cliffs upon which it rested. It was low and sprawling, with small windows, and was dominated by a vast central spire. The entire structure was as stern and uncompromising as the Chantry itself.

Alistair felt Flora flinch, and tightened his grip around her waist; trying to stop his own stomach from dropping.

"It looks like a prison," Finian announced in horror, succinctly voicing the thoughts of his sister. "Andraste Herself would want to jump from the cliffs if She was confined there, I think."

Fergus shot his younger brother a pointed look that said - very clearly - _shut up._ Finian did not get the message, and continued blithely.

"In Orlais, I once went to a party at a monastery named _Fleureval._ Nobles who didn't want to split their fortunes sent their second sons and daughters there."

The teyrn was about to snap at his brother, but then noticed that their sister was listening; turning round in the saddle to stare at Finian with her mouth slightly open.

"I'm afraid that the atmosphere there wasn't exactly _devout,"_ Finian continued, with a conspiratorial wink from his sole eye. "I remember – vaguely – some very questionable parties taking place up at _Fleureval._ With company of a most _dubious_ nature."

Flora blinked; not understanding what Finian was referring to.

"I mean, _orgies,"_ her brother informed her, the word carrying on the wind to the rest of the party. "Wholly _unwholesome_ behaviour for men and women of the cloth!"

Alistair shot Finian an appalled look, spreading a protective palm across Flora's burgeoning stomach.

"Finian! Don't say thatin front of the baby," he hissed, hazel eyes wide and accusatory. "I don't know if it's got ears yet, but if it _does,_ I don't want it hearing anything… _inappropriate_."

"Then you ought to bind the elf's mouth for the next few years," Finian retorted, and Zevran let out an indignant squawk.

"The _cheek!_ I said not a _thing!"_

Alistair felt Flora tremble against his chest. For one horrible moment, he thought that she was _crying,_ and then she let out a muffled giggle. Seconds later, she was laughing so hard that she was slipping from the saddle. Alistair tightened his grip on her, suddenly feeling tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. He could not remember the last time that he had heard his sister-warden laugh _– it must have been weeks ago –_ and now he was inordinately grateful for the sound.

The road up to Revanloch widened as they drew near, and the Chantry banners draped over the monastery gates came into clearer view. The closer they came, the more formidable the crenellated walls seemed; the entire place seemed like the architectural embodiment of a particularly severe Chantry cleric.

"How can a building seem to _scowl?"_ Zevran murmured, nudging his pony alongside Finian's. The younger Cousland gave a shrug, his remaining grey eye wide and appalled.

"I don't know, but it looks like we've got a welcoming party."

Sure enough, there was a small contingent of Templars and Chantry officials waiting outside the gates; a crowd of people clad in either cream or silverite. All were stern-faced and stiff-backed, though the Templars had removed their helms in honour of their esteemed visitors.

"How do you tell them apart?" Flora whispered to Alistair, knowing that her brother-warden had spent ten years in a monastery similar to the one looming before them.

"The taller the hat, the more important they are," he whispered back, only half-joking.

Templars and priests dropped into deep bows as the horses came to a halt, the Chantry stable-boys creeping out with far more solemnity than those residing at the palace.

Alistair dismounted first, boots crunching onto the gravel of the forecourt. Immediately, he turned and reached up for his sister-warden, lifting her down as though she were made of crystallised glass. The others also dismounted; although only Fergus, Eamon and Alistair would be accompanying Flora and Leliana into the monastery itself.

"Your Majesty," murmured the Knight-Commander, a man with a lurid burn-scar distorting the entire right side of his face. "My lady Cousland. The Templar Order of Ferelden is grateful for your actions in ending the Fifth Blight."

Alistair let out a soft grunt, barely heeding the man's words as he mentally ran over his list of demands once again. Flora wondered if she should reply with _you're welcome_ , but elected to remain quiet instead; bowing her head politely.

After dismounting from his own steed, Eamon glanced briefly at Alistair; ready to step in if the new king needed any assistance. Alistair, however, was already striding forward with a determined expression, the green flecks in his eyes standing out like fragments of cut glass.

"Right," he said tersely, gaze moving from Knight-Commander to Grand Cleric. "There is a _great deal_ to be discussed before I even _consider_ leaving the lady Cousland here, so I suggest we go inside and find somewhere comfortable to sit. Ideally, with refreshments."

Since only a few would be accompanying Flora inside Revanloch, she parted from the majority of her companions at the gates. Each one promised that they would come and visit their former Warden very soon, if not _tomorrow,_ and whispered their own assurances into her ear.

Oghren declared that he would try and smuggle in a bottle of rum – since the monastery did not appear to be the most _convivial_ of accommodations. Wynne gripped Flora's elbow between her own elegant fingers; struck by a sudden sadness that they would never again be senior enchanter and junior apprentice.

Leonas ran a brief, paternal hand over Flora's hair, his eyes soft and reassuring. Teagan attempted to emulate this fatherly demeanour but was unable to carry it out with such ease; his enduring, slightly shameful desire for the young Cousland manifesting in a half-dozen small tells.

Finian embraced his sister as heartily as he dared, squeezing her shoulders rather than her swollen waist. He promised grandly that he had planned a _surprise_ for her; one that she had to be a little patient for. Flora, who had never had a surprise that she had _liked_ , shot him a look of mild alarm.

Zevran also embraced Flora, drawing her close to his chest. The hug, however, was more of a ploy to bring her ear within range of his whisper.

"If you change your mind and wish me to come and free you from this prison, let me know," he hissed urgently against her hair, breath hot on her ear. "I swear it, _carina._ Say the word and I will liberate you."

"I will," replied Flora gravely, then smiled at him. "Thank you."

Expecting the usual bold kiss at the border of cheek and mouth, she was startled when the elf's lips landed softly in the centre of her forehead, tender and wistful.

"I'll see you soon, _mi florita."_

In the end, Eamon, Alistair and Fergus accompanied Flora and Leliana into the shadowy, damp coolness of the monastery interior. The inside of Revanloch was no less stark than its outer appearance suggested; segmented into small and sparsely decorated stone chambers.

The Knight-Commander showed them into his office, which had an empty hearth and a large, graphic depiction of the _Martyrdom of Andraste_ hanging on the southern wall. The Grand Cleric took off her tall, ponderous headpiece and wiped some sweat from her forehead, making an offhanded comment about the summer heat.

Flora sat on the wooden bench and wondered whether a mage had given the Knight-Commander the burn scar emblazoned across his cheek. The Grand Cleric had a sonorous, undulating voice that probably sounded impressive when leading prayers in the Chantry; yet was rather grating in close quarters. Flora did her best to listen to the conversation, but the little creature drew her attention by shifting impatiently against the confines of her belly.

She rested her fingers on her stomach, stroking the firm mound absent-mindedly. Alistair glanced over, attention caught by the motion of her hand, and his face went through a cluster of small changes in rapid succession. His expression softened at first, eyes bright with affection; then quickly hardened to a steely, uncompromising resoluteness. Turning to cleric and head Templar, he cleared his throat pointedly.

"Right," the king said, cutting abrupt across the old priestess. "I'm going to set down a few ground rules; which I want you both to listen to _very carefully."_

Such was the vein of Marician steel in his voice that the Knight-Commander and the Grand Cleric of Ferelden turned immediately to their new king.

"When I leave here today," Alistair began, quietly. "I am entrusting the two most precious things in the world to me, into _your_ keeping. Oh, and Leliana- sorry, Lel."

The bard rolled her eyes with a small, _don't-worry-about-it_ snort.

"So, believe me" the Theirin continued, darkly. "I won't be setting a single foot out of here until I'm reassured that my requirements have been met."

The Knight-Commander gave a slight nod, his eyes watchful.

"And these requirements are, Your Majesty?"

The immediacy with which Alistair responded suggested that he had been going over the demands many times in his head, prior to this moment.

"Lay-Sister Leliana is to accompany the lady Cousland _everywhere,_ without exception, and she is permitted to carry whatever weapons she deems suitable. Royal Guardsmen will be posted at each entrance and exit to the monastery. The lady Cousland will have whatever she needs to be comfortable – warm quarters, and good food. I'll not have her served any of the bland pottage that I lived on for a decade. She's your _guest,_ not your prisoner."

Alistair grimaced, recalling years of draughty bedchambers and tasteless gruel. The Knight-Commander gave a small nod; none of the king's demands were unexpected.

"Is there aught else you require, King Alistair?"

"I want to meet the Templars you've assigned to watch her," Alistair replied, expression grim. "These soldiers had better be your best, ser knight."

The Knight-Commander nodded, gesturing towards a young aide discreetly waiting in the corner.

"Bring them in."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Oohh so I know I said Thursday or Friday, but I couldn't resist, haha! I'm still in TLATL posting schedule habits. I'm super touched that so many people have come to read the sequel; even though it's not following any familiar game storyline! Though we will pick up with Awakenings later.

The monastery that I was envisioning when I pictured Revanloch, was the Tatev monastery in Armenia (which is on a cliff, albeit not on the coast, and quite a bit smaller.) I love stark and brutal Medieval architecture!

Haha, Alistair is not taking any chances with Flo's safety here, lol.


	5. Revanloch Monastery

Chapter Five: Revanloch Monastery

Moments later, two soldiers walked into the Knight-Commander's study with a militaristic precision to their stride. Many years of hard service were writ across their faces, and their blades hung at their sides as comfortably as an extra limb. Alistair surveyed them through narrowed eyes, attempting to assess their competency through appearance alone.

Flora gazed up at the new arrivals with slight wariness. She had become familiar with many types of Templar during her four years at the Circle – the officious type, the bullying type, the type who didn't avert their eyes when standing guard in the wash-chamber. Yet there had also been kinder ones – the ones who had brought her fresh buckets of water when she was mopping the flagstones; or who didn't tell her off when she was caught creeping back from the kitchens after curfew.

The elder of the two – a man in his fifties, with a roughly cropped greying beard and eyes like chips of blue glass, gave a perfunctory bow towards the king.

"This is Knight-Captain Gannorn, your majesty," murmured the Commander, quietly. "Be assured, we have no better soldier of faith in our ranks."

Leliana gave a little flutter of recognition from where she was sitting beside Flora.

" _The_ Knight-Captain Gannorn? The one who uncovered that maleficar plot in the Marches? Who single-handedly defended a group of pilgrims from Qunari mercenaries in the Rivaini desert? Who once deflected a blow meant for the _Divine Herself?"_

The man gave a stern, taciturn grunt of acknowledgement at each comment; as Leliana clasped her hands together in delight.

"Where are you from?" Alistair asked warily, wanting to gain some measure of the man.

"A village on the north coast, Your Majesty," the Templar replied in a thick, northern brogue. "By the name of Skingle."

Flora had hardly reacted to the Templar's litany of accomplishments, but at the sound of both familiar village and familiar accent, her head snapped upright.

" _Skingle!"_ she squawked, enthralled. "Skingle is the next village over from Herring! That's where _I'm from!_ Oh, and also Highever," she added, remembering Fergus.

"Aye, milady," the man replied, his throaty shaping of the word-sounds fundamentally similar to her own. "I left the coast decades ago, but I remember your pa. Pelegrin, eh? Believe I bought some fish hooks from the man. Good hooks, too."

As a proud Flora beamed from ear to ear, Eamon shot a quick and pointed glance towards Alistair.

 _See,_ the look chided. _You need not have worried. I would not have entrusted the mother of your child to simply anyone._

His fears somewhat assuaged, Alistair turned to the woman. She was in her forties, slender and hollow-cheeked, with dark hair shorn close to her skull and piercing violet eyes. Her bow was neat and perfunctory, a complement to her regimented stance.

"And you are?"

"' _All heads bow! All knees bend! Every being in the realm pay homage!'"_

Alistair let out a soft groan under his breath, shooting the Knight-Commander a dark look.

"A Chanter," he muttered, one eyebrow rising. _"Really?"_

"Ser Devotia was a Chanter before she joined the Templars," the Knight-Commander replied, placatingly. "She's never lost the – ah – _habit,_ but I assure you that she is one of our most impressive soldiers."

Alistair let out a grunt, reaching out for Flora's hand and clasping it tightly within his own. His thumb ran over her knuckles, slow and tender; the affection of the gesture in stark contrast to the menace emerging in his voice.

"They had better be as skilled as you say, Knight-Commander," he murmured, a thinly veiled threat draped over the words. "I promise you, the Rite of Annulment will look like a _picnic_ compared to what I'll do if a single _hair_ on her head is harmed."

Flora shot her brother-warden a slightly awed look, unused to such blatant wielding of the royal hand of authority.

"I swear upon the Ashes of Andraste that the lady Cousland will come to no harm under Revanloch's roof," the Knight-Commander assured, remaining admirably calm in the face of Alistair's intimation.

As the Templar suggested that they go to see the quarters that had been assigned to Flora and Leliana; Flora almost piped up with the fact that she had seen Andraste's Ashes in person, _and that she had actually carried them in her boot for safekeeping! She had walked on them for nearly seventy miles!_

Leliana, who had the uncanny ability to read the words off Flora's tongue before they emerged; shot the young Cousland a pointed look and shook her head silently.

The Knight-Commander ushered them from his office and along a high-ceilinged corridor, lit at regular intervals by candle sconces set into the basalt walls. Gannorn and Devotia followed unobtrusively in their wake, stares directed rigidly forward. The atmosphere was hushed and contemplative; they passed the occasional pair of Templar, but the residents of Revanloch seemed to have learnt the ability to step silently in plate boots.

After a few minutes they emerged, blinking, into the sunlight of a courtyard surrounded by pillared terraces. A neat set of two dozen training dummies were spaced in even rows, while a stern faced instructor oversaw pairs of sparring recruits. These young Chantry initiates were clad in simple training cuirasses, and clutched basic iron swords with the ends filed blunt. They ranged in age from thirteen to eighteen, and were all male save for one belligerent-looking girl.

"Ah, memories," Alistair whispered in Flora's ear, remembering hours spent in similar training at Bournshire. "I don't miss these extended drill sessions."

As the Knight-Commander led them through the pillared gallery, several of the more curious and _less disciplined_ of the recruits craned their necks to see who the visitors were. Their eyes moved over Alistair, noting the gold band atop his head, passed over Fergus and Eamon without pause; hesitated briefly on Leliana – who was beautiful, but slightly intimidating, and clad in Chantry robes – then settled on Flora.

Although those who ran Revanloch attempted to limit all outside influences and distraction; news of the Blight had seeped through the tall basalt walls like rising damp. In addition, many of the Templar had been assigned to guard the Circle mage camp on the Alamarri plains.

Thus, many of the recruits were aware of the Warden who had summoned the armies and smote the Archdemon: a girl only a few years older than they were themselves, who had risen from obscurity to be named the first Hero of Ferelden.

They had hoarded what little information they had been able to glean from eavesdropping on senior officials conversing in corridors; they knew that she was a Cousland, that she was red headed, that she was rumoured to be the lover of the king (due to a certain tavern song that had earned one recruit three days of penance when a Chantry Mother overhead him singing it). They knew that the Hero had been a mage, but that the Maker had rewarded the young Cousland for her heroism by severing her connection with the Fade, allowing her to keep her emotions. It was also whispered that she never smiled.

Now they saw the girl herself standing beside the well-dressed peers of the realm, her dark red hair caught up on top of her head and a solemn expression writ across her face. She was smaller than they expected, and far less intimidating; let there was no mistaking the cool arrogance of a sea-grey Cousland stare as she swept it across the courtyard.

The recruits whispered to each other in excitement, nudging and gawping; ignoring the perturbed calls from their instructor.

" _Maferath's Balls, it's the Warden!"_

" _No, is it her? Really? She's not very strong-looking."_

" _Look at the hair, of course it is. That's the new king she's with."_

" _Maker, look at the mouth on her. Back home, we'd call that a - ."_

" _Mm, and those bosoms! Bit chubby, though."_

" _You idiot, Barney, she's got a babe in the belly. Wait, she's got a babe in the belly?!"_

" _Who's got his leg over the Hero of Ferelden? The king?"_

Flora had been gazing out across the courtyard in a vain attempt to locate the kitchens, not seeming to notice the gaggle of adolescent boys staring at her like she were a stuffed peacock on a dinner table. Alistair, however, _did_ notice, and a scowl spread across his handsome, olive-hewn features. The stubble on his jaw was growing in dense; he not only looked, but _felt,_ far more mature than these initiates who were only a handful of years his junior.

Before he could voice his displeasure, Fergus had already spoken up. The teyrn's voice – well-bred, with only the barest hint of northern inflection – rose up in mild consternation.

"I hope you have some strategy for keeping those recruits away from my sister," he announced, bluntly. "I won't tolerate a crowd of youths trailing her around, with tongues lolling from their mouths like sun-stroked Mabari."

"They will be told," the Knight-Commander assured, gesturing them towards a low flight of stone steps that led back into the interior of the monastery. "Helpfully, they're all rather terrified of Chanter Devotia."

As they passed a life-size oil painting of _Maferath's Betrayal,_ Flora thought to herself that she was _also_ slightly terrified of Chanter Devotia. The woman had said nothing to her by way of greeting, just fixed Flora with her strange, violet eyes and murmured ' _now her hand is raised, a sword to pierce the sun'._

The Knight-Commander led them along a wide stone corridor, lined with stern-faced busts of previous Divines; then gestured towards a wooden side-door.

"I've assigned the lady Cousland these quarters," he explained, retrieving a large ring of keys from his waist and searching through them. "Ah, here- "

Unlocking the door, the Knight-Commander gave it a perfunctory nudge, revealing a spacious and neatly appointed chamber. Although the walls were plain plaster, decorated only with a handful of Chantry symbols; the furniture was well-made and the furnishings cut from expensive cloth. A large bay window was framed by violet curtains that hung to the flagstones, and a hearth smouldered away in one corner. A tiled wash-room was just visible, tucked away to one side.

"Lovely," announced Leliana brightly, her keen eyes taking note of a narrow pallet beside the door. This would presumably accommodate their Templar guardians as they slept on alternate shifts. "I foresee many hours of thoughtful contemplation spent in this chamber!"

The lay sister dropped her pack on one side of the bed, smoothing admiring fingers over the embroidered coverlet.

"This is the chamber we assign to Royal guests," explained the Knight-Commander, blithely. "So it should be suitable."

Flora, who had been wondering in what direction the kitchens lay, looked mildly confused.

"But I'm not- " she began, and then Leliana cut delicately and skilfully access her.

" _Ma petite,_ come and look at the view! The Amaranthine Ocean is spread out before us, in all of its Maker-created glory!"

Fortunately, Flora never failed to be distracted by the sea. Abandoning her query, she went to join Leliana on the window seat.

While they occupied themselves with identifying the flags flown by the distant trade ships – Leliana had sharper eyes and a more incisive guess, while Flora just claimed that they were all from Ansberg or Kirkwall, the only Marcher cities she knew – Fergus lowered his voice and took a step closer to the Grand Cleric.

"Ideally, we want the wedding and the coronation to take place on the same day," he murmured, watching his sister rap her bitten-nailed finger on the glass to scare off a seagull. "How quickly can this public confirmation of Flora's lack of magic take place?"

The Grand Cleric lowered her voice, peering out from beneath the brim of her tall hat with clever, lined eyes.

"A letter from Divine Beatrix is already on its way from Val Royeaux," she replied, her voice soft as the whisper of crumpled leaves. "As you know, our Seekers have their connection with the Fade severed, without cost to their emotion. What's happened to your sister is not _unheard_ of, though of course the circumstances are much different."

Fergus frowned, glancing quickly to one side to check that Alistair was preoccupied. The king was standing at Flora's side, listening as she embarked on some inane nautical tangent.

"Then why this month of confinement?" he asked, bluntly. "I don't see the purpose in it, if the Divine already corroborates Florence's state."

Fergus, although a teyrn, had not been playing the political game for as long as Eamon. The Arl of Redcliffe gave a slow nod, his lips tightening.

"Publicity," he said, shortly. "The Fereldan Chantry played no role in the defeat of the Fifth Blight, and the people know it. Has attendance at local chapels been in decline over the past week?"

The old woman gave a nod, confirming with her shrewd eyes what her mouth would never shape.

"And if you associate yourself with the Hero of Ferelden, you'll be able to reclaim some of those numbers," the arl continued, his own voice soft. "They'll all want to know how their lady Cousland is doing; and _you'll_ be the ones with the weekly news."

Fergus scowled, discontent brewing in the depths of his blue-grey irises.

"I won't have my sister used as a pawn in your bureaucracy," he began bluntly, then lowered his voice as the three figures at the window turned to look at him. "She's not used to _any_ of this: the propaganda, the _politics- "_

"Your Lordship, this way, both of us get what we want," murmured the Grand Cleric of Ferelden. "We reclaim some of our misguided sheep, and- "

"And we our Queen, and legitimate heir," finished Eamon, quietly.

When it came time for their party to depart Revanloch – without the two redheads – Fergus drew Leliana to one corner, his grey eyes shadowed.

"You swear that you'll never leave her side?" he asked, for the third time that morning. "Even when performing ablutions? I know she might chafe at the lack of privacy- "

"Oh, Florence has never had a shred of privacy in her life," Leliana replied, the cheeriest one in the room. "This will be nothing new to her."

"And you'll ensure that she's – sufficiently defended?"

Leliana slid up the sleeve of her demure Chantry robe, just enough to reveal the glittering blade of a knife strapped neatly to her forearm.

"I have more about my person," the bard purred, with a devilish flash of white teeth. "But it would be _improper_ to show you in the company of others."

Fergus let out a bark of laughter, then accidentally caught sight of where Alistair and Flora were tangled in an enthusiastic clinch beside the window.

"Oh, Maker's Breath!" Fergus hastily averted his eyes, teeth gritted. "You know, you _are_ seeing her tonight. It's not as though you're being separated for a year."

Alistair was well-aware of this but equally did not care, he was too preoccupied with his best friend's eager lips. On its men, the traditionally full Cousland mouth manifested as expressive; whereas on women, it translated as sulky. There was nothing that Alistair enjoyed more than seeing those petulant lips part, rosy and swollen, in response to the demands of his own tongue.

"Alistair," said Eamon, patiently. "Whenever you're ready. The Council is waiting for you."

Alistair thought that he would _never_ be ready to leave his beloved sister-warden. He was hoping that something would have been fundamentally flawed at Revanloch – that the room would have been unsuitable, the assigned Templars incompetent, or his lover too distressed – which would allow him to return with Flora to Denerim. Unfortunately, the room was comfortable, the Templars proficient and Flora herself had assumed a mantle of dogged stoicism.

Drawing back a fraction, Alistair gazed down at her flushed and desirous face; wanting nothing more than to pick Flora up and put her back on his saddle.

"I'll be back at sundown tonight," he said finally, eyes shadowed.

"Yes," Flora replied, trying to mask her forlornness.

"And at sundown every single day, Lola."

"Mm."

He kissed her once again, hard and longing; hands dropping to cradle the rounded swell of her stomach.

"Look after our child, sweetheart."

"I will!"

Flora was about to add _I always have,_ then realised that taking it into battle against the Archdemon probably did not quite constitute _looking after it._

With a final agonised glance over his shoulder, Alistair departed; following on the heels of Eamon.

There was silence for a long moment. Leliana gazed at both Gannorn and Devotia, who stared ahead with absolute neutrality of expression, flanking the doorway like suits of armour. Flora dropped her gaze to her feet, miserably; wanting nothing more than to run down the corridor after her departing brother-warden.

The bard, catching sight of the gleam of impending tears, clapped her hands together brightly.

"Right!" Leliana declared, eyes shining. "We've several hours until lunch. Shall we explore our new temporary home? I believe I saw a fish pond in one of the side-gardens."

" _Oh!"_ Flora immediately perked up.

* * *

OOC Author Note: I thought about having Cullen as one of the Templar guarding Flora, then thought that would be pretty unrealistic – he is only twenty years old and relatively inexperienced, and Alistair is insisting on the _best of the best._ Also, it would be a slightly strange dynamic considering that he still fancies Flo, so making him watch her bathe, change her clothing… it seemed a little cruel to me! I don't actually want to be mean to the poor bastard lol. Anyway, they're going to run into him pretty soon – he's at Revanloch too, waiting to be transferred to Kirkwall.

I want to show off the consequences of a hardened Alistair here – he's more confident, and he makes that veiled threat about the Rite of Annulment being less terrible than what he would do if Flora was harmed – I don't think a pre-hardened Alistair would have said that, somehow!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	6. Educating Ferelden's Queen

Chapter 6: Educating Ferelden's Queen

Bard and Cousland spent the morning exploring the confines of the Revanloch monastery; which sprawled for a decaying acre atop the cliffs. Leliana was horrified at the sheer _ugliness_ of a building supposedly devoted to the Maker. The basalt walls loomed menacingly overhead, casting a shadow over the inner courtyards; the archways and terraces were crumbling away through sheer decrepitude.

The interior was no less sombre than the exterior, a warren of passages and chambers cast in perpetual gloom by the narrow, shuttered windows. Candles burnt from every surface, though they made little headway against the darkness. There was a great chapel large enough to house two hundred, dominated by a vast and unforgiving effigy of Andraste. Several libraries and reading rooms branched off another corridor, near the Knight-Commander's quarters. A dining room, austere and without decoration, was located in a separate wing.

As they wandered about, Leliana reminisced in unsubtle tones about the Grand Chantry in Val Royeaux. She enthused fondly on its peach-marbled walls, gilded ornamentation and floors intricately tiled with onyx and ivory mosaic. There had always been singing drifting lightly on the air, and each perfumed chamber carried a different scent of floral incense.

 _Not this heavy, throat-clogging stink!_ the bard whispered derisively in Flora's ear, turning her nose up at the pungent, waxy odour wafting from oil burners fixed on the walls. _The Maker does NOT look on this hideous building and smile, I know it!_

Strangely, Flora felt far more at ease in this austere heart of the Fereldan Templar Order. The stark ugliness of the basalt rock reminded her of Herring, as did the gloomy, cramped chambers. The missing tiles in the roof meant that she could hear the constant cawing of the seagulls overhead, along with the occasional waft of salt-edged breeze. The highest ramparts of the monastery provided an unparalleled view of the Amaranthine Ocean; far better than any that could be gleaned from the Royal Palace.

 _I think I'll be alright here,_ Flora told herself, as they approached the dining hall for lunch. _Everybody watches me, but everyone has had their eyes on me for months anyway. Years, going back to the Circle._

Even the stern, constant presence of Gannorn and Devotia had not disconcerted her. The two Templars had followed them around at a short distance all morning, without initiating a single dialogue. Leliana had attempted to begin several conversations with the Knight-Captain, only to receive monosyllabic grunts in response.

To Flora's alarm, once they entered the dining hall, they were ushered to the top table. Rows of wide-eyed recruits followed their progress to the raised platform at the front of the hall, where Flora took a tentative seat beside the Knight-Commander.

"Can't we eat in our room?" she hissed in Leliana's ear, self-conscious at the stares of nearly two hundred gawping adolescents. "Everyone's looking at us."

"No," replied Leliana sternly, spreading her napkin over her thighs. "You should be used to this from dining at South Reach!"

"That wasn't _this_ many people! There must be at least…"

Flora trailed off; her literacy and numeracy practice had been neglected in recent weeks, and she had no idea how many recruits were crowded on the benches before her.

"At least… a lot," she said inanely, taking a gloomy sip of water.

"Ah, but you must get used to this, _ma petite,"_ Leliana replied, slightly enigmatically.

Before Flora could ask Leliana what she meant, she felt her stomach give a low roll of discontent. In alarm, she looked up to see platters of meat being carried out by young initiates: whole roasted pigs skewered on iron rods. Their flesh was blackened and apples had been wedged into their gaping mouths.

Immediately, Flora felt her belly curdle as the little creature lodged within objected violently to the smell of the meat. She had rather naively assumed that the top table would be served the same vegetable stew as the masses below.

The pig was placed on the table, and looked sadly up at Flora, its glassy eyes meeting her own. Flora stared back at it; and for a moment she saw the corpse of a human soldier charred by a Darkspawn necromancer's flame.

Taking a deep breath she picked up her fork, and then hastily put it down again as a Chantry sister rose to her feet and cleared her throat.

" _O Maker, this meal is a symbol of Your enduring love for us; bless us and bless our homeland; preserve us so that we may glorify You, now and forever."_

The Chantry sister continued in similar vein for the next fifteen minutes, while Leliana smiled and nodded. The sad-faced, cooling pig congealed before Flora; she slunk down an inch in her seat and tried not to vomit across the table.

 _Why don't you like meat? Every true Fereldan likes meat. I'm Fereldan, and your papa is Fereldan._

 _If you ever turn against fish, little creature, we're going to have a real problem._

Finally, the Chantry sister sat down and there followed a period of murmuring as the initiates tucked into their vegetable stew.

Leliana used her knife – the _table_ knife, not the blade secreted up her sleeve – to expertly carve into the pig's flank. Flora watched the bard fork several pieces of meat onto her plate, then glance sideways.

" _Ma petite,_ why are you not eating?"

Flora made a face, and understanding dawned on the bard's finely hewn features. Leliana leaned forward and made a swift gesture to one of the servants. A quick exchange of words later, and a bowl of tepid vegetable stew was placed on the table.

Flora beamed at Leliana, and was surprised to see a frown contorting the Orlesian lay-sister's creamy forehead.

"What did I do?" Flora asked, anxiously. "I'm sorry- "

The bard reached out and put a finger on Flora's lips, her expression stern.

" _Don't_ apologise! You must stop apologising for everything, Florence, like some pandering sycophant."

"Pan- _panda- "_

Leliana continued, her eyes bright and earnest.

"And you mustn't just _sit_ there if something is not to your liking. You must speak out, and ask for it to be changed!"

Flora blinked, the spoon motionless in her hand.

"Oh, you're trying to make me _authoritative_!" she said, in eventual realisation. "Aren't you? You're trying to make me into a proper Cousland."

"Not quite, _ma crevette,"_ murmured the bard, deftly carving the pork slice in two. "Now, try not to speak with your mouth full, _s'il vous plait!"_

"I don't do that, do I?"

" _You're doing it right now!"_

After lunch, Leliana took Flora into the Templar library, which – impossibly – had an even more funereal atmosphere than the rest of Revanloch. It was a quiet, hallowed hall, lit by great stained glass windows depicting scenes from the life of Andraste. The walls were lined with bookshelves, with more valuable contents protected by gilded cages. The entire space was lit by hanging candelabras, suspended spiked iron wheels that seemed more torture device than source of illumination.

Various young recruits were tucked into study carrels, pouring over texts with varying degrees of diligence. Many of them had positioned themselves on wooden benches that provided a direct eye-line to where the lay-sister and the lady Cousland were sitting.

At first Flora had chosen a reading table at random, then realised that it was located beneath the gold and crimson glass depiction of Andraste's martyrdom. With trepidation, she raised her eyes to view a mournful, eight-foot tall prophetess being burned on a Tevinter pyre, directly above their heads. The sacrifice of Andraste had always terrified the younger Flora – especially when combined with the knowledge that apostate mages had been burned by angry villagers in the past.

Before Leliana could sit, Flora had shot upright as quickly as her belly allowed. She moved several desks over, relocating to a table beneath a far more harmless depiction of Andraste and Maferath getting their marriage blessed. Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia followed silently, unobtrusive as shadows.

The recruit sitting on the opposite side of the table – a ginger boy of perhaps sixteen – immediately pinkened and buried himself in his work, occasionally daring to dart little glances above the textbook.

Flora, reminded of when Alistair had been a similar recruit, smiled kindly at him. This only made the boy flush a deeper shade of crimson, clashing with his auburn curls.

"Right," Leliana breathed, settling on the bench beside Flora and rummaging in a leather satchel. "Happy with this seat?"

Flora nodded, resting an absent-minded hand on her stomach as the little creature rotated itself within her.

"Mm. Are we reading or writing?"

"Neither."

Leliana pulled out a sheaf of codex cards, crafted from thick vellum. Each one had an ornately calligraphed title, a sketched illustration and a small paragraph scribed near the bottom. Flora frowned at them in slight confusion; they looked more like playing cards than academic materials.

"I don't think I can read that writing," she said, doubtfully eyeing the ornately inked text. "It's a bit… _swirly."_

"The purpose is not for you to memorise the names, _cherie,"_ murmured Leliana, retrieving a folded square of parchment from the inside of her robe.

To Flora's surprise, this final item turned out to be a map, which Leliana proceeded to spread out across the desk.

It was a map unfamiliar to Flora, who had only ever seen a cartographer's depiction of Ferelden. She could recognise an outline which appeared to be _similar_ to Ferelden, but it was smaller and tucked away to the south east. Other outlines crowded to the west and north, dotted with small and barely legible labels.

"Oh," said Flora, in sudden realisation. "Is this _Thedas?"_

When Leliana nodded, Flora gazed down at the map in fascination. She recognised certain place names – _Waking Sea, Highever, Denerim_ – based on the shape of the words, but the vast majority were unfamiliar. She touched a finger to Highever, then slid it west to the cove where Herring lay.

"Alright, Florence – are you watching? I know you have a sound memory, and you must memorise this."

Leliana pointed to each crooked outline on the map in turn, her slender finger moving with slow purpose as she recited the country names.

"The Anderfels – Tevinter – Nevarra – Orlais – Ferelden- "

" _Hurray, Ferelden!"_

"Yes, indeed, hurray. The Free Marches – Antiva – Rivain. Can you point them out to me?"

Flora did as the bard requested, moving her finger from country to country.

"The Anderfels – Tevinter – Nevarra– Orlais."

She broke off, gazing with fascination at this oldest enemy of Ferelden. It sprawled out lazily across the south-western portion of the map, like a dozing lion.

"That's where you're from. Where's Vally-roo?"

" _Val Royeaux_. Here, just by the lake, see? Keep going."

"Ferelden – Free Marches – Antiva… oh! Zevran is from here. Is the climate better because it's further north? He always talks about the _Antivan sun."_

Leliana gave a little shrug, shifting her position on the wooden bench.

"I'm not sure. Parts of Antiva are very arid, and Rivain – just to the north – is all desert. So, possibly?"

Flora fell into melancholy silence, thinking on her old commander. Duncan had Rivaini parentage; evident in his rich ochre skin and coal-black eyes, as well as the golden ring looped through one ear.

"Show me one more time that you know where each country is, _ma crevette."_

After Flora had complied, Leliana reached for the sheaf of codex cards. With meticulous care, the bard proceeded to arrange them across the map of Thedas. Each card was inked with an illustration of an imperious looking face, either male or female; many of them clad in some sort of regal headpiece.

Flora recognised the face on the card set within Ferelden, feeling a twinge of sadness in her gut. She did not need to decipher the title to work out who this individual was: she recognised both the eager, enthusiastic stare and the characteristic Theirin jawline.

"This is King Cailan," she said softly, and Leliana gave a small nod.

" _Oui,_ these cards are a little out of date – although still accurate, for the most part. They show the current ruling monarch for each country in Thedas. Let me show you."

Over the next few hours, Leliana meticulously introduced Flora to the great ruling houses of Thedas, and the countries under their domain. Flora recognised only one, Empress Celene of House Valmont; who had been the subject of some incriminating letters that they had discovered at Ostagar. Other dynasties – such as the Pentaghasts of Nevarra – were entirely unfamiliar to her.

Still, Flora listened dutifully to Leliana as the bard elaborated in hushed, purposeful tones, and did her best to memorise the flood of new information the best she could. To compensate for her illiteracy, Flora had developed an excellent memory, which she deployed now to assist her.

After Flora had correctly named the leading families of the Free Marches – from Aurum to Vael – Leliana decided that enough was enough for one evening. Flora helped her to gather up the cards, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

"Thank you for the information," she said, earnestly. "But why am I learning about all the important families of Thedas?"

Leliana shot her a quick, darting glance; then flashed a similarly evasive smile.

"Because the world is far larger than what you know, Flora of Herring," the bard murmured, skilfully avoiding a direct answer. "And it's important that you learn about it. Who knows who you'll be meeting in the future?"

"Well, I hope someone with a nice, _easy_ name," Flora said, gravely. "Like _Vael._ Not Pin- Pant- Pant-ghost."

" _Pentaghast!"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: OK, this is pure headcanon but I always envisioned Orlesian and Fereldan Chantries looking quite different. Orlais has a lot more money, and their Chantries reflect that – very gilded, ornate and decorative, with lots of marble and beautiful sculpture. Ferelden, being poorer, more rough and ready, has a more stark, stone and iron look to their Chantry interiors; a more natural appearance. In my head, anyway!

My husband bought me a new laptop to replace my ancient one! And I'm playing through DA: Origins once again, because now I can use MODS! How exciting! It's funny that my story is actually interfering with my gameplay, lol, I keep expecting things to happen in game that I just made up to go in my story, haha. I'm on this bit: TEEEEEEAGAN! WHO EEES THIS WOMAN, TEEEEEEAGAN? Isolde will definitely be rocking up to Alistair's coronation, btw, I know everyone has missed her (not!)

I think it's probably a good thing that Flora isn't able to have dreams any more – I do think that she would have suffered from some pretty bad nightmares, considering what she's been through. I don't know enough about PTSD to write about it in a story – it's a hugely difficult topic, and I wouldn't do it justice – but I thought I would just touch on it with Flora unable to stop herself from envisioning the pig as a soldier killed by the Darkspawn.

Oooooh, what could Leliana possibly be preparing Flora for? Well it's obvious, lol, considering the chapter title. Flora still doesn't have a clue, haha

Next update either Monday or Tuesday! Thank you!


	7. A Surprise For Lieutenant Rutherford

Chapter 7: A Surprise For Lieutenant Rutherford

After dinner, Flora and Leliana were sitting up on the high ramparts overlooking the ocean. At their backs, the sun was inching itself towards the Bannorn, leaving the sky in a blended smear of pastel hues. The deep glass-green of Amaranthine was desaturated by the lowering light, the horizon melding with the distant water until it was not clear where sea ended and sky began.

Leliana had her nose buried deep in a song-book; the evening service would begin in an hour, and she did not want a single erroneous word to emerge from her lips. Flora was resting her chin in her arms on the ramparts, gazing thoughtfully out at the unbroken expanse of water. There was a small flotilla of Marcher trade ships taking advantage of a westerly wind, and she squinted to see their flags.

"That's Kirkwall," she said with reasonable confidence, more to herself then anyone else. "The one with the red flag. I don't know what the others are."

Leliana gave a little shrug, immersed in her text.

"The navy banner on the end is Ansberg," came a gruff, northern voice from behind them. "The chequered one belongs to Ostwick."

It was the Templar Gannorn who had spoken; his eyes still sharp despite the iron-grey of his beard and close-cropped hair.

"Ansberg," breathed Flora, the name sparking recognition in her memory. "Oh, that's where Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan were raised! They have good horses there."

"Yes, their _Margravane_ is well-known for possessing the best stables in Thedas," Leliana added, eyes still fixed on her prayer book.

Just then, there came the sound of hurried footsteps ascending the rampart stair; the distinctive thud of a man taking them two at a time. Instinctively, the Templars both turned around to face the steps, and Leliana's gaze lifted from her prayer-book, fingers sliding imperceptibly towards her dagger-concealing sleeve.

Flora, however, had other ways of recognising her former brother-warden's approach, despite them no longer sharing the connection of tainted blood. She knew the sound of his tread intimately; could identify his footfall from a crowd just by the sound of his boot striking the ground.

Sure enough, Alistair soon burst onto the monastery ramparts; face flushed and with the golden band of kingship lopsided on his head. His eyes swept the basalt walkway, focusing immediately on Flora as she beamed at him, visibly delighted. Immediately, relief crashed across the king's face, and he raised his arms as he strode across the flagstones.

"Sweetheart."

Flora scuttled, crab-like, across the ramparts and Alistair folded her into his arms, exhaling unsteadily.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Flora replied, as he drew back just far enough to look her up and down, anxiously. "How are you?"

"My brain feels like it's leaking out of my ears after sitting in a room with eight other men all day, but apart from that, I'm fine too."

Flora gave a little grimace of sympathy, reaching up to touch the dark shadows beneath her best friend's eyes.

"Poor Alistair," she whispered, thinking _in some ways, you're as trapped as I am now._ "You look tired."

Alistair smiled down at her, cupping the back of Flora's head and rubbing a thumb over her ear.

"I feel like I'm awake for the first time all afternoon, being with you. Hello, Lel - how's it been?"

Leliana smiled, waving at him over her prayer-book.

"How refreshing, to be so _immersed_ in the Maker's bosom! I feel my faith revitalised, even during the few brief hours of our residence here at Revanloch."

In the distance, a great bell began to swing back and forth on its hinges, sending out an imperious summons into the dusk. Alistair continue to stare at the bard expectantly, and Leliana relented.

"And, of course, everything has been fine. Florence and I have spent the afternoon in the library, pouring over the great dynasties of Ferelden."

"Valmont, Pentaghast, Valisti, Vael," Flora repeated, dutifully. "Why do so many of them start with _vuh?"_

Both Alistair and Leliana waited – with baited breath - for her to augment the question with, _and why do I have to learn about them?_

But Flora had launched herself on a tangent, trying to remember how to spell _Celene._

"S-A-L-I-N-E-"

"Not quite, _ma petite. Ah_ , it is almost time for _Complines."_

Alistair grinned, and suddenly seemed a Templar initiate of fifteen again, instinctively turning his head towards the clarion call of the bells.

"Maker, it's just like the old days," he breathed, peering down into the inner courtyard to watch columns of young recruits streaming towards the main chapel. "I still remember all the prayers. Come on, Flo."

The main chapel of Revanloch was high-ceilinged and commanding; with flying stone buttresses and a massive stained glass window depicting the prophesied return of the Maker. The effigy of Andraste reared up at the altar like a particularly stern schoolmistress, the eternal flame blazing away in a sculpted iron brazier.

The entire populace of Revanloch had piled into the Chantry for _Complines_ prayers; from the lowliest kitchen-servant to the Knight-Commander himself. The initiates were crowded on cramped wooden benches in the back, all craning their necks to see towards the Royal pew. This separate stall had been reserved for the rare occasion when a Theirin would grace the Templar monastery with his presence. This had happened from time to time with Maric; never with Cailan.

The Royal stall, however, was not particularly comfortable – especially considering that it had to house the Knight-Commander, Leliana, Flora and her two Templars, and Alistair with _his_ four Royal Guard escort. Two more Royal Guard had been relegated to the back benches, sitting uncomfortably amongst a horde of snickering adolescents.

The Chantry Mother began the service with the traditional incantation; which called upon those present to prostrate themselves _wholly_ to the Maker. The congregation were expected to kneel, with exception being granted to those too ill, aged, or otherwise unable to descend to their knees.

Flora duly sunk downwards, gazing assiduously at the flagstones. Her weak knee gave a twinge of pain and she scowled, internally willing it to _behave._ Alistair narrowed his eyes sideways at her, mouthing something that she couldn't quite decipher.

" _You don't have to kneel,"_ he whispered, trying not to be heard above the Chantry Mother's sonorous tones.

He then said something that was drowned out by the general murmuring of the congregation. Flora blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly.

"' _You're too fat'?"_ she repeated, indignantly. "FAT?"

Alistair gaped at her for a second, then shook his head vehemently.

"No!" he replied, wide-eyed; his response muffled by the congregation as they rose to their feet. "I said: ' _you can stand'."_

The king looked affronted as he reached down to help haul his pregnant mistress to her feet.

"I'd _never_ call you fat, Lo," he whispered indignantly in her ear as the Chantry Mother held out her arms, raising a beatific stare to the heavens. "Not in this Age, or the next. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Leliana narrowed her eyes at both of them, managing to glower pointedly without moving her head. The Chantry Mother then turned her arms towards the vast effigy of Andraste, her heavy cream sleeves hanging down like wings.

" _O, Maker's Bride!"_ she entreated, voice echoing to the vaulted ceiling. _"As we prepare to read Your words, help us to decipher their true meaning so that we might serve You better!"_

She turned around with hands outstretched expectantly, waiting to receive the _Chant of Light,_ from which the reading would be taken.

A Templar emerged from a side passage, carrying the heavy tome reverently on an intricately-carved presentation board. Aware that the eyes of the congregation were on him, the young Templar raised his curly blond head and strode with militaristic precision towards the altar.

As Lieutenant Rutherford approached the Chantry Mother, his attention was diverted by the gathering of unusual guests in the front pew. Glancing sideways, he caught sight of a pair of pale grey, Mabari-hound eyes: meeting his like lightning arcing through a summer storm. As she recognised him, the girl with the storm-coloured eyes smiled; the wide mouth that he had dreamt about for so many months curving upwards.

The young lieutenant dropped both tray and tome, the heavy leather-bound book falling to the flagstones with an echoing thud that could have roused the Maker Himself. The initiates in the back rows snickered, nudging each other as the Chantry Mother hissed like an albino bat. Flora, who had not expected her smile of greeting to go so awry, looked anxious.

Now a luminous shade of scarlet, Cullen Rutherford scrambled to pick up the Chant of Light, fumbling to return the book to its correct place on the tray. He presented it with head bowed to the Chantry Mother, rigid with contrition. She took it with a snort of disgust, silencing the giggling initiates with a sweep of her scathing glare.

"He's still infatuated with her, then," murmured Leliana, fondly. "Ah, the first tender follies of the heart can be enduring."

Alistair searched his memory, placing the blond Templar as the one who had been assigned to guard Connor during their stay at South Reach. He also recalled the lieutenant helpless in a desire demon's clutches in Kinloch Hold; and how Cullen had confessed a secret and hopeless passion for a certain young red-headed apprentice, who kept being expelled from class to clean the corridors. The lieutenant had known that Flora frequently broke curfew to sneak down to the kitchens, _and_ that she used to regularly climb up onto the Tower roof, and had not reported either misdemeanour to his seniors.

Cullen, retreating to stand beside the brazier, darted another glance at the Royal stall. His stare moved discretely from the swollen-stomached Flora, to Alistair standing tall and crowned at her side. On the last occasion that they had parted, Cullen had rode back beneath the South Reach portcullis in a clatter of hoof-beats, dismounted haphazardly, and pressed an impulsive kiss to a gawping Flora's mouth. The young lieutenant had been convinced that he would never see this object of his youthful desire again; hence such uncharacteristic boldness.

Now, to Cullen's mild horror, Flora – or _the Hero of Ferelden_ as she was now known – was standing before him, alive and healthy. He knew that she had killed the Archdemon, and had been told that her connection with the Fade had been severed. He had also heard the rumours that she was carrying the Theirin's child; gossip which was now quite obviously confirmed.

Alistair narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully. Leliana made a rare error of judgement, patting him on the elbow.

"You don't need to be jealous of young Lieutenant Rutherford, Alistair," she whispered, reassuringly. "He wouldn't make advances on land already claimed by the _king."_

"No, no- "Alistair replied under his breath, his reply partly drowned out by some enthusiastic preaching from the Chantry Mother. "That doesn't bother me – Maker knows I'm used to people lusting after Flo – but wouldn't this Rutherford make a good guard for her while she's here? If he cares for Flora, he'd never let a shred of harm come to her."

Meanwhile, Flora knew full well that she owed Cullen both for his discretion at the Circle, and for his instruction in how to resist a silencing spell. The latter had saved her life during an attack by a Darkspawn necromancer, and she had never had a chance to thank him properly. She tried to catch his eye, but Cullen was now gazing fixedly at the vast, stern face of Andraste, his cheeks still pink.

The Chantry Mother finished her reading and made the gesture for a hymn, clearing her throat as she prepared to launch into the opening verse.

"Alistair, that would be tantamount to _cruelty,"_ Leliana retorted, turning her hymn book to the correct page. "You can't make the boy watch the object of his desire sleeping, undressing, _washing herself in the bath._ How is he ever supposed to overcome his longing if you _flaunt_ her before him?"

Alistair grunted, reluctantly admitting that the bard had a point. The opening bars of the hymn rang out, and he duly joined in with Leliana's soaring soprano vocals.

Flora listened to her former brother-warden's rich, clear baritone and admired how well it melded with their bard's crystalline tones. She knew that nobody wanted to hear her frog-croak of a singing voice, and so opened and closed her mouth at random intervals, unable to decipher the words of the prayer book fast enough to mime correctly.

She was relieved when the hymn came to an end and the congregation sat. Her lower back was aching where the child put pressure on it, and her feet also had a tendency of swelling up in her boots when she stood still for too long.

The Chantry Mother advanced once more to the pulpit, her eyes burning with sacred fervour.

"Before we adjourn with a closing prayer," she began, clasping her hands so that her sleeves hung down like cream-coloured altar-cloths. "We must thank the Maker for His _superlative_ generosity, with regard to our own dear Hero of Ferelden."

Still not used to the title, it took Flora a moment to realise that the priestess was talking about _her._ She looked up with mild trepidation, feeling Alistair stiffen against her arm.

"The lady Cousland once suffered from the terrible affliction of _magic,_ constantly at risk from the malevolent forces of the Fade. As reward for her great service to our nation, the Maker purified the lady and purged her of this… _abnormality._ Let us all give thanks for His benevolence!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaah, poor Flo! Hearing her beloved, now departed spirits referred to as an _affliction._ I know I said update tomorrow or Tuesday, but I had a bit of time so I was able to update today!

Watched the London Marathon today – AMAZING! Every year when I watch it, I get super inspired to try and sign up for the next year… but my friend and I ran a 10k yesterday and I actually thought I was going to die at the end of it, lol. I think 10k is my actual physical limit!

I'm editing this to a TERRIBLE film on movies4men channel, called NYC: Tornado Terror. It's SO BAD! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	8. Memories Of The Peraquialus

Chapter 8: Memories Of The Peraquialus

The Chantry Mother continued in similar vein for the next ten minutes, exalting the great generosity of the Maker for purging the _contamination_ of magic from their Hero of Ferelden. Flora listened in silent horror as her beloved spirits – her _Silver Knight and Golden Lady,_ who had sacrificed their own ancient existence to preserve their mortal ally – were described as a disease to be cured, an abnormality to be surgically removed.

If Flora had been raised at Highever, she would have raised her voice in indignation; interrupted the Chantry Mother with a loud and vocal objection, secure in the knowledge that she was a _Cousland_ and therefore impervious to repercussion from squawking clerics.

Yet Flora had spent her childhood in Herring, where she had been expected to bite her tongue and defer to her elders. So, instead of protesting at the cleric's misguided sermon, she bowed her head and tried – in vain - not to sniffle. Tears began to run down her cheeks in silent, continuous streams, and she bit down on her lip to stifle a sob before it could emerge.

Alistair glanced sideways at the odd noise, eyes widening as he took in Flora's wet cheeks and damp lashes. Reaching out, he anchored her hand tightly in his, clasping their fingers together in the old _fish-rope_ ritual.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, wishing fervently that he could embrace her. "My darling."

The service ended after the thanksgiving prayer; rows of relieved initiates filing out to retire to their dormitories for the night. The Chantry Mother disappeared with the Knight-Commander in a waft of cream linen and imported incense, with a gaggle of sisters following in her wake like geese.

Now that the vast majority of the congregation had departed, Flora let loose the plaintive wail that she had been struggling to suppress. Alistair drew her against his chest as she huddled on the bench beside him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and murmuring in her ear. The Royal Guard and Flora's Templar guardians stood to one side, slightly awkwardly.

"My spirits weren't like _a disease,_ _"_ Flora protested tearfully, as Alistair nodded and murmured soothing reassurances. "They've saved more people than… than I can count. They've saved _your_ life."

"On many occasions, my love."

"They saved _Ferelden._ I couldn't have killed the Archdemon without them."

"I know, baby."

"And they've _gone!_ They've _left_ me."

"I know." Alistair kissed the side of her furrowed forehead, using his thumb to brush the tears from her lower lashes. "I know, sweetheart. They don't understand, you _know_ how the Chantry is."

Flora sniffed, accepting a square of perfumed silk from Leliana and mopping at her eyes and nose.

"I wish I were still a mage," she whispered, glumly. "I was _useful_ as a mage. I healed people. I cured the taint. I could've helped Ferelden recover!"

"You still can, love," Alistair said thickly, hating the sight of his best friend and lover so distressed.

" _How?!"_

Alistair shot a quick glance at Leliana, who shook her head a fraction. _She's not ready for you to propose,_ the bard's blue stare whispered. _She's still grieving the loss of her spirits._

"Well, by helping me with this… _being king,"_ Alistair said instead, bringing Flora's fingers to his mouth and kissing her bitten nails. "It helps me to understand things better when I explain them to you. In fact, can we go over what the Council discussed today? I want to hear your thoughts on the refugee situation."

Flora wasn't sure how valuable her contribution would be, but sniffled her acquiescence; after all, she did always want to help. Alistair drew her face up to his and kissed her on the mouth, heedless of their sacred surroundings and assorted observers.

There was one unsanctioned onlooker who was still hovering awkwardly near the pew, gloved hands tucked behind his back. He had waited patiently, shifting from one foot to another, as the Theirin comforted his pregnant mistress.

"Lieutenant Rutherford," Leliana said, a catlike smile in her tone as she rose to her feet. "My, it's been a while since we saw each other at South Reach."

Cullen nodded, swallowing his nerves as he bowed before the king and the girl who had risen from commoner, to teyrn's daughter, to _Hero of Ferelden_ in the time that he had known her.

"Your Majesty; Flor- _Lady Cousland,"_ the young lieutenant corrected quickly, raising his face to hers. "May I have permission to… say a few words?"

"Lieutenant Rutherford," replied Flora, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve. "I asked you at South Reach to call me _Flora."_

"But- "

"You've known me since I was _fifteen,"_ Flora continued, patiently. "You've seen me dressed as a lemon for a Satinalia ball. You don't have to call me Lady-anything."

Cullen opened his mouth to protest, then his face contorted oddly as he realised that he was about to try and argue with the _Hero of Ferelden;_ which seemed distinctly worse than just calling her by her preferred name.

"Flora," he said eventually, coughing to hide his embarrassment and gazing up at the moonlight filtering through the stained glass window. "I just wanted to congratulate – _thank_ you for your bravery in killing the Archdemon and ending the Fifth Blight."

Flora smiled up at him, still slightly damp-eyed.

 _I made a promise to Duncan, in the Korcari Wilds. I kept it._

"You're welcome," she said inanely, for want of anything else to say.

Cullen glanced behind him, then lowered his voice and took a step forward. Heedless of the stares of Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia; when he spoke, the words emerged low and sincere.

"And… I'm sorry for the loss of your magic," the young Templar said, quietly. "You had a great – a _great_ gift. I still remember that ship you created for the Guerrin lad. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw."

Flora swallowed, remembering how she had summoned a simulacrum of the _Peraquialus_ in the courtyard of South Reach. It had been misting a fine drizzle, the real stars veiled by cloud; yet the cobbles had gleamed like they were cast from gold, reflecting the light from her counterfeit constellation.

"Thank you," she said, touched that this embodiment of the Chantry had dared to voice sympathy for the loss of her spirits. "I appreciate it. I hope I can visit Connor soon. How is he?"

"Doing well, my la- _Flora._ He's enjoying his studies, and the company of other children."

Flora smiled, suddenly feeling tears of a different sort prickling at the corners of her eyes. Seeing the Templar looking alarmed, she hastened to explain.

"Sorry. I'm not sad, it's… _this."_ She pointed vaguely in the direction of her stomach. "It puts my body all out of balance."

Cullen glanced down at her protruding belly, then across at Alistair, then back at Flora.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty," he said dutifully, and Alistair seemed to swell an inch with pride.

"Thank you."

The young lieutenant made his excuses, stating that he had to supervise the younger recruits in the dormitories. As Cullen disappeared down a discreet side-passage, Alistair reached out to grip Flora's hand; squeezing her fingers affectionately between his.

"Let's go back up to your chamber."

A pair of Tranquil servants had been assigned to attend Flora in her quarters. Seeing Flora quail at the thought of being waited on, Alistair dismissed them both and built up the fire himself; having had months of practice while travelling around Ferelden.

Leliana perched herself at the writing desk in the corner, scribing the first of many letters that she intended to send during the month's confinement. This particular one was to Wynne, who was planning to visit the monastery before the week was out.

Alistair's Royal Guard were stationed in the corridor outside, glowering at passers-by though the thin slits in their closed-face helmets. Within the chamber itself, the two Templar conversed briefly before reaching agreement.

Knight-Captain Gannorn quickly and efficiently removed the outer layers of his armour, revealing a thin set of linens beneath. Without ceremony, he lowered himself to the pallet beside the door and closed his eyes. Chantry Devotia, who was apparently on the first shift of night watch, continued to stare impassively across the chamber.

Alistair and Flora sat together on the bed, he propped up against the cushions and she with her legs resting over his lap. Their boots stood neatly side-by-side on the flagstones, so not to mark the clean linen bedding.

Alistair was recanting the events discussed in the council meeting, while rubbing the day's stiffness from Flora's knee with expert thumbs, the leather strapping curled on the mattress. He had the notes he had taken during the meeting to one side for reference; glancing down at them on occasion to check certain points. Going through the items discussed – and simplifying the material so that someone with Flora's lack of political acumen could comprehend – helped to consolidate them within Alistair's head; aiding his own understanding.

Flora asked the occasional question for clarification; her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to keep track of Ferelden's intricate statecraft.

"The frustrating thing is, the Blight is _over,"_ Alistair said, grimacing as he reached for the leather strapping. "Yet the refugee ships keep leaving. How are we supposed to rebuild our country if half our population has fled to the Marches?"

He let out a short sigh, tying the strap around her knee with a quickness borne of long practice.

Flora, who had been down to the docks on several occasions to offer her services as a healer, remembered the miasma of bitterness and despair that rose from the huddled masses as they squabbled to earn a place on one of the departing ships.

"A lot of them are from Gwaren and Lothering," she said, recalling fragments that she had picked up from the queue of people waiting to be mended. "They have nothing to go back _to._ The land is poisoned."

Alistair gave a nod of acknowledgement, his fingers resting idly on her knee.

"I know. Wynne seems to think that the land _will_ recover, based on previous Blights. But, it'll take years."

Flora gave a little frown of sympathy. Alistair, who did not want to overburden his sister-warden too much whilst she was dealing with the loss of her spirits, flashed a smile and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.

"Anyway, darling, have you thought any more about your feast? The armies have had their celebrations now, as have the nobility – soon, it'll be _your_ turn."

Flora blinked: she had almost forgotten about the only boon that she had requested on ending the Blight successfully.

 _I don't want a parade,_ she had said, half-joking, months ago. _I don't want a big party. I want a feast._

"Is that _actually_ going to happen?" she asked, wide-eyed, and Alistair smiled at her.

"Of course, Lo! The Knight-Commander has already given permission for you to visit Denerim to attend, under escort. The castle chef is coming here to discuss your ideas, so start thinking about how many _courses_ you can fit in that stomach."

Flora bit absent-mindedly at her thumb-nail, brow furrowed. In the background, Leliana's quill scratched away at the parchment; the bard utterly absorbed in her own missive.

"Huh!"

Alistair pressed his lips to his sister-warden's ear, inhaling the familiar scent of her tangled, dark red mass of hair. She instinctively leaned into the kiss, tilting her head back against his shoulder.

The king's fingers, resting on his lover's strapped knee, inched upwards towards her thigh. Flora tended to favour knee-length tunics with boots and bare legs; especially in this summery eastern climate, where she found herself overheating rapidly. Alistair, on the other hand, simply favoured any outfit of Flora's that allowed him to gaze at her legs unimpeded.

Flora watched the progress of his hand with mild fascination, wondering when propriety would overcome desire. Alistair inhaled unsteadily as his fingers brushed the bare skin beneath the woollen hem of her tunic, then withdrew his hand with great reluctance.

"Give me a hug," he murmured in Flora's ear, glancing towards the stern face of Chanter Devotia. "Nothing improper about that."

The Templar was murmuring quietly to herself, eyes closed, clearly in the middle of some obscure incantation. Leliana was still scribbling furiously away at her letter to Wynne, facing towards the hearth to gain the best light.

Alistair leaned back against the headboard, holding out his arms expectantly. Flora eyed her brother-warden dubiously, but allowed him to manoeuvre her onto his lap; a shift in position made more awkward by her swollen stomach. Once she was settled on his thighs, he reached out to clasp his hands around the small of her back, thumbs kneading instinctively into the sore muscles.

"You're unique, Flora of Herring," he murmured, as she went as pink as the lieutenant from the Chantry. "It's no wonder that Rutherford chap is still infatuated."

"Actually," Flora informed him, solemnly. "There's another Flora who lives in the village, it's quite a common name up north. So there's two _Flora of Herrings_."

Alistair leaned forward, resting his chin gently on her shoulder. When he replied, his lips brushed slow and deliberate against her ear.

"But no one like _you,_ my love."

Flora felt his breath hot against her skin, and was suddenly very conscious of her position straddling his thighs. When he kissed her, council notes discarded to one side on the blankets, she could taste the desire tart and longing on his lips. Against her better judgement, she let her brother-warden's tongue gain entry to her mouth; where he proceeded to steal the air from her lungs within moments.

As they kissed with the slow, languid ease of familiarity and long practice, Alistair's fingers caressed her throat, tracing an arc over her throbbing pulse. His thumb moved down to stroke along her collarbone, edging aside the woollen neckline. Relying on her upper body to shield his actions, he reached discretely for the neatly tied bow keeping the front of the tunic closed. With Flora's guidance, Alistair found the correct lace and gave it a subtle tug, mouth still working hers; biting on the lower lip and suckling the tongue.

With the laces sufficiently loosened, it was relatively simple for Alistair to slide his hand inside the richly dyed lambswool. Flora inhaled unsteadily as calloused fingers stole over her naked breast, testing the ripeness of the newly swollen flesh with a soft squeeze.

He broke off the kiss just long enough to whisper in Flora's ear, unable to resist pulling gently on the lobe with his teeth.

"Let me know if I'm being too rough, baby," Alistair murmured throatily; recalling how she had told him that they were tender. "I just want to touch you for a little bit. Maker, you're _gorgeous._ "

Alistair was as gentle as his word; and his care and discreetness awarded him several precious minutes of being to fondle his lover without interruption. It was the first time that he had touched her since she had ventured into the Deep Roads with Riordan, three weeks prior.

"Aha, perfect! I'll send this off with a servant," declared Leliana suddenly, holding out a wax stick close to the flames in preparation to seal her letter. "I wonder where the raven-coop is?"

Alistair, who had been enthusiastically tonguing his sister-warden's flushed nipple, reluctantly lifted his head. He pulled the laces of the tunic tight just as the bard turned around, waving the sealed envelope between elegant fingers.

"I have no idea," he replied evenly, remarkably composed considering the circumstances. "Any suggestions, Lo?"

"Nnnh…"

Leliana immediately squinted in suspicion, seeing Flora slumped back against the blankets with a vague, slightly dazed expression scrawled across her face.

"I hope you two haven't been engaged in anything _improper,"_ the bard hissed, her duck-egg blue eyes wide and accusatory. "Florence is here for purposes of _reflection_ and _prayer._ Not to be _groped."_

Alistair raised his eyebrows down at Flora, who assumed her best devout expression and gazed back up at him piously.

"Exactly," she said airily, with an air of virtue that had Alistair stifling a snort of amusement. "No improperness, please."

"Well, then," he replied, grinning and reaching for the abandoned council notes. "I'll leave you to _reflect and pray_ in peace, my little pilgrim."

At the prospect of her brother-warden departing for the night, Flora sat up anxiously; her pale eyes seeking out his. Alistair leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, murmuring assurances that he would be back tomorrow evening.

"Promise?"

"I swear, Lo. Not even a Sixth Blight could stop me."

"Aah, don't even _say_ it!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Poor Flo, she's not over the loss of her spirits yet! I know it's been quite a few chapters, but I wanted her grief to be realistic.

Speaking of chapters, it's actually been about fifty chapters since Flo and Alistair were last intimate, which is definitely a record since they were at it like rabbits for p much the middle two hundred chapters of TLATL hahaha

replying to reviews in the reviews! thank you!


	9. A Game Of Chess With Bann Teagan

Chapter 9: A Game Of Chess With Bann Teagan

A short while later, the Chanter blinked and cleared her throat, standing up a little straighter. Flora offered the woman a slightly tentative smile, grimacing as her hairbrush worked through a fist-sized tangle.

"' _The Imperium slept. In their lofty palaces, they dreamed of the Maker's Palace, golden and shining,'"_ replied Devotia, her strange violet-hued eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Nonplussed, Flora looked to Leliana for an explanation. The lay sister was massaging some perfumed Orlesian unguent into her skin with her fingertips, a small hand-mirror balanced on her knee.

"Yes, we are planning on retiring now," Leliana informed the Chanter, with a slightly irritable toss of the head. "Give us a moment."

Flora smoothed Alistair's shirt down over her thighs, settling back against the bed-cushions and yawning. Her brother-warden's spare tunics had been her nightclothes of choice during their travels; and wearing such now made her feel oddly close to Alistair, despite the four miles of distance between them.

Leliana moved about the chamber a few moments more, clad in a demure linen night-robe with a subtle lace trim. Once finished with her evening rituals, the bard dropped to her knees before the bed and began to murmur her prayers. The Chanter gave a small nod of approval from her position beside the door, arms folded across her armoured chest.

Flora listened absent-mindedly to Leliana's quiet devotions, feeling the little creature shift position within her belly.

 _Don't start getting too energetic now,_ she thought sternly to her own stomach. _It's bed-time. Go to sleep._

Something – a rounded skull or the curve of a shoulder – nudged against her from the inside. Flora instinctively dropped her fingers to the firm mound of linen-covered flesh, returning the pressure.

 _I'm sorry that I denied your existence for so long_ , she thought remorsefully as Leliana clambered into bed beside her. _I'm sorry for putting you in danger, though I don't regret it._

 _I'm sorry that I didn't want you for such a long time. I thought a lot of bad things and wished that you were gone. I'm sorry._

The creature nudged against her palm and Flora slid her fingers further down to cup her stomach, feeling a sudden and unexpected surge of affection for the little creature lodged within her, which had – against all odds- clung so fiercely to life.

Leliana flashed Flora a brief smile, leaning across to blow out the candle.

"Goodnight, _ma cherie._ May the Maker watch over you as you sleep!"

 _Maker and Templars._

Flora smiled back at the bard, sliding down into the cushions and pulling the blanket up to her chin.

The fireplace gave forth a constant, low crackling; the splitting of wood and spitting of sparks forming a gentle accompaniment to Leliana's snoring. In the background, a westerly ocean wind howled through Revanloch's decrepit ramparts, whistling about the crumbling towers and rattling the windows in their loose-fitting frames.

Flora listened to Leliana's soft, even breathing as the lay sister slept curled beside her. The gleam of a silverite blade was just visible beneath the bard's pillow, and Flora resolved to thank Leliana once again in the morning for volunteering to join her during her confinement. Impulsively, she reached out and stroked the curve of Leliana's skull, smoothing down a stray strand of hair. Leliana grunted in her sleep, shifting slightly in response to the feather-light touch.

To Flora's annoyance, her body seemed to be conspiring with the little creature lodged in her belly, their joint aim to keep her awake. The baby kept nudging impatiently into her kidneys; her lower back ached and her neck was so stiff that she could barely move her head without a twinge of pain.

Too uncomfortable to sleep and missing her brother-warden's solid presence, Flora stared up at the wooden ceiling beams. She decided to count as high as she was able – Finian had once told her that he used to number horses jumping over a fence to encourage sleep. Unfortunately, she had forgotten what number came after twenty nine – _threety_ just sounded wrong – and gave up shortly afterwards.

Instead, Flora gazed up at the ceiling; mentally projecting the map of Thedas against the plaster and beams.

 _The Pentaghasts of Nevarra. The Valmonts of Orlais. The Vaels of Starkhaven._

By the time that Flora had finished recalling the name of each dynasty memorised earlier, the midnight change in watch was taking place.

Suddenly, there came the sound of footsteps from inside the room, and the shadows shifted against the wall. Flora squinted into the darkness, only to see Knight-Captain Gannorn advancing across the chamber.

Leliana, whose eyelids had sprung open on hearing the approaching steps, stayed awake just long enough to confirm the Templar's identity. Retrieving her hand from where it had slid beneath her pillow towards the blade, she rolled over and immersed herself in dreams once again.

Gannorn came to a halt next to Flora's side of the bed. Divesting himself of a glove, he reached his hand towards her face. With short, efficient and long-practised movements, he leaned forward to check her pupil and her temperature. Flora allowed him to touch her face unimpeded, more than used to these variant of Templar checks.

 _It's pointless, anyway. My connection with the Fade is gone. I've as much magic as a dwarf._

Once finished, the Knight-Captain gave a businesslike grunt and withdrew his hand. He made as though to return to his station beside the door, then paused abruptly.

"You weren't asleep."

Flora shook her head, then realised that it was dark and replied instead in the negative.

"Are you not tired? You were yawning throughout _Complines."_

"My back hurts," she replied, slightly glumly. "It aches too much to sleep."

Gannorn paused, something indescribable flickering across his face. The next moment, he had retrieved several cushions from the foot of the bed and instructed her to lean forward.

The curious Flora obeyed, bending over as far as her swollen stomach would allow. The Templar positioned the cushions carefully at the base of the headboard, then requested that she return to normal position once more.

Flora did so, and was astonished at how the pressure on her lower back had been relieved.

"Oh!" she whispered, shifting against the cushions. "That's better, thank you. How did you – how did you know?"

The Knight-Captain made no reply for a moment, his gaze shifting towards the moonlit window. At first, Flora thought that the Templar would not deign to answer; then at last he spoke, his voice carefully neutral.

"I had a family, once."

A single, clean note of sadness rang through the seven syllables. Flora stared at the man for a moment, unsure what to say. Then the Knight-Captain gave a soft grunt and turned away, striding back into the shadows beside the door.

The next few days quickly fell into a similar pattern; Flora and Leliana both establishing the routine that they would follow for the next month. After breaking their fast, they would spend much of the morning in the draughty library, sitting at the reading tables and practising a variety of skills. To avoid raising suspicion, Leliana interspersed the study of the various Theodesian dynasties with more basic numeracy and literacy.

The bard need not have worried; Flora had never been formally tutored before, and was so delighted at the novelty of being _educated_ that she did not deign to question _why_ she was learning about the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden, alongside how to count to one hundred.

Lunch each day took place within the great hall, before two hundred whispering initiates. The novelty of having the _Hero of Ferelden_ – a girl only a handful of years older than themselves – staying at the monastery, had not yet worn off. Hawklike eyes followed Flora and Leliana's every move, from their entrance into the great hall to the setting down of forks at the end of the meal.

On the first day Flora had found this constant scrutiny desperately uncomfortable; by the third, she found it mildly disconcerting; by the fifth, she was able to mostly ignore it. Once again, Leliana waited with baited breath for Flora to enquire as to the _reason_ why she needed to become so used to dining in public, yet Flora accepted it as she had done so many other changes in her life.

She and Leliana had also quickly grown used to the silent, constant presence of Knight-Commander Gannorn and Chanter Devotia. The two Templars followed ceaselessly in Flora's footsteps, flanking the doorway of whichever chamber she happened to be in, treading the corridors a handful of feet behind her. After a time, Flora barely even felt the heat of their stares; willingly submitting to their checks of her temperature and pupil-size.

Every afternoon, without fail, one of Flora's companions would arrive at Revanloch to spend several hours in her company. Knowing that Flora was confined within the walls of the monastery – and, unlike Leliana, would not be immersing herself in prayer and reflection – they often brought something to pass the time together.

One such bright and sunny day, Teagan arrived at Revanloch monastery with his saddlebag tucked beneath his arm. He passed the Royal Guard posted at the outer gate, and then the second pair flanking the internal doors; taking a deep breath of sunny, sea-scented air before stepping into the cool dampness of the monastery interior.

A young initiate showed the bann along the labyrinthine corridors, past a plethora of small study cells. Their footsteps echoed for dozens of yards down the corridors, the sound oddly muffled by the thickness of the stone walls.

The initiate gestured Teagan through an archway into an external courtyard; a small patch of sunshine within the musty enclosure of Revanloch. It had a small water fountain in one corner, and was lined with bushes half-wilting in the summer heat.

Leliana, clad in leathers rather than Chantry regalia, was perched on the edge of the water fountain and sharpening her blades. Flora was sitting at a small table in the shade, peering studiously down at a series of pebbles that she had arranged on the surface before her.

The bard, who had identified Teagan by his stride before he had even ducked out into the sunshine, greeted him with a regal Orlesian wave.

"Did you have a good journey, Teagan?" she called, not looking up from the whetstone gliding silkily over her blade.

"Aye," replied Teagan, glancing over to the two solemn-faced Templars posted several yards away. "Maker's Breath, this place is a soulless pile of rocks."

" _Au contraire!"_ murmured the bard, with amusing piety considering the blade that she was currently sharpening. "It is _full_ of soul, and devotion to the Maker!"

Teagan let out a dubious snort, crossing to Flora's side. She smiled up at him, squinting slightly against the brightness.

"Hello, poppet." Teagan ducked his head to kiss her cheek. "How are you?"

"Tired," Flora replied, honestly. "I'd forgotten what it was like to be woken up every few hours. It used to happen all the time at the Circle."

Teagan's brow creased as he took a seat at the small table, darting a pale green Guerrin stare across at the two impassive Templars flanking the doorway. They gazed back, silent and motionless; their gloved hands clasped before them like pious statues.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" he murmured, resolving to mention it to Alistair on his return. "How is the babe?"

Flora reflexively glanced down at the swollen mound of her stomach, stretching the tunic's grey lambswool.

"It keeps _nudging_ me," she said, slightly bemused. "Is it trying to... _tell me something?"_

Teagan, who was equally clueless when it came to such matters, gave a shrug.

"I'm not sure, petal."

"It means that the babe is large," Leliana called from across the courtyard, drawing her knife in an imaginary slash across an unfortunate opponent's throat. "It's growing quickly."

"Theirins do tend to produce large infants," Teagan added, reaching down to the leather saddlebag at his feet. "Maric was the size of a Mabari pup when he was born, and Rowan took a week to recover from the birth of Cailan."

Flora blanched several degrees, envisioning the additional months of growth that the child still had to come. The bann saw her eyes widen a fraction, and hastened to distract her.

"Anyway, I've brought this. Do you remember how to play?"

He lifted a polished wooden case onto the table, opening it up to reveal an ebon and ivory chessboard. The individual pieces were stored carefully in a carved holder to one side; their gleaming faces reflecting the afternoon sun.

"Oh," Flora breathed, reaching out to run her fingertip along the ridged surface of the counters. "I think I remember. These prawns are my favourite."

Teagan hid a smile, deftly arranging the pieces in their correct places on the board.

" _Pawns."_

They played several games as the sun inched its way towards the hills of the Bannorn. It soon became abundantly clear that Flora had no idea how to play – she slid her Chantry Mothers forwards instead of diagonally, and repeatedly tried to capture Teagan's king with her pawn.

On one occasion, she claimed to hear a dog barking in the passage and sent Teagan to investigate, only to quickly steal all of his most important pieces when his back was turned. Teagan returned to find half of his counters missing, and a small pebble where his queen should have stood.

"Where've my knights gone?" he demanded, in feigned outrage. "And my queen."

"They've been taken hostage by my prawn army," Flora explained airily, gesturing to where his counters were lined up neatly on her side of the board. "They are _prisoners of war."_

"I'm not sure those tactics are in the rule book," Teagan countered, raising one eyebrow.

"Well, I can't _read_ the rule book, so…!"

The bann laughed, his gaze settling on Flora as she sat opposite him, solemn and entirely unrepentant.

 _She's guileless,_ he thought, suddenly. _And charming in a way that wasn't learnt at court._

After Teagan had won three games in a row, Leliana laid down her blades and came to offer Flora assistance. The bard whispered instructions, using an elegant finger to sketch out potential moves; Flora followed the orders dutifully, and won the next two games.

Finally, Teagan and Leliana played each other; bann versus bard. It was a lengthy match, with the final winning move going to a triumphant Leliana. Flora applauded as the lay sister slid her queen across to join her king.

"And you didn't even need to sacrifice any of your prawns," she whispered, approvingly. "I wish I was as clever as you."

Leliana smiled, eyeing the ivory king and queen as they stood proudly alongside each other.

"These are beautifully carved pieces," she murmured after a moment, nudging the tip of her fingernail against the queen's finely hewn jaw. "Such intricate designs. This one has got the same cheekbones as you, Flora. In fact…"

The bard paused, her gaze sliding briefly towards Teagan before settling on their unsuspecting young Cousland.

"I'm going to name this piece _Queen Florence._ Since it resembles you so very much."

Leliana held her breath after delivering the seemingly innocuous statement, peering at Flora from beneath her eyelashes.

Flora appeared to be lost in thought, her brow furrowed deeply.

"Why is the knight counter just a horse?" she said after a moment, perturbed. "Horses can't use _swords._ Did the knight fall off its back?"

Teagan looked at Leliana, and the bard gave a mild shrug.

 _She doesn't even register her own name being used in conjunction with 'queen'._

The daylight waned; the Templar initiates snuck surreptitious glances into the inner courtyard as they passed from drill to afternoon prayers. A servant came out with a tray of small pastries, blushing as the bann flashed her an appreciative smile.

"Alright," Teagan said, as the first ochre clouds of sunset crept across the horizon. "I should be getting back to the city."

He checked that each chess piece had been returned to its proper place, before closing the polished wooden case and sliding it back into his saddlebag. Flora pushed herself to her feet as the bann rose from the chair, wondering at the additional effort that this movement now took.

"Thank you for coming to visit me," she said, earnestly. "I appreciate it _a lot."_

"Of course, poppet," Teagan replied, slinging the leather pack over his shoulder. "We're all counting down the days until you return to Denerim."

"Me too," said Flora, solemnly.

This was not strictly true; she had some idea of the length of a _month_ (the time it took for a spratling cod to develop fins), but had only a vague conception of how many _days_ that consisted of.

"I'll probably pass Alistair on the way here. I'm glad to see you and the babe looking so well, pet."

A characteristic that had always set Flora aside from her fellow inhabitants of Herring, was her readiness to initiate contact with others. Teagan gritted his teeth as she embraced him without reservation, allowing his mind to wander for several moments. The drabness of Flora's soft grey tunic and the dishevelment of her braid only seemed to emphasise the striking artistry of her features; the pale eyes, the full, sulky lips, the rich, ox-blood hue of the hair.

 _Still your nephew's lover,_ the more rational part of his brain reminded him, sternly. _Carrying his child._

The distant, sonorous summon of the dinner bell echoed, rousing the bann from his reverie. A constant attendant to the demands of her stomach, Flora withdrew and began to shift from foot to foot, impatiently.

Leliana walked Teagan as far as the archway leading to the main passage, conscious of her promise to never stray from Flora's sight. The lay-sister smiled and nodded at the Chantry officials they passed, murmuring to the bann from the corner of her mouth.

"She's half your age, you know. _Literally."_

Teagan grunted; he was well-cognisant of this particular fact.

"Why nurture a sapling that won't survive?" Leliana continued, and there was an element of kindness within her quiet reprimand. "It cannot be easy to desire that which will never come to pass."

There came a sudden crash of tableware from behind them, and both turned towards the source of the noise. An elven servant carrying a tray of silverware across the courtyard had been startled by a pair of high-spirited recruits; dropping the contents of her arms everywhere.

Flora, who had immediately gone to assist, was kneeling down with her head turned sideways against the cobbles, trying to squint beneath a decorative flower planter.

"I think the bowl's gone under here," she called, looking around for something to assist her. "I need something long and skinny to get it out! My arms are too short."

As a bemused Chanter Devotia drew her sword and strode across the courtyard; Teagan returned his gaze to Leliana, with a resigned shrug.

"If the Maker ever instructs you on how to abandon your desire for a sweet-hearted lass, with the guts to kill an Archdemon, and a painter's dream of a face," he replied, bleakly. "Do let me know; because I can't see any way out of it. Andraste knows that I've tried."

Just then, Flora let out a squawk of triumph; crouched on the cobblestones with the fugitive sugar bowl held aloft.

"Ha! Here you go." She used the hem of her tunic to wipe the dirt from the silverware, before handing it back to the startled elven servant. "Good as new. Well, apart from the dent. Just blame it on me, I always drop things."

Leliana let out a sigh under her breath, reaching out to put a hand on Teagan's elbow. Bann and bard shared a glance of mutual understanding; they had spent several nights whiling away the hours in the same bed, both fully aware that the other desired a different partner.

"Safe journey back to Denerim, Bann Teagan," she murmured, softly.

* * *

OOC Author Note: How obvious are Leliana's hints? "I'M GOING TO CALL THIS PIECE QUEEN FLORENCE", and Flora is just like, clueless lol.

Poor Teagan! He needs to find a nice girlfriend, any ideas? Haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	10. King Alistair's Courtship

Chapter 10: King Alistair's Courtship

As the younger Guerrin departed, Flora noticed something tall and white on the courtyard table. Advancing, she realised what it was with a small grimace of dismay.

"Oh! Bann Teagan forgot one of his chess pieces," she breathed, picking up the elegantly carved figure and rolling it against the flat of her scarred palm. "What's this? The Chantry Mother?"

"No," replied Leliana, with an inward snort at the Fereldan noble's attempt at subtlety. "It's the _queen,_ Florence. Why don't you… look after it until he visits next?"

If the bard had been looking for any flicker of realisation on Flora's face, she would be disappointed. Flora slid the piece into her pocket without a second thought, her ears pricking at the sound of the dinner gong.

The evening arrived with hushed gentleness, streaking the sky with hues of ochre, blush and apricot. Even the soft light of the waning day could not lend much beauty to the harsh edges of Revanloch. Some of its crumbling balconies and decrepit turrets were masked by the violet shadow, yet its underlying brutalist ugliness persisted.

Flora, who was from the equally _offensive-to-the-eyes_ village of Herring, found the monastery's unapologetic drabness comforting. As she and Leliana returned to their quarters after dinner, the bard continued to contrast Revanloch to an abbey near Val Royeaux where she had once spent a summer. If the two Templars following silently in their wake took offence at the unfavourable comparison; they made no mention of it.

"Singing drifted through the air like perfume, from every open door and balcony at _Hautefroide_ ," Leliana reminisced, her spring-sky eyes hazy with memory. "The beauty of Andraste was reflected in every gilded statue and mirrored wall. One could have hosted a Royal ball in their great hall, and felt no shame at doing so."

"Did _you_ ever go to any balls there?" Flora asked swiftly, having learnt that the best way to distract the bard was to question her about some glittering social facet of her past.

" _Non,"_ replied Leliana, wistfully. "The Maker's house should be no place for the Game; although I dare say more political intrigue has been brokered within their cloisters than the Chantry would like to admit."

As they turned the corner leading to their quarters, two upright figures clad in closed-face helmets caught their attention. They were garbed in the mustard and crimson livery of the Theirin dynasty, pikes held motionless at their sides as they stood guard.

Flora let out a reflexive squeak of excitement, since the presence of the Royal Guardsmen inevitably meant the presence of Alistair. Hearing the booted steps behind increase their pace to match hers, she strode down the corridor as fast as her stomach would allow.

The Royal Guard shifted their pikes from hand to hand in a sign of respect as Flora approached, then scrambled to open the door as she showed no signs of slowing down.

Alistair was waiting beside the window, hands tucked behind his back. The descending sun lit up both gilded hair and golden band; adding richness to the natural tan of his olive skin. He was gazing down at the ocean below with a pensive expression, brow furrowed in a single crease.

As Flora entered, he turned around and the careworn residue of a day spent in meetings and council chambers seemed to melt from his face. He grinned reflexively, the green flecks in his eyes standing out like shards of bottle-glass.

"My darling girl."

Flora paid no heed to the Royal Guard, the Templars or Leliana; as far as she was concerned, she and Alistair were the only two people alive in Ferelden. Ignoring everything in her periphery, she crossed the room and allowed herself to be enveloped in his extended arms.

Alistair held his best friend against his chest, feeling the steady throb of her sturdy workhorse heart. He buried his face in Flora's mass of half-loose hair, inhaling the familiar scent of the girl he loved. One hand slid down to stroke the firm mound of her belly, palm cupping the increasingly pronounced shape of their child. In the week that she had been at Revanloch, it seemed to have expanded several inches.

"Alistair," Flora said, and the king gazed down at her with bright, adoring eyes. "Bann Teagan forgot this piece of his chess set. Could you give it back to him?"

She slid a hand into her pocket and withdrew the carved length, holding it out to Alistair in the centre of her sunburst-marked palm. Alistair recognised the queen immediately, and hid a rueful smile at his uncle's attempt at subtle insinuation.

"Keep it, sweetheart," he murmured, closing her fingers over the piece. "You're the… _queen of my heart,_ after all."

"And you're the king _of my stomach,"_ replied Flora, head turning to locate the source of a delicious, fresh-baked smell. "What did you bring me?"

"Scones," Alistair said, glancing briefly towards a cloth-covered basket. "But, I've brought you something else."

Releasing her from his arms, the king strode over to the wicker basket. Feeling her knee give a small twinge of protest, Flora wandered to the window and lowered herself to the cushioned seat. Leliana, who was permitted to go elsewhere whenever Alistair himself was with Flora, had vanished off to conduct her own business; though Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia were a constant, stern-faced presence.

Flora peered up through the glass at the emerging moon, sliding out delicately from behind a lacy veil of cloud. The Amaranthine Ocean lost its rich, emerald-green sheen in the darkness; stretching out in an expanse of soft, desaturated grey.

When she turned back into the room, Alistair was holding an overflowing bundle of roses in his arms; several dozen blooms erupting from the restraining twine. Several stems fell to the floor as he approached her, his expression unreadable.

Flora blinked up at her former brother-warden in astonishment, watching as he sat carefully on the bench beside her with the bundle of flowers in his lap.

"Lo, do you remember when I gave you that rose from Lothering?" he asked, quietly.

Flora gave a wide-eyed nod; of course she did.

"In the inn, on the way back to Redcliffe," she replied, recalling how Alistair had withdrawn the stem hesitantly from his pack, cheeks flushed from something other than the heat of the hearth. "I was sad about not being able to set a fire in the hearth. You told me that you liked me for _exactly what I was."_

Flora had kept the rose alive for as long as possible with the help of her spirits, prodding new life into the wilting leaves and restoring colour to the fading petals. When it was beyond even her own prodigious skill, Flora had pressed it between the pages of _Exotic Fish of Thedas;_ preserving it forever alongside the wax-paper dog that he had folded for her at Ostagar.

"I wanted you to have these," Alistair said, inwardly annoyed that he could think of no suitably poetic delivery. "Because I- I love you. And all the roses in Thedas wouldn't be enough to show you _how much_ I love you, but… but I wanted to give you these anyway."

He trailed off, miserably aware of his own lack of eloquence.

Flora gazed down at the roses, spilling over Alistair's lap and onto the window bench. They were a haphazard collection – some were still tightly sealed in bud, others were overblown and spilling crimson petals onto the velvet. It was clearly no professional bundle purchased from a flower-seller. She envisioned her companion wandering about the gardens of the palace grounds, clumsily gathering blooms into a haphazard bouquet; more preoccupied with affection rather than aesthetic.

"They're beautiful," Flora replied, solemnly. "Thank you."

Alistair shot her the small, intimate smile that was rarely seen in public; the one that he kept just for her. Reaching out for Flora's hand, he lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.

"Well, it occurred to me," he murmured, keeping hold of her hand as he lowered it. "That I've not done much in the way of… _romance._ I mean, the Blight just- sort of - _threw_ us together and I… I never got to _court_ you. In the way that a beautiful girl should be courted."

Flora gazed at him, slightly enthralled. In Herring, courtship was relatively unheard of – a boy and a girl spent a few hours behind a rock on the beach to see if they were compatible, then the boy would present the girl with a fish. If she chose, the girl could accept both fish and accompanying proposal; then they would get married the next time that a Chantry official paid a visit to their local chapel. It was entirely practical, rather than _romantic._

"I don't really know what _courtship_ is," Flora breathed. "But isn't it a bit late for it? I mean…"

She dropped her gaze to the swell of their child, and Alistair's bright hazel eyes softened; following her own.

"I'd like to do it anyway," he murmured, reaching out to stroke the hair away from her face. "It's what I'd do if I were a stable-boy and you a little fishwife, whom..."

 _Whom I want to marry,_ he thought determinedly to himself.

Flora looked around at the roses, spilling petals over the bench, and her heart suddenly throbbed with a single, hard pulse of affection.

"Thank you for the flowers," she said, leaning forward to kiss the coarse stubble of his jaw. "It's so kind of you."

Alistair smiled at her, a sudden spark of recognition flashing in his gaze.

"Oh, I meant to tell you," he continued, the edges of his mouth curling upwards in a grin. "You'll find this funny. The bards are already starting to compose their songs about the Fifth Blight – Leliana will have some competition, I think – and they're calling you the _Flower of Ferelden."_

Flora looked distinctly unimpressed, her brow creasing in a petulant fold.

"The _flower?"_ she breathed, slightly indignant. "Why not the _Fist of Ferelden?_ Or the _Fox of Ferelden,_ because of my hair? If I were the _Fist of Ferelden,_ they could say that I _punched_ the Darkspawn horde… that I _fisted_ the Archde- well, maybe not _."_

Alistair was grinning widely, his fingers tightening around her own. Flora continued, grumpily.

"I'd rather be the _Fish-lover of Ferelden."_

The king let out a bark of laughter, reaching forward to gather her into his arms.

"You'd really want history to remember you as the _fish-lover?"_

"I don't particularly want history to remember me _at all!"_

"Well, I think it's too late for that, my dear."

Parting on this sixth night apart was no less difficult than it had been on the first. The smell of roses mingled with the cedar-scented wood burning on the hearth; as both former wardens clung to each other in the shadows, reluctant to separate. As he did each evening before departing, Alistair knelt before Flora and massaged the day's tensions from her sore knee.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he whispered throatily, so used to the ubiquitous presence of the Royal Guard that he barely noticed them crowding into the chamber.

"You won't be late? It starts at mid-day," Flora reminded him anxiously, fingers wrapping themselves in the edge of his gold-threaded tunic. "Please don't be late."

"I'll be early, Lola, I swear it," Alistair assured her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before standing.

Tomorrow would be the burning of Riordan, the senior Warden who had leapt from the pinnacle of Fort Drakon and clung so heroically to the Archdemon's wing. He had sacrificed his life to ground the dragon; to rob it of the flight that gave it such an advantage in combat. At Alistair's request, the man's body had been transported to Revanloch; where the pyre had already been constructed.

Flora nodded, feeling a hard lump of sadness rise in her throat as she thought on the man whom she had first met in Howe's dungeon. Riordan had reminded her of Duncan in more ways that could be counted; and – like Duncan – he too had been taken from her prematurely.

Alistair looked hard at her face for a long moment, as though memorising its curves and angles. Then, on hearing Leliana approach with a gentle step upon the flagstones, he took his leave with aching heart.

That night, Flora slept fitfully; tossing and turning in a dreamless restlessness. It was not the child keeping her up - though her lower back was aching and sore – it was a general sense of _dis-ease_. Beside her, Leliana was sleeping soundly on her side, curled up into the blankets like a marmalade-coloured cat. The moonlight shone in diffused rays through the leaded window; illuminating the flagstones in gleaming array.

 _Riordan is here, somewhere. In the monastery._

Flora sat upright, kicking the coverlet away with a petulant foot. The Templar Chanter Devotia was on duty – she stood stock still before the door; vigilant as the bodyguard of any paranoid Orlesian duchess.

"' _And the Maker did send forth succour for his thirsty flock?'"_ the Chanter murmured, a slight upwards inflection at the end of the sentence indicating that this was a question.

"No, thank you," whispered back Flora, politely. "I don't need a drink."

For a moment she wondered whether to wake Leliana, but the bard looked so peaceful that Flora decided against it. Instead, she retrieved a woollen jumper from her pack to pull on overtop her knee-length nightgown - Ferelden nights were persistently chilly, despite the season – and found her boots beneath the bed.

While Flora made herself more appropriate for nocturnal wanderings, Chanter Devotia watched with increasing disapproval.

"' _And the Maker walked the land/With Andraste at His right hand?'"_ she hissed, her meaning clear.

Flora, as unfamiliar with the Chant of Light as she was with the great Archons of Tevinter, blinked for several moments. Deciding that the Templar was probably not going to _impede_ her progress, she took an experimental step towards the door.

As Flora had hoped, the Templar looked irritated but did not make any move to stop her. The Chanter merely let out a small sigh under her breath, and made to follow the young Cousland as she sidled down the passageway.

* * *

OOC Author Note: I wanted to make a reference back to the rose-scene in this chapter! I do think that Alistair would want to try and do things 'properly' with regard to Flora. Although she's pregnant with their child, and they've done pretty much every sexual thing under the sun together; now that the Blight is over and they can relax a little bit, I think he would want to try and _court_ her before he proposes. Or Alistair's interpretation of courtship, lol.

Lol at Flora feeling oddly comfortable within the monastery, because it's ugly and cold (like Herring), and everyone walks around with a scowl on their face (like Herring!)

So Riordan's funeral is tomorrow – it'll be Flora's first proper Andrastian funeral, and I thought it would be nice to contrast it with Cailan's funeral pyre at Ostagar. BUT! Before we get to that… Flora's nocturnal wanderings never go well, do they? And someone with distinctly malevolent intentions has managed to infiltrate the monastery…

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	11. Assassins In The Chantry

Chapter 11: Assassins In The Chantry

Revanloch at night was not wholly different from Revanloch at day. The basalt corridors were still shadowed and cool, the goose-fat candles burning low in their scones. The initiates were asleep in their dormitories, and only the most dedicated of the Maker's servants would rouse themselves to perform the nightly service _._

Flora no longer possessed the ability to visit the Fade at night, but she felt almost as though she were in a dream as she crept down the corridors. It was so quiet that her footsteps seemed deafening against the stone, and the sound of her own breath was amplified. In her wake, Flora could hear Chanter Devotia several paces behind; the disapproval emanating off the Templar in waves.

Flora made her way down one snaking passageway after another, unsure if she was even heading the right way. Despite having a good memory; living in one location for the majority of her life meant that she had not developed an efficient sense of direction. Alistair had done most of the navigating on their travels, and even then they had got lost on more than one occasion.

Finally, after almost ending up in one of the recruit dormitories, Flora stumbled across the main arterial corridor that ran the length of the monastery; a great high-ceilinged hallway from which a dozen smaller passages branched.

At the end of this hallway lay a set of vast double doors, a huge Maker's symbol emblazoned at their pinnacle. The closer she drew, the more Flora slowed; knowing that the monastery's Chantry lay behind those innocuous doors.

 _And in the Chantry-_

Flora swallowed, coming to an abrupt halt beneath a great iron candelabra. The Chanter stopped behind her, letting out another small huff of irritation.

Caught in a net of indecision, Flora shifted from foot to foot, lifting her gaze to the Chantry symbol. The creature gave an impatient nudge against her stomach, and she dropped her fingers to smooth absent-mindedly over the fraying wool of her jumper. She was so preoccupied with her thoughts, that she barely noticed the flicker of movement in the shadows near the door.

 _Do you think I should stop dithering and just get on with it?_

 _Fine, then._

Taking a deep breath, Flora reached out and gave one of the vast doors an experimental push. It swung open easily, with a creak that seemed inappropriately loud considering the night's stillness.

The Chantry loomed upwards and outwards before her, stern and stone-wrought; with no sunlight to illuminate the stained glass windows. Dozens of candles blazed away in tall, free-standing candelabras, the eternal flame of Andraste burning away in continual tribute.

"' _Lady of Perpetual Victory, Your praises I sing,'"_ murmured Chanter Devotia, raising her fist to her chest in reverent salute.

Yet Flora's attention was drawn neither to the great statue of Andraste, nor the impressive carved columns that lined the central aisle. Her gaze went straight to the stone plinth at the far end; upon which a familiar figure rested.

For a moment, Flora felt the stone flagstones lurch beneath her, as though she had attempted to stand up in a row boat. She put out a hand to a nearby pew to steady herself; inhaling a gulp of cool, perfumed air.

 _Come on, Flora. That's your senior officer._

 _Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight!_

The journey down the central aisle seemed to take an Age. As she passed each pew, Flora reached out to touch their worn, wooden backs, assuring herself with each step that she was in the waking world, and not the Fade. Riordan's body was not going to contort itself into macabre shapes; it was not going to pose some innocuous question that disguised a demon's trick. It was merely a body; the spirit departed; the soul already dissolved through the Veil.

It had been a fortnight since the Blight was ended, and Flora knew that Riordan would not look as she remembered him. She was _– had been –_ a healer, and understood well how death could change the flesh and form of a body. She and Sten had retrieved Cailan's wind-blasted corpse from the Darkspawn crux at Ostagar, and the king had been months dead by that point.

Yet, to her surprise, Riordan did not seem to be much changed from when she had known him. The senior Warden was clad in the Order's colours of navy and silver, his greying hair swept back beneath his head in a ponytail. His face was still, the cheeks a fraction more hollow; the skin had a slightly waxen quality to it. Flora wondered if there had been a method of preservation applied to the dead Warden, or if a Circle mage had performed some magic of similar effect.

Stepping up beside the plinth, Flora gazed down at her dead officer with a hard lump of sadness in her throat. For a moment, she envisioned Duncan lying there; his tan Rivaini features robbed of their richness.

 _You were never laid out to rest. There was no funeral pyre, no memorial for you._

Not wanting to dwell on what the Darkspawn did with the corpses of the dead, Flora reached out with a tentative finger and touched Riordan's cheek. His skin felt oddly leathery, perhaps as a side-effect of the preservation.

"Thank you," she said out loud, her voice echoing between the stone columns. "I couldn't have killed the Archdemon without you. I hope you're at peace. Thank you for… everything."

Unsure whether she was talking to Riordan or Duncan, Flora leaned forward and pressed her lips to the prostrate man's forehead; its creases smoothed out in death.

"Say hello to my spirits if you see them in the Fade," she whispered, feeling a single throb of longing deep in her gut.

"' _The Veil knows no uncertainty for Her/And She will know no fear of death.'"_

The Chanter spoke quietly, letting a rare touch of sympathy tinge her words. Flora smiled at the Templar, surprised and grateful for the unexpected empathy.

"Sorry to make you walk all this way in the middle of the night," she said, apologetically. "I just wanted to… say goodbye privately. Before the funeral tomorrow."

Devotia inclined her head; it had been no problem.

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed about the large, hollowed chamber. The young lieutenant Rutherford emerged from a small side-chapel, startling when he caught sight of them. Fortunately, this time, there was nothing in his hands that he could drop.

Flora spared one last glance down at Riordan's still, ascetic face, fixing it as best she could in her memory. She knew that tomorrow, the senior Warden's body would be consumed in an Andrastian pyre, his empty shell transmogrified into smoke and black ashes.

"This feels like four – _five_ years ago, when we were at the Circle," Flora said at last into the reverent shadows, flashing a slightly wan smile at the young officer. "Remember when you used to catch me sneaking back from the kitchens at night? Well, I'm still sneaking!"

Cullen nodded silently, trying to avoid Chanter Devotia's violet-eyed glower.

"Sorry," he muttered, casting a curious glance over at Riordan's still body. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just… attending night prayers. I like to say my devotions when there's nobody else around."

"Don't be sorry," Flora countered, stepping carefully down from the raised stone platform. "It was _me_ who disturbed _you."_

The eternal flame smouldered away behind her, bathing both plinth and low steps in shifting, ochre light. Flora had never had much of an opinion on this particular aspect of Chantry tradition before, but now she found herself irrationally glad that Riordan was not lying alone in the darkness.

"I'm going back to my room now," she breathed, apologetic. "I'm sorry for breaking curfew. _Again."_

The young lieutenant made a dismissive gesture, still self-conscious in her presence.

"You're not the only one here for night-prayer, I saw someone else a moment ago. Besides, the Chantry has no jurisdiction over you any more," Cullen replied, with a mild shrug.

"You could break every rule that Revanloch has, and the Knight-Commander could only grumble under his breath."

Chanter Devotia narrowed her eyes, murmuring under her breath in disapproval.

" ' _The Maker smiles not on an errant child/Who recklessly defies His teachings!'"_

"Oh, no!" Flora hastened to reassure both lieutenant and senior Templar, her eyes wide at the thought of such rebellion. "I don't usually break rules. I usually do exactly as I'm told."

 _Except have Leliana accompany me everywhere,_ she realised, with a sudden twinge of guilt.

"I remember."

There was an odd, slightly wistful timbre to the young Templar's voice. "You never caused any trouble for us at the Circle. Just for your instructors."

Cullen had lost count of the number of times he had stumbled across the adolescent Flora while patrolling a corridor; scrubbing diligently at the flagstones with a damp cloth, or sneezing as she disturbed a month's worth of gathered dust with a broom. Well-meaning but both figuratively and magically illiterate, Flora had been expelled from the classroom more often than not.

"Well, it's hard to- " he began, and then something arced its way through the gloom of the Chantry; soft and silent as the swoop of some predatory bird. It only became visible as it caught the light of the Chantry flame, the silvered metal flashing bright and deadly.

Chanter Devotia - whose dour-faced piety hid a lethality unrivalled by any other Templar in the Order - withdrew her blade with a joyful singing of metal, whipping it up to deflect the thrown blade. Sword collided with knife, knocking its smaller counterpart from the air with a clash of metal that echoed around the standing pillars.

The blade fell to the floor, and there followed a moment of incredulous silence. Flora blinked at the knife as it lay on the flagstones, the silvered point coated with some sort of oily residue. It had all happened so quickly that she had not had time to duck, or even to flinch; had merely stood, gaping inanely, as death flew through the air towards her. For the first time in Flora's life, the spirits had not been able to summon a gleaming barrier in her defence.

"Wait, was that meant for _me?"_ she asked, more confused than frightened.

Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed from the gloom-shrouded columns that lined either side of the main aisle.

"Lieutenant, guard her!" snapped Chanter Devotia, the urgency of the situation overriding her adherence to the Chant. "Find some cover!"

Cullen gave a tight nod, reaching out to grab Flora's hand and pulling her without ceremony behind Riordan's plinth.

"Get down," he hissed at her, the usual shy deference replaced with a vein of command. "Stay behind me."

Flora, still in mild shock, slithered down to sit on the tiles with her back against the plinth. It was far from comfortable, but she barely registered the cold seeping through the thin linen of her nightgown.

 _Did someone just try and kill me?_

For the second time in her life – the first being when she had been Howe's prisoner, with the magic-blocking collar around her neck – Flora felt horribly vulnerable. She cringed back against the stone, staring up at the young Templar officer as he stood before her with sword drawn.

 _I can't defend us. I can't protect you. I'm useless!_

For several moments, Flora folded her arms across her stomach, shielding the child resting in her belly with her own flesh and bone. On the one hand, she was used to being the prey of would-be assassins – thanks to Rendon Howe, she had become accustomed to having a target on her back – yet now she had the little creature to think of, and her own new vulnerability.

 _On the other hand, I'm still a Herring girl._

It was not an easy task to search the shadowed Chantry for interlopers – candles made little headway against the shroud of night, and the rows of parallel pews provided plenty of hiding places for a would-be assassin. Chanter Devotia, sword drawn, made her way down the central aisle; methodologically checking each potential refuge. Despite the full armour, her movements were as stealthy as Leliana's – a metal-clad predator, stalking between the pews in absolute, held-breath silence.

" _Come out, you fish-bellied coward!"_ came a sudden bellow from behind her, and the Templar's jaw dropped in consternation.

" _If you've got a problem with me, say it to my FACE!"_ continued Flora, unsuccessfully grappled by a bug-eyed Cullen who was clearly reluctant to expend too much force in restraining her.

Managing to escape the young lieutenant, she scuttled around the plinth and spun her head from left to right; squinting into the shadows.

"Come out, come out and take me!" she demanded, the full northern patois of her voice echoing to the vaulted ceiling. "I'm _not scared of you! I killed a dragon!"_

"My la – _Flora –_ please come back," Cullen begged, not wanting to pull too hard at her elbow. "Get behind some cover."

"I'm not going to _hide!"_ the child of Herring retorted, following in Chanter Devotia's footsteps as the female officer put a despairing hand to her head. "I want to find this bottom feeder and _kick their head in!"_

Taking a deep lungful of air, she tilted her head towards the lofty ceiling.

"Come OUU-"

Her boot made contact with an object that scraped along the flagstones, and Flora abruptly cut off her own outraged bellow. Looking down, she spotted something small and round that glinted dully in the candlelight.

With a soft grunt of effort, she stretched her fingers down and retrieved the flat object, which appeared to be a metal token of some sort. The side facing her was blank, but she could feel an etched pattern pressing against her palm.

Turning the token over, Flora focused on the crudely carved symbol; her stomach lurching as she recognised the all-too-familiar bear.

 _Howe. How?!_

"Can ghosts throw daggers?" she asked to nobody in particular, feeling icy fingers of dread creeping up her spine.

Just then, the main doors went crashing open and a contingent of Templars burst in; swords drawn and shields up. The Knight-Commander was at their head, a raised torch casting dizzying patterns of light over the flagstones.

"What in the Maker's name- ?!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Flora is still in the habit of talking to her spirits, even though she's never going to get any reply back! She also doesn't yet understand how vulnerable she is now – hence the recklessness displayed in this chapter. Flora's foolhardiness is one of her biggest flaws, and she's been able to get away with it because her spirits have always had her back… but not anymore! Can you just imagine Cullen trying to drag her (except not DRAG her, because she's nearly five and a half months pregnant) behind cover, while Flora bellows obscenities like a true Herring girl?

I really didn't want this sequel to just be a happy-go-lucky "Alistair and Flora get MARRIED AND HAVE BABY AAAH SO CUTE HAPPILY EVER AFTER" story – I think that would be a bit naff! Hopefully that became obvious when I sent Flora off into confinement at the monastery right from the beginning – and now, it's clear that their problems aren't over! It's not going to be easy ride!

So, someone from the Howe family wants to take their revenge on Flora – after all, she did blow up Rendon Howe's head, lol – but who could it be? There are three possible candidates: Nathaniel, Delilah and youngest sibling, Thomas.

Thank you for reading! Next update on Tuesday or Wednesday!


	12. The Wrath Of A King

Chapter 12: The Wrath Of A King

Some time later, a sulking Flora sat in the Knight-Commander's office, half-listening to him rant, but mostly watching a sly mouse skulk along the base of the far wall.

The Templar – incongruously clad in night linens - had spent the past hour pacing the length of his office; the relentless back and forth was dizzying to watch. He was fluctuating between disbelief at such a violation in security, remorse that it should have happened within his own facilities, and barely disguised trepidation about what the king's reaction might be. The entire monastery was in the process of being searched from top to bottom; from the depths of the underground cellars to the rookery in the crumbling northern tower. A raven had already been sent up to Denerim Castle, containing brief details of what had transpired.

 _There was an attempt on the lady Cousland's life. She is unharmed; the assassin has not yet been located._

Chanter Devotia, who had returned to her usual tight-lipped taciturn state, had brought Lieutenant Rutherford with her into the office. Cullen recanted the events that had transpired in the Chantry, first to a grim-faced Knight-Commander, and then once again to a scowling Gannorn and a horrified Leliana. The bard proceeded to berate Flora for a solid twenty minutes; finally threatening to handcuff the young Cousland's wrist to her own as they slept.

This lecture was the cause of Flora's sulk: she was used to being told off, but in this case, she did not feel as though she entirely _deserved_ it.

"I just wanted to see Riordan," she muttered as the bard took a deep gulp of air. "Didn't do nothing wrong."

Leliana shot her an incredulous look, then imitated Flora's northerner's tongue with remarkable skill.

"' _Come out you fish-bellied coward! Come out and face me... to my face!'"_

Flora shot a slightly resentful glower towards Lieutenant Rutherford, whom she felt had been a little _too_ detailed in his recanting of events.

" _Ma petite,_ you have no shield!"

"I know."

"You are _vulnerable._ To say nothing of the child!"

"I know!"

Flora slunk down a little further in her seat, realising that she had indeed been in the wrong in this particular instance.

 _I can't be so reckless. I have no way to defend myself. Or Baby._

Just then, there came a minor commotion from the corridor. The Knight-Commander's head shot up in alarm and he had just enough time to brace himself behind the desk.

Moments later, the door crashed back against the stone and the king of Ferelden erupted into the chamber; incandescent with rage and fright in a way that Flora had never before seen. In what seemed like seconds, the room was full – Eamon was there in hastily donned clothing, as were both Finian and Teagan. Zevran slid in like a shadow in their wake, his expression dark and utterly humourless.

The Knight-Commander's chamber suddenly seemed very small, especially with Alistair's anger billowing outwards like some expanding volcanic mass. He swept his gaze across the chamber, fever-bright eyes settling immediately on his pregnant mistress as she sat glumly on a side-bench, legs sticking out before her and the hem of her jumper fraying.

In a heartbeat the new king was crouching before her, a greyish tinge beneath the furious crimson patches on his cheeks. Fingers came up to clutch at Flora's elbows, his frantic stare probing her own solemn expression.

"Flora," he breathed, a rasp to the edge of the word. "Are you alright, my love?"

She nodded, hoping fervently that nobody would inform Alistair of _come out you fish bellied coward, come and face me to my face!_

"And the child?"

Instead of a verbal reply, Flora took his hand and pushed the heel of his palm into her belly, letting him feel the little creature shifting against the confines of it's temporary home.

Alistair closed his eyes, exhaling in exhausted relief. Leaning forward, he pressed a hard and grateful kiss to her mouth; the mask of anger dropping once more over his features as he rose to his feet and turned towards the Knight-Commander.

"Ser, I entrusted you with the mother of my child," he began, his voice dangerously low. "The most _precious_ thing in the world to me. And – believe it or not - I thought that Flo would be safe in a building _filled with soldiers_. Care to explain what happened?"

"Aye," added Eamon, equally grim. "There seems to have been a serious lapse in your security. I thought that all entrances were guarded?"

As arl, king and bann continued to loudly interrogate the sweating Knight-Commander, Zevran took a seat on one side of Flora, while Finian lowered himself to the bench on her other flank.

"Thank the Maker that you're alright, Flossie," breathed Flora's brother, smoothing down a strand of russet hair with trembling fingers. "Fergus has gone back up north to check on Highever. If he was here, he'd be tearing this hideous building apart _brick by brick_ to find this deviant."

Flora gazed up at her former brother-warden, who was clearly building up towards some great Marician outburst of wrath as he towered over the Knight-Commander. Alistair was visibly struggling to restrain himself, fists clenched at his sides and colour flooding the back of his neck. A vein throbbed in his temple, pulsing hard and visible.

"It's a _disgrace,"_ he was snarling, letting the full force of his rage wash over the three Templars. "An absolute fucking _disgrace._ What kind of – _incompetent idiots_ are you training here?"

To Flora's dismay, Finian now rose to his feet and joined in the angry interrogation, determined not to let little sister down in elder brother's absence. Flora's eyebrows shot to the ceiling and she leaned back against the stone wall, wishing fervently that she had just stayed in bed.

 _Would they have just come for me when I was sleeping, then? That's no better._

" _Mi sirenita."_

She glanced to where Zevran perched on the bench beside her, his usually lithe and sprawling frame suffused with tension. There was none of the customary relaxed ease about his face; no playful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Instead, the elf's expression seemed fixed and grim as a death mask, the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes made deeper by such steely rigidity.

He spotted her looking and made a contorted effort that was supposed to be a smile. Reaching up, he touched her cheek gently with a deft, tan thumb; tracing the outline of the delicate bone.

"Are you well, _mi lirio Rialto?"_

She nodded gloomily, Herring stoicism rising to the fore even during these dire circumstances. Zevran let out a little exhalation under his breath, reaching for her fingers and giving them a squeeze.

"Is there any indication as to who could be behind this?" Teagan demanded, in an effort to channel the king's anger along more productive lines. "I'm just at a loss to suggest _who_ would want Flora dead. The people adore her; she's just ended the Fifth Blight, for Maker's sake!"

This, at least, she _could_ answer. Flora stretched out her hand into the room, showing the flat metal token in her palm. Alistair strode over, taking the coin and squinting at the symbol etched on the copper surface.

The moment that his eyes fell on the crudely-carved bear, his skin diffused into a mottled patchwork of grey and pink; lips drawing back over his teeth like a guard-Mabari spotting an intruder.

" _Howe?"_

Although Flora had had the same incredulous reaction within the Chantry, hearing somebody else say the name out loud made the situation seem grievously real. Her throat constricted, and for a moment she could almost feel the anti-magic collar tight around her neck.

"But… but Howe is dead," Alistair continued, in tones of throaty disbelief. _"Months_ ago."

"He has three grown children," Teagan murmured, his expression grim. "The eldest hasn't been in Ferelden for years – I believe he's in the Marches, squiring for one of the lords there. There's a sister, who's up in Amaranthine. And- "

"The lad, the one about Florence's age," finished Eamon, grimly. "He slipped the guard and vanished a month ago. Thought he was fleeing the Blight."

There was a heavy silence, and Alistair clenched the coin so tightly in his fist that it dug red marks into his skin.

"Well, I did kill their dad," Flora offered, in a small voice. "I'm not surprised they want to… to kill me."

She grimaced, recalling the feeling of Howe's hands on her waist; his livery lips on hers; the taste of his brains in her mouth after she'd broken his skull into pieces.

"It's _hardly_ the same!" Finian's voice rose in indignation, his remaining eye widening. "Howe betrayed our family and had our parents murdered in cold blood. He kidnapped you, Floss; he was going to _Tranquilise_ you and flaunt you as some sort of… twisted trophy bride!"

Flora flinched; the memory of being instructed to wash Howe's wrinkled back somehow worse than the one where she had shattered his head with her expanding shield.

Alistair exhaled unsteadily, the rage subsiding quickly to a raw, sour-edged fear. He crossed to where Flora was sitting on the bench and knelt before her, touching the side of her face as though to confirm yet again that she was whole and unharmed.

"Flora, I couldn't cope if anything happened to you," he said, bleak and matter-of-fact. "I'd go mad."

Flora lifted her hand to rest her palm against his, unsure what to say in response to this hopeless prediction.

Meanwhile, Zevran had wandered across to where the knife lay on a Chantry plate; the crudely hewn blade incongruous against the gleaming silver. He ducked his head to sniff at the clear liquid coating the dagger point, then dabbed at it with the very tip of his finger. Touching the end of his tongue to the poison, the elf squinted in concentration; mentally running through his catalogue of toxins.

"This is not the concoction of a _skilled_ assassin," he said at last, drawing the attention of the others in the room. "Everything about this attempt seems clumsy and amateurish. The blade is _blunt,_ for a start."

"I agree," Leliana chimed in immediately, her pale blue eyes meeting his own. "Besides, I doubt that any assassins' guild would take a contract on the _Hero of Ferelden._ No amount of gold would be worth the backlash."

Zevran gave a slight nod, sliding the blade into a discrete pocket within his tunic. There was none of the usual humour within his tone as he spoke, his coal-black irises seeking out Alistair's own with steady purpose.

"Alistair, I will make some enquiries," he murmured, softly. "I have eyes and ears beyond the city walls; and my hand can delve into farther and darker places than even the reach of a king."

Alistair inhaled, gratitude breaking through the storm clouds massing across his face.

"You'll find out who did this?"

The elf inclined his head in assent, as the rest of the room fell silent.

"I will find them, _amor,_ and when I find them, I shall endeavour to restrain myself. I imagine that you would want to enact your own punishment upon such a villain."

"Well, they're a traitor," Alistair replied, without pause. "Any crime against Flora is a crime against Ferelden itself. They'll get a traitor's death."

A grateful Finian reached out to touch the elf's sleeve as he passed; Zevran let long, deft fingers drift over his former lover's knuckles.

Flora, who was not happy at this new turn that the evening had taken, gazed at her Crow with solemn-faced disapproval. The corners of Zevran's mouth turned upwards, and he caught her hand to kiss her curling fingers.

"Why are you pouting, _mi reina?"_

She frowned; she could not quite articulate why she was afraid. The elf read the anxiousness writ plain across her fine-boned face, and leaned down to press his tattooed cheek to hers.

"Be careful," Flora said gravely, as the elf smiled ruefully to himself. "And… thank you."

"No need to thank me, _carina._ I cannot have _knives_ being flung at _mi sirenita,_ hm?"

Returning upright, Zevran swivelled his dark gaze across to where Alistair hovered.

"I'll send some enquiries off now with the ravens," he murmured, soft and reassuring. "And see you before I leave on the morrow."

"Thank you, Zev."

Once Zevran had gone, Alistair turned back to the Knight-Commander; his expression steely.

"I don't see why I shouldn't take her back up to the palace now," he said, blunt as a neglectful headman's ax. "The Divine has already confirmed Flo's status, which will be good enough for the Landsmeet. Half of the banns have already asked me why she's not back yet."

"Alistair, think a moment," murmured Eamon, low and thoughtful. "Denerim Castle is far larger. It's more public. There are nearly a thousand people passing in and out of its gates daily."

"Arl Eamon is right," added Leliana, quietly. "The monastery is still more secure. Easier to guard."

Alistair ground his teeth together, the green flecks in his hazel eyes standing out stark in the light from the hearth. He lowered himself to the bench beside Flora, taking the spot recently vacated by Zevran.

"Then… then I want the number of Royal Guard posted here doubled," he said, the fear congealing sourly in his stomach. "The number of patrols to increase. I want extra guards outside her room at night."

"I'd stay, but I can't wield a blade," Finian interjected, with a grimace of frustration. "My coordination is still poor. If only Fergus were here- "

"Alistair, I'm happy to relocate my own sleeping quarters down here," Teagan interrupted, softly. "I'll need to be in the city during the day, but the journey isn't long."

Alistair's face brightened immediate, his gaze swivelling across to the younger of the Guerrin brothers.

"You'd do that, uncle?"

Teagan gave a brief nod, a wry smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"Thanks to your sister-warden, my brother's and my nephew's lives have been saved; and not only Redcliffe, but the _whole of Ferelden_ preserved. I could spend the rest of my life repaying a debt like that."

 _Not all of Ferelden was preserved,_ Flora thought as she blinked thoughtfully back at the bann. _Not Lothering. Not South Reach_

Alistair rose to his feet to thank his uncle, his gratitude effusive. To a sweating Knight-Commander's relief, the king seemed somewhat placated by these new arrangements.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Alistair is not a happy bunny, lol! Although it's good that he doesn't blame Flora for wandering around at night – he recognises that she's perfectly entitled to wander around wherever she likes, and it's the responsibility of those running the monastery to keep her safe.

Flora referring to the child as Baby is a slight step up from _little creature,_ haha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	13. On The Hunt

Chapter 13: On The Hunt

Since Riordan's funeral was scheduled for the next morning – and dawn was only a few hours away – it was decided that Alistair and his contingent would stay the rest of the night at Revanloch.

Safely relocated in the guest quarters, Flora sat up against the pillows and gazed around in mild amusement at the new sleeping arrangements. Chanter Devotia lay snoring on the pallet beside the door, while the Knight-Captain glowered into the shadows from nearby. Gannorn had not stopped frowning since the debacle in the chapel; he had _deeply_ disapproved of Flora's nocturnal wanderings.

Teagan was making himself comfortable on a pallet before the hearth. Unlike his older brother, who was accustomed to the luxuries afforded to his status; the bann was well-used to sleeping in more humble circumstances. During the defence of Redcliffe, he had spent a week sleeping on the unforgiving surface of a Chantry pew.

"This is like being back in a Circle dormitory," Flora said into the shadows, sneezing as she caught scent of one of Leliana's more pungent unguent creams. "At Kinloch, there were six of us to a room."

"Maker's Breath, Lel," Alistair muttered, stripping down to shirt and smalls without ceremony beside the bed. "What's that stuff you're putting on your face? It smells like what I use to clean my sword."

The bard sniffed, replacing the lid on the small pot and placing it delicately on the side-table.

"Well, excuse _me_ if I don't want the stresses of the Blight to leave permanent indentations on my forehead," Leliana retorted, clambering into bed beside Flora and pulling the coverlets up to her chin. "You'll regret not following my skincare regime, Alistair, when you look forty years old by next Satinalia."

"Good," replied Alistair frankly as he lifted an arm for his former sister-warden. "I need to look older. Did you see this beard growing in, Lo?"

"Mm," Flora replied, grateful for the solid muscle of her best friend's chest against her back. "I like it."

Alistair kissed the top of her head, wishing for a single, fervent moment that he could stay curled up in bed with Flora for the next three and a half weeks.

"I can't be the _only_ man on the Royal Council without facial hair."

Down on the floorboards, Teagan eventually managed to find a relatively comfortable position. Leaning over on one elbow, he paused before blowing out the candle; a rueful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Alistair, this is only going to fuel _more_ tavern songs about you. In bed with two beautiful redheads?"

Alistair's ensuing flush was hidden by the shadows, while Flora sat up and made wide eyes towards Teagan. The bann let out a soft, quickly muffled bark of laughter, reaching for a nearby tankard.

"Sorry, poppet. I thought you'd gone to sleep."

Flora slid back down into Alistair's arms, tucking her head beneath his chin. His fingers felt warm and rough against her own; the calloused skin a legacy of years grasping a sword hilt. He moved his other hand beneath the blankets, edging his fingers underneath her Theirin-crested nightshirt.

For a moment, Flora wondered at his boldness – _surely he wouldn't attempt anything with Leliana beside them, two Templars at the door and his uncle on a bedroll by the hearth?_ and then his palm slid around her belly, cupping the firm mound of flesh. With gentle, wondering fingers, he explored the shape of the child that they had inadvertently made together; his breath warm against the back of her neck.

Flora settled back into the circle of his arms, grimly resolving that she would be less reckless in the future.

 _It's Alistair's baby too. I have to look after it._

Meanwhile, Alistair was breathing unsteadily, clutching his lover beneath the blankets as a myriad of increasingly terrible scenarios ran through his head. First, he pictured the assassin's blade plunging into Flora's heart as she lifted helpless fingers to her ravaged breast. Then he pictured a pair of gloved hands emerging from the shadows, only to slip a garrotte silently around her slender throat.

 _An arrow fired from the ramparts as she went on one of her nocturnal wanderings._

 _Poison secreted into her flask; no way to neutralise it._

Terror gripped Ferelden's king and he drew Flora even closer; a soft groan sliding from between his lips. He wound his fingers in her nightshirt, in the thick tangles of her hair, anchoring his sister-warden to his side.

Curious, she twisted her head to gaze up at him, her pale eyes reflecting the dim embers in the hearth. Alistair leaned forward and put his mouth to Flora's ear, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs.

"I wish we could just leave," he whispered, directing his words away from where Leliana lay snoring on Flora's other side.

"Leave? Leave where?" Flora's reply was interspersed with a yawn.

" _Anywhere._ Somewhere where you'd be safe. It's _my_ fault that we have to stay here; this blasted crown."

Flora pushed herself up on a sleepy elbow and pressed her lips to his cheek, hoping to lend her brother-warden some reassurance.

"We're not going anywhere," she whispered back, sternly. "We don't run from _Howes_ , Alistair."

Alistair gritted his teeth; he would have praised such bravado if it had come from anybody other than his pregnant and utterly defenceless mistress.

"But I want to keep you safe," he said forlornly, aware that Leliana was probably listening to every word. "Even the thought of you being hurt – of being in _pain_ – it kills me, Lo."

"Well, _don't_ think about it then," Flora replied, with Herring practicality. "I have a lot of people around me who won't let me get hurt. Like Leliana."

"That's if you actually bother waking me _up_ before you go on these little night-time wanderings," hissed the bard, shooting Flora a malevolent look through the darkness. "Ensure that you do so next time, _ma petite!"_

The next morning dawned grey and drizzly, dampness hanging over Revanloch monastery like a shroud. It seemed fitting weather for a funeral; the sky an insipid grey and veiled in clouds. The sun itself refused to show its face, as though aware that the mortal remains of Ferelden's last senior Grey Warden were being sent to the Maker that evening.

In light of the previous night's broach of security, the Knight-Commander had posted more Templar soldiers to each entrance and exit; as well as increasing the frequency of patrols. This only heightened the similarity of Revanloch to a _particularly_ ugly prison; the rampart walls seeming all the higher for the armoured men atop them.

Zevran took his leave from king and Cousland beneath the lofty stone archway that marked the main entrance into Revanloch. Chilly rivulets dripped from the damp Chantry banners hanging overhead; puddles expanding beneath the boots of the grim-faced Templars posted at each gatepost.

The elf hated the rain – especially the cold and misty Ferelden drizzle, so unlike the humid showers he was accustomed to in Antiva. There was no shelter to be found beneath the archway; the stone was so old and crumbling that rainwater dribbled through regardless.

Flora, a northerner who barely noticed the rain, was standing anxiously in the middle of a puddle. Alistair was at her side, the water-soaked fur collar of his tunic plastered unpleasantly to the back of his neck.

"And you'll send word the moment that you find anything?" he clarified, hazel eyes fixed earnestly on Zevran's own ink-dark stare. "Even the most minor clue. I want to know which Howesent this assassin, and where I can find them."

"Naturally, _mi rey,"_ murmured the former Crow, shooting a malevolent look up at the rain-sodden sky. "I do not expect it to be an overly difficult task. Are you sure you would not prefer a head sent to you in a box?"

Alistair appeared to consider the possibility for a moment, before gritting his teeth and replying in the negative.

"No," he said, reluctantly. "I want to question this whoreson myself. Make an example of him. String him up from the palace wall by the bollocks, ideally."

Flora glanced sideways at her kind-hearted brother-warden; who occasionally displayed the ruthless streak that manifested in all Theirins. At times like this, the vein of Marician brutality was laid bare, sharp and silvered, beneath the gentle chivalry of his outer demeanour.

"Zevran," she said, returning her attention to the elf. "Please, be careful. I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

Zevran almost laughed out loud at the thought of suffering injury from an assassin who could not even hit a defenceless and motionless target. Catching sight of Flora's solemn, anxious expression; he suppressed the smile before it could pull at the corners of his mouth.

"I promise I will be _exceptionally_ careful, _mi reina_ ," he replied, with a gravity to match hers.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to!"

This amused the elf, a soft, throaty-edged bark of laughter escaping his throat as he injected deliberate casualness into his response.

"Ah, but I must continue to make myself _useful_ to you, _eh, mi sirenita?_ Otherwise, you may decide that I am no longer worthy of association."

The brilliance of the smile that followed - dazzling white teeth set against rich tan skin – was an attempt to disguise the melancholic timbre of the elf's words. It took Flora several moments to comprehend Zevran's meaning; but when she eventually did, her eyes widened in bemusement.

"' _Useful to me'?"_ she repeated, slightly, incredulous. "You're my friend. You don't need to be _useful._ You could sit around like a _jellyfish_ all day, and I'd be grateful for your company."

Zevran looked at her for a long moment, something heated and indecipherable in his dark stare. There was a slight gleam to the rich mahogany of his iris that he quickly hid with another charming grin; extending his arms as a distraction.

"Here, _nena,"_ he declared, brightness in his voice to disguise a tremor of emotion that only the likes of Leliana would have been able to perceive. "Unlike your brother-warden, you are not yet so intimidating that I am afraid to embrace you."

Flora let him fold her against his chest, the elf standing just tall enough to rest his chin atop her head. She gripped his leathers, the material fitted too tight to his skin for her fingers to gain much purchase. She felt Zevran exhale, slightly unsteadily, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head.

"I promise you, I will find out who did this," he murmured into Flora's ear, lips brushing her hair. "I've buried two people close to my heart already; I won't do it again."

Unbeknownst to Flora, the elf's eyes had lifted to Alistair, who was standing patiently to one side. A silent bolt of mutual understanding passed between them; two very different men united in perfect accord.

 _I'll find the Howe that did this._

 _And I'll keep her safe._

Accompanied by the expected pat on the rump, Zevran gave Flora a peck on the cheek and released her, the laughing brightness settled back over his face once more.

"Alright, _mi amors,_ I will send news very soon. _Mi_ _florita,_ take care of yourself, hm? And I hope, Alistair, that you can find a few quiet moments together in a dark cupboard or lonely pew. _Te veo luego, queridos."_

A flush rose beneath Alistair's olive cheeks as Flora smiled, slightly vaguely, unsure what the elf was alluding to. As Zevran swung himself swiftly onto the saddle, she was distracted by an odd sense of melancholy that pulled at her heart.

This strange wistfulness congealed into a more tangible dejection as the elf steered the horse's head towards the coastal track that led back towards the city. It was more identifiable in this solid state, and Flora subsequently swallowed the lump that rose in her throat.

"All our friends are going to leave, aren't they?" she said quietly, watching horse and rider shrink as they rode into the distance. "They all have their own lives to live. Wynne might go back to the Circle. Morrigan to the Wilds. I'm sure Leliana has got plans for her future, once she's finishing babysitting me."

Alistair gave a nod, injecting cheeriness into his reply.

"I can't wait to exchange letters with Morrigan. I bet she'll be an avid correspondent!"

Flora made no reply, dropping her gaze glumly to her boots. Alistair glanced at her for a moment, then slung his arm around her shoulders and drew her to his side.

"I'm sure that they'll be back to visit, my love. Once you've gone through something like the Fifth Blight together, well – those bonds are not easily broken."

He planted a kiss on top of her head, and she pressed her cheek to his arm, grateful for the reassurance.

"Besides, I'm not going anywhere; I'm stuck in Denerim. It should be _me_ worried about _you_ leaving!"

Flora turned an appalled face on him, grey eyes even wider in her indignation.

"Where would I go, without you?" she demanded, mildly incredulous.

A beaming Alistair gathered Flora up in his arms, intending to ignore the frowning presence of Chanter Devotia and Knight-Captain Gannorn and kiss his best friend until the last scrap of air had been stolen from her lungs.

For several moments, the king embraced his mistress beneath the stone archway; the crumbling edifice of Revanloch rising up around them as the gulls shrieked and wheeled in the air overhead. The drizzle continued unabated, a cloud-shrouded sky casting Ferelden in muted tones of ash and stone. In the distance, the city of Denerim could just be glimpsed clinging to the clifftops; the Royal Palace perched on its high, supervisory ridge.

Flora smiled up at her brother-warden, her mouth tender and flushed after his ardent attention. Alistair reached down to touch the side of her face, inexplicably fixated on the dimple that creased her cheek. He was about to duck his head to kiss her again, when the sound of approaching hoofbeats drew his attention.

The Royal Guard stationed at the gate posts stiffened, the keener-eyed soldiers spotting the glint of armour and weaponry. There were a group of five or six riders – mostly men, save for two – heading towards the monastery; sporting no discernible banner to declare their allegiance.

Flora, who had slightly better eyesight than Alistair, squinted at the garb of the soldiers sat astride the saddles, her brow furrowing.

"Alistair," she said, slowly. "Is that… are they wearing…?"

As the mounted party drew nearer, Alistair inhaled a sharp intake of breath; his own hazel eyes widening as he took in the navy and silver striped tunics.

"Maker's Breath," the king said, astounded. "Is it – are they _Grey Wardens?"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Orlais Wardens here to party! Where were you two weeks ago when the Darkspawn horde were marching on the city?! Lol. I imagine they're going to have a loooot of questions! But yes, they've arrived to attend Riordan's funeral. We're going to meet their Commander, and Clarel, and the Orlesian Warden Origin who's going to take over the Ferelden Wardens – since both Alistair and Flora aren't technically Wardens any longer.

I imagine that Zevran always would try and make himself useful to a Warden and companions… since he was brought up to always be valuable/serve a purpose. I think he's probably not used to someone wanting his company!

OK so the most hideous prospect ever: a WORK CAMPING TRIP. I don't know whose idea this was (someone who doesn't actually have to go?) so next update will be on Sunday, if I survive… I am very much a CITY girl… I DO NOT DO TENTS. OMFG.


	14. The Grey Wardens Of Orlais

Chapter 14: The Grey Wardens Of Orlais

For the best part of a year, Flora and Alistair had known themselves to be the last Wardens in Ferelden. Even when Riordan had joined them in Denerim; it had still just been the three of them pitted against the swelling mass of the Darkspawn hordes. Although Flora had known that there were Grey Wardens _outside_ Ferelden, she had not quite been able to comprehend their existence.

Now they stood together beneath the crumbling entrance to Revanloch with the sea-gulls wheeling and shrieking above them; watching the soldiers dressed in silver and blue ride ever closer on the cliff-top road.

The Royal Guard, who had gripped their pikes in readiness at the approach of an armed party, glanced sideways at their king; waiting for his instruction. Stunned into silence, Alistair made a quick gesture for them to stand down.

The riders came to a halt, their weary horses bearing the signs of a long journey. The deferential Chantry stable boys came scuttling out to take the reins; sneaking glances at the silver griffon emblazoned on the soldiers' breastplates.

Their leader, a man in his forties with tousled tawny hair and sharp, whisky-brown eyes, dismounted with a grunt onto the gravel. Despite the fine lines of age cobwebbing the corners of his mouth, the man moved with a militaristic precision. Beside him, a sinewy, strong woman with greying hair cropped close to her skull dropped to the ground, calling out something in an unfamiliar tongue to her companions.

Flora felt Alistair stiffen reflexively beside her, drawing himself up to his full six foot and several inches in height. The Royal Guard stationed at the gates of Revanloch came to flank the king, their eyes keen as blades behind their closed-face helmets.

"They're Orlesian," Alistair murmured, watching as the stable boys led the horses away. "That's a Val Royeaux accent."

Flora gazed at the strangers, thoughtfully. She had only ever met two Orlesians – their companion Leliana, whom Flora adored without reservation, and Arl Eamon's highly-strung wife Isolde, whom Flora was mildly terrified of.

The other Wardens seemed to defer to the man with tousled golden hair, the fine lines trellised across his face a contrast to the raw power of his muscular body. The commander strode forward, coming to a pause just before Revanloch's crumbling entrance. The Royal Guard tightened their grips on their pikes; inching a fraction closer.

"Your Majesty," the Orlesian declared in mellifluous tones, inclining his head in courteous acknowledgement of Alistair's golden band. "I am Yvon Cuvillier, Warden-Commander of Orlais. This is my lieutenant, Clarel de Chanson."

He gestured to the lean woman at his side, who bowed her shaven head with an easy confidence.

Alistair returned the greeting neutrally, his instinct to welcome fellow Wardens tempered by his position as political leader of a rival nation. Flora, meanwhile, was oscillating between delight and disbelief; still not quite able to comprehend that other Wardens even existed.

 _Where were you three weeks ago?!_ she wanted to demand, biting her lip to stop herself from blurting the question out. _When the Darkspawn were swarming the city walls?_

Yvon glanced from Alistair to Flora, and it was clear that he had no idea who she was. His gaze returned to the king, and he cleared his throat.

"Your Majesty," the commander said, clearly accustomed to speaking with royalty. "May we first congratulate Ferelden on the defeat of the Fifth Blight? If your borders had not been sealed, Orlais would have been quick to offer assistance."

Flora thought privately that they _could_ have come anyway; after all, had Riordan not managed to infiltrate the country? The next moment, she realised that the senior warden had been captured after mere days by Rendon Howe, and had subsequently spent months in captivity.

Alistair inclined his head with a grunt, his nostrils flaring in displeasure at their failure to acknowledge Flora's presence.

"We received a letter from our brother, Riordan, who perished during the efforts to defeat the Archdemon," Yvon continued, earnestly. "We have official business with the lady Florence Cousland, whom we understand stuck the final blow."

If the commander was perplexed as to _how_ exactly the lady Cousland had survived after delivering the death-blow, he hid it well. However, what _was_ apparent was that he had no idea who Flora was. Yvon Cuvillier had looked at her and seen merely a girl in late adolescence - visibly weighed down with child - and proceeded to dismiss her as some mistress of the king.

The drizzle increased in tempo and ferocity; one of the junior Wardens nudged his companion and muttered something about _Ferelden weather._

"Well, no _official business_ is going to be conducted today," replied Alistair, a steely vein running through the words. "The lady Cousland and I will be attending Riordan's funeral, which you're… you're welcome to attend. And I _also_ want to get Flo out of this rain."

There came a clatter as a startled Warden in the rear of the group dropped his sword onto the flagstones. Yvon's tawny eyebrows shot upwards into his hairline as he surveyed Flora.

" _You're_ the lady Cousland?" he asked, the disbelief shot clear through the enquiry.

Flora was already used to such a reaction, and no longer found it insulting. She confirmed her identity with a nod, sensing Alistair shifting from foot to foot beside her. It was clear that he was indignant on her behalf, but taking his cue from her on how to react.

"Mm," the youngest Cousland replied, amiably. "That's me. _Bon-jower._ "

The Orlesian Warden-Commander glanced at his second, Clarel, who looked equally dumbstruck. Alistair let out a small sound of impatience under his breath, and this seemed to break through Yvon's cloud of astonishment.

"Apologies, my lady," the senior Warden replied, forcing some steadiness back into his voice. "It's just – I was not expecting you to be so… so _young._ And – forgive my forwardness – are you _with child?"_

Flora nodded, and the man's tawny eyes widened even further; disbelief writ naked across his face.

"Forgive me," he repeated, struggling to keep the incredulity from infusing his reply. "I have… _many_ questions."

"Which can wait until tomorrow," interjected Alistair, firmly. "I'm sure they've got rooms within the monastery to house you. Come on, my dear; let's get out of the rain."

Flora could feel the eyes of the half-dozen Wardens fixed between her shoulder blades as she let Alistair steer her back towards the monastery. Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia followed several yards in their wake, quiet and watchful.

"They were looking at me like I had three heads," Flora said, feeling rivulets of water from her rain-soaked hair dripping down the back of her neck. "Everyone always looks so _confused_ when they see me. I don't know what they were expecting?"

"Someone ten feet tall," Alistair replied more cheerfully, happier now that they had sought sanctuary from the rain. In truth, Revanloch's interior was almost as damp as its exterior. "Who shoots flames from their eyes, most likely."

Flora blinked, quiet for several moments as she envisioned herself in such a terrifying format.

"I wouldn't have fit in the tent," she said, at last.

"Eh?"

"I wouldn't have fit in the tent if I were ten feet tall," Flora repeated, patiently. "I would have slept with my legs sticking out of the tent flap. You know, when we were travelling around. Creatures of the night would have _chewed on my feet."_

Alistair grinned down at his former sister-warden. Impulsively bending to close the foot between their heights, he pressed an affectionate kiss to the top of her head.

"And we couldn't have had that," he murmured, glancing down appreciatively at Flora's booted knees beneath her tunic. "Not… not when those legs should be wrapped around _me_ instead."

Unfortunately, Alistair's deliberate lowering in tone was not quite muffled enough to avoid detection. Even as Flora cackled at him, they heard a cough of menacing disapproval from behind.

"' _And the magisters did look upon, with lustful eye/That which ought to remain sacred and inviolable,'"_ intoned a stern Chanter Devotia.

Alistair shot a look of mild alarm over his shoulder, eyebrows rising as he took in the Chanter's scowl.

"I have to ask," he said, earnestly. "Are you related to Chantry Mother Philippa, of the Bournshire monastery? Just because she used to glare at me in _exactly the same way_ when I was a recruit there _."_

The Chanter narrowed her eyes, clearly unappreciative of Alistair's flippant retort.

Flora was trying not to laugh - she admired her best friend for his quick wit in such circumstances, since she never could think of anything clever to say – and then her gaze fell on the pair of vast wooden doors that marked the entrance to the monastery chapel. She envisioned Riordan lying alone on his cold slab near the altar, and swallowed a small lump of sadness that rose suddenly to her throat.

Alistair glanced down at his lover, then bowed to press softer, kinder lips against her forehead.

"Right," he murmured, quietly. "Let's get ready."

Death in Herring came frequently enough that it was not especially commemorated. Although – thanks to their resident mender – disease and injury were not a concern; the sea claimed its fair share of souls each season. In addition to the tithe it took from the men of the northern coast, bodies from broken ships often washed up on the Hag's Teeth reef; like some macabre reverse offering.

If the sea did deign to return a body, then there was no question of burning the traditional pyre – driftwood was kept as fuel to stave off the cruel bite of winter. The romantic notion of sending a corpse off to sea in a burning vessel was to be found in legend only; boats were a precious commodity.

Instead, brief prayers would be muttered for the dead within Herring's diminutive, sandy-floored Chantry. A more formal service might occur if there happened to be a visiting Sister present, but this was a rare occasion. Bodies were wrapped in rope to keep their limbs from flailing, then taken unceremoniously out to sea in the bottom of a fisherman's craft. Once they had reached the deep waters beyond the reef, the body would be weighted with rocks and lowered into the Waking Sea. This was far from a Chantry-sanctioned burial, but the grim-faced villagers of Herring had scant time to spare for tradition or sentiment. Flora was therefore unused to the elaborate ritual associated with Chantry funerary tradition.

Up in the chamber, she had been astounded when Leliana had informed her of the necessity of _changing clothing_. The bard had donned a crimson robe, the colour so rich and deep that it almost appeared black against the candlelight; with a sheer black veil worn over the upper part of her face. Her lips, painted scarlet to match her robe, shone rich and lustrous against the plain material.

Flora, who had lived in one threadbare woollen jersey for the majority of her childhood, found the concept of donning _mourning clothes_ a novelty. She had reached for her only piece of dark clothing – a navy tunic edged with olive – and Leliana reached out to stop her.

"It is tradition for women associated with royalty to wear pale colours in mourning," the bard murmured, her expression obscured behind the veil. "Here, _ma petite,_ let me help you into this."

 _This_ turned out to be a robe, to Flora's dismay. It was a dusky shade of silver pink, unapologetically feminine and the antithesis of her usual plain, austere choice of dress.

"Do I _have_ to wear it?" she complained, even when Leliana was drawing the laces closed at the back. "How am I _royalty?"_

"You're Alistair's mistress," Leliana countered, reaching for the hairbrush and working it through the tangled length of Flora's hair. "You're carrying his child. People will have expectations."

Flora sighed, eyeing her reflection dubiously in the warped surface of the mirror. She could just about glimpse the two Templars flanking the door – as usual, they had watched her wash and dress with a detached, cool professionalism.

"Everyone always has expectations of me," she replied, gloomily. "Nonstop, ever since I left the Circle. I'm sure I'm going to do something stupid and let people down."

Leliana let out a _tsk_ of disapproval under her breath, letting Flora's hair hang loose in thick, dark red ropes.

"Have more faith in yourself, _ma crevette,"_ she murmured, retrieving the sheer veil and bracing herself for Flora's vociferous opposition. "Let me put this on, and don't protest."

To Leliana's surprise, the young Cousland was unusually placid, letting the bard anchor the veil to her hair with a myriad of pins. The gossamer-light fabric fell over Flora's face; and Leliana wondered at the lack of protest as she went to retrieve the matching pale slippers.

A moment later, the bard's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she twitched the veil aside.

Flora beamed, a cheese sandwich lodged firmly between her teeth.

"This thing would have been useful," the Cousland replied, her mouth full. "For secret snacking in class at the Circle. I could eat a three course dinner under here."

" _Florence!_ If you get crumbs on your gown… _I despair. Don't touch anything!"_

A short while later, Flora took one look at the pretty, embroidered silk slippers, and flat-out refused to wear them. Leliana, in the face of such mulish obstinacy, decided not to press the issue. Instead, Flora retrieved her own beloved boots; in which she had walked across half of Ferelden without a single blister.

"From the knees up: princess. From the knees down: _peasant,"_ Leliana retorted, glancing quickly at Flora to see how she would respond.

Flora looked supremely un-bothered, unceremoniously hoisting the skirt up around her thighs to tighten her knee-strapping. Leliana groaned, dragging a hand over the sheer veil masking her face.

"Please don't hoick your skirts up like an employee of the Pearl," the bard begged, reaching out to flatten an errant strand of Flora's hair. "You aren't _showing off your wares,_ you're a _lady."_

" _Madame du Poisson!"_ Flora said, remembering the cognomen that Zevran had ascribed to her during their infiltration of Denerim. "Ha!"

" _Oui_ , come on then, Miss Fish."

* * *

OOC Author Note: So Leliana is trying her best to _slooooowly_ make Flora more comfortable with becoming Fereldan royalty, haha! Flora still really, really hates dresses – nobody wore dresses in Herring. So impractical!

Bit of trivia: white was the colour of mourning for Medieval noblewomen and queens.

I made up Yvon Cuvillier, since I don't think Clarel was Commander of the Orlesian Wardens in 9:30 Dragon. I heard she goes a bit crazy in Inquisition?


	15. Farewell To Riordan

Chapter 15: Farewell to Riordan

The strange quartet – bard, lady, and lady's Templar escort – began to make their way through Ravenloch's labyrinthine passages. The guest quarters were located in a separate wing to the main chapel, and just as they reached the gallery between east and west, the bells began to ring overhead.

A flock of sparrows soared from the belfry in alarm as the seven great bells rocked back and forth; emitting the low, sonorous ring of mourning. Their plaintive clamour was taken up by the smaller bell-towers, until the entire monastery seemed to reverberate with metallic dissonance.

Flora was suddenly grateful for the veil over her face, not entirely sure that she would be able to maintain her solemn composure in the hours ahead. She had managed to refrain from dwelling on Riordan's funeral up until that point; deliberately distracting herself with thoughts of assassins and Orlesians, _Madame du Poisson_ and glowering Templars.

Yet now, with the clarion cry of Revanloch's bells ringing about the mouldering corridors, Flora had no choice but to turn her mind to upcoming events. She had never been to a proper Andrastian funeral before, and was not wholly sure what it entailed.

 _The only pyre I've ever attended was that of Cailan. And that wasn't exactly a Royal send-off; it was us huddled around a bonfire built from the broken remains of Ostagar._

 _Afterwards, she and Alistair had lain together for the first time; gritted teeth on a damp bedroll, the ashes of a dead king still caught in their hair._

Now they were parting ways for a final time with Riordan, the senior Warden who had almost come to represent Duncan himself in Flora's mind. She recalled first meeting the Highever native in Rendon Howe's dungeon; where Riordan had been held for six months after crossing the Fereldan border to investigate rumours of a Blight. Despite his weak and half-starved condition, he had offered her words of comfort on that terrible first night; and launched himself in vain at the guards when they had come to deliver her to the Templar's lyrium brand.

 _I'm sorry, Riordan_ she thought to herself guiltily, falling slightly behind Leliana as the bard glided in stately manner down the corridor. _I shouldn't think of you as Duncan. You were a great man in your own right._

Flora bowed her head, gazing at her booted feet as she followed in Leliana's wake. She could hear the Templars several yards behind, their metal-clad footsteps echoing against the flagstones.

Alistair was waiting outside the entrance to the chapel, clad in dark leathers and sporting an uncharacteristically sombre expression. Duncan's sword hung at his side, the silverite length gleaming despite the encompassing gloom.

"Everyone else is inside," he said, his gaze falling on Leliana. "They won't start without us."

The king ducked his head to peer around Leliana's velvet-clad form; eyes widening imperceptibly as he took in Flora standing quiet and miserable on the flagstones.

Striding forward, Alistair lifted the veil to see his former sister-warden's face, pressing a kiss to her lips as her sad grey eyes settled on him.

"You look beautiful, Lo," he murmured, nudging Flora's cheek affectionately with a thumb. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, not quite trusting in herself to give a verbal reply. Alistair's eyes searched her face a moment longer, fingers lingering against her cheek; then he let the veil fall and offered her his arm.

"Ready?"

Although Flora was not quite sure what she was ready _for,_ she gave a nod regardless, tightening her grip around his elbow.

Then two Templars were opening the doors and the great, hollow expanse of the Chantry billowed up before them. It seemed darker than usual; the candles failing to make much headway against the persistent gloom. At the far end, beside the altar and Riordan's plinth, Andraste's flame burned in defiance of the darkness.

As they proceeded down the central aisle, Flora realised the cause of the additional layer of shadow. The stained-glass windows lining the walls had been shrouded with thin grey veils, allowing only a fraction of the weak Fereldan sun to filter through. The purpose was seemingly to focus the audience's attention on the eternally smouldering brazier at the end of the aisle; which cast an inconstant, flickering warmth over the faces of those sitting in the front pews.

There were just over a dozen people in attendance; all of whom rose to their feet at Alistair's entrance. The Orlesian Grey Wardens – headed by the lion-headed Yvon and his second, Clarel – were clad in full silver and blue regalia; expressions solemn as they gazed upon their fallen brother-warden. Both Guerrins were there, clad in muted tones of their family livery. Finian stood at Teagan's side, his remaining eye swivelling anxiously towards his sister. Knight-Commander and Chantry Mother were already standing at either side of the plinth; the former having regained some measure of composure after suffering Alistair's incandescent wrath the previous night. Flora's vision was not impeded by the veil, but she clutched her best friend's arm with increasing tightness as they headed towards the altar.

Riordan's body looked much the same as it had done when Flora had visited him the previous night. Irreparable damage had been done after he had leapt from Fort Drakon's highest tower, sacrificing his life to bring the dragon to the ground; the cobblestones had broken near-every bone in his body. Yet despite the massive internal injury, his face appeared grave and peaceful, greying hair brushed neatly around the stiff collar of his tunic.

Alistair felt his former sister-warden's grip tighten on his arm, and reached up with a hand to provide an additional layer of reassurance. His large palm, strong and calloused, settled securely over Flora's fingers, anchoring them together.

The Royal pew at the front had been left empty in preparation for Ferelden's king and his mistress. Flora glanced to one side as she sat down, noticing Arl Leonas standing in the shadows of a nearby pillar. He nodded softly in greeting and she blinked at him through the veil; unsure whether or not she was allowed to _wave._

The next moment, the arl shifted slightly and Flora caught sight of a short, stocky figure at his side. Her eyes widened as she recognised Oghren, dressed in his best attempt at formal wear. The dwarf's orange hair had been parted in the centre and slicked down, his moustache neatly combed. Sensing Flora's stare, Oghren raised a subtle hand to her, lifting his chin. Flora smiled at him, inexplicably touched by the dwarf's presence.

The Orlesian Warden-Commander bowed his head to acknowledge Flora's arrival; fascination visibly writ across his refined, fine-lined features. Flora knew that he would be confused on no less than _three_ counts: on her survival – she had slain the Archdemon and survived, she had no discernible aura of taint, and she had seemingly defied the Order's curse of underlying infertility.

The Chantry Mother gestured for them all to sit, ascending the low pulpit to begin the service. As she began to intone the opening verses of the Chant, Flora let the familiar words wash over her; stifling a yawn beneath the veil.

 _I wonder if Riordan had a family? Oh, he said that he did, a long time ago. I suppose they aren't around any more, then._

 _I wonder if Duncan had any family?_

 _Stop thinking about Duncan,_ she told herself firmly, missing the chiding reprimand of her spirits. _This is to remember Riordan._

The Chantry Mother began a sermon on how the souls of the faithful were drawn to the Maker's side, like a fisherman pulling in a net. Even this marine reference was not enough to gain Flora's attention; she spared the regally clad priestess a brief glance before musing on Riordan once again.

 _He found the Grey Warden cache in the city. He made Alistair and I look the part; it was the first time we had worn the silver and blue since Ostagar._

 _I think it was the first time that anybody really took me seriously, when I came downstairs in the breastplate and the tunic._

The crowd replied with the expected responses, their voices echoing to the shadowed ceiling. Flora, less accustomed to such a formal service, did not join in – neither, understandably, did Oghren. Despite his unfamiliarity with Chantry tradition, the dwarf was standing stiff and straight-backed, his gaze clear, and unclouded by drink.

Alistair was also only half-listening to the words. He had heard the rites for the dead a dozen times over the past few weeks, while attending the great pyres on the Alamarri plains. His mind was on Duncan; the corners of his mouth turning down as he recalled that his commander still had no marker or memorial to commemorate his passing. Grimly, he resolved to speak to Eamon about the possibility of such after the funeral.

At the prompt of the Chantry Mother, the attendees rose to their feet once again. As she began the opening bars of a hymn, Alistair glanced down at his best friend as she stood dutifully at his side. Although the veil concealed much of Flora's face, he could just see the pale grey eyes and grave turn of the lips; her natural solemnity serving her well in this instance. He saw her mouth opening and closing and knew that she was miming, to spare those around her the trauma of listening to her tuneless voice.

Alistair suddenly felt ashamed of all the times that he, Leliana and Zevran had teased Flora about her singing; even to the point when they had fashioned ear plugs from scraps of cotton. Flora had been genuinely shocked to learn that her voice was so grating – it seemed that the villagers of Herring had never informed her of such.

Ducking his head and pressing his lips to the silk tulle of the veil, Alistair whispered throatily in Flora's ear.

"You can sing too, sweetheart."

"Nobody wants to hear me singing," she whispered back, then smiled briefly up at him. "And I don't know the words."

The king gazed down at her, realising suddenly that he could – _so easily! -_ have been attending Flora's own funeral service, if circumstances had been but a little different. Fear clamped his belly like a vice, and he put an arm around his lover's shoulders, drawing her close to his side and pressing another kiss to her veiled head. Flora reached up and wound her fingers into Alistair's own; as always, ready to anchor herself to him without question.

The hymn came to an end, and those gathered to pay their respects to Riordan sat down once more. Flora fidgeted on the bench, unable to get comfortable on the unforgiving surface of the wooden pew. Her lower back was aching, a sharp muscular pain that dug uncomfortably into the base of her spine. She shifted from one side of her rear to the other, bending forward slightly in a vain attempt to appease the throbbing.

The Orlesian Warden-Commander rose to his feet at the Chantry Mother's encouraging gesture, striding towards the plinth with sombre expression. After gazing at Riordan's still face for a long moment, he turned towards the small gathering and cleared his throat.

"Warden Riordan has answered the highest calling asked of any member of our Order," he said, the words emerging coated in honeyed Orlesian tones. "By giving his life in the fight against the Archdemon, he has guaranteed his place by the Maker's side."

Flora swallowed, suddenly feeling a lodestone of sadness forming in her belly. She was uncertain whether it was due to her own grief over the senior warden's death; or a deliberate prodding of her humours caused by the babe.

 _Stop unbalancing me,_ she thought furiously to her abdomen. _I don't want to cry. I'm already in pain because of you._

"Riordan joined the Wardens of Orlais because he wished to do his duty by Thedas," Warden-Commander Cullivar continued, his voice reverberating over the audience. "He knew that the threat of a Blight overwhelmed any petty division of country border."

"Typical Orlesian, to refer to a border as _petty,"_ Eamon murmured in Teagan's ear, as the younger Guerrin gave a soft grunt of agreement.

Flora let her eyes drift sideways to the other Wardens, still fascinated by their very _existence_. Yvon's lieutenant, Clarel, was sitting as though she were still standing, her spine so rigid that it did not touch the back of the pew. Her hair was cropped so close to her skull that the pink skin showed through, and her face was ablaze with conviction.

The Orlesian Warden-Commander continued to talk, but his accent was so heavy and his voice so formal that Flora was unable to understand half of what he said. Wishing to distract herself from her aching back, she let her gaze meander past Clarel, across to the only other female Warden in the Orlesian company. This woman was some years younger than her counterpart – possibly in her mid-thirties – and very tall, matching Arl Leonas in height. She had a lean, sinewy build and a hawkish face; her features striking rather than conventionally beautiful. Long, dark hair was restrained by a tight, precisely wrapped bun, and an envious Flora wondered as to the secret of such control.

She returned her eyes to Riordan, focusing on his calm, waxen face. It was odd to see him clean-shaven, since the Warden had always had a layer of dark stubble covering his cheeks and jawline.

 _I suppose hair stops growing after you die,_ she thought, wincing slightly as the pressure on her spine increased. _Ow, stop it! That really hurts._

Yvon returned to his seat, head bowed respectfully. Leliana rose to her feet, gliding like a dancer across the flagstones. Her stately passage drew all eyes to her; the bard well-aware of her audience as she slid the veil back to reveal her face.

"This is a centuries-old mourning song," the bard murmured, the Orlesian in her dialect emphasised in the presence of her countrymen. "It was first rumoured to have been sung after the martyrdom of Andraste Herself. Please, stand with me."

The congregation rose to their feet in dutiful response. Flora felt her knee give a twinge of pain; simultaneously, the stone ceiling lurched in a sea-swell of dizziness. She gulped and closed her eyes very tightly, the Andrastian flame a glowing blur behind her eyelids.

When Flora opened them again, the world had righted itself and Leliana had begun to sing. Her sweet, mellifluous voice echoed about the Chantry, rising to the vaulted ceiling and lifting the small hairs on the necks of her audience.

"' _No harp delights with glad music; no good hawk now soars through the halls, nor swift horses clatter in courtyards…'"_

 _Leliana really does sing beautifully_ , reflected Flora as she shifted from foot to foot in an effort to relieve the soreness of her ankles. _Her voice is lovely enough to penetrate the Veil.I hope Riordan can hear it, somehow._

 _I hope he's proud of Alistair and I._

 _Why do I feel like I know he is?_

To Flora's slight surprise, she felt the delicate silk _tulle_ of the veil sticking to her cheeks. Lifting her fingers to touch the skin, she realised that she was _crying_ , though she had barely felt the tears slip from beneath her eyelashes.

Grateful for the cover provided by the delicate material, Flora sniffed as quietly as possible; just about resisting the urge to blow her nose on fine-spun silk that was probably worth more than the collective value of Herring.

Standing at Flora's other side, Leonas glanced down at her; narrowing his eyes to squint through the gauzy surface of the veil. Without drawing attention from those around them, the arl retrieved a square of linen from his sleeve and pressed it onto Flora's free hand. Taking it gratefully, she blew her nose surreptitiously beneath the filmy fabric.

As Leliana finished the last poignant refrain, she made an elegant bow to Riordan's prone body; gliding gracefully back towards the pew as though each foot was barely making contact with the ground.

The Chantry Mother lifted her arms reverently towards the Andrastian pyre, and this gesture seemed to draw the ritual to a close. Eamon rose to his feet, the other nobles present followed suit.

"The pyre will be lit at sunset," the arl murmured in response to a question from Leonas. "We'll have time to return to Denerim and meet with the stonemasons about the rebuilding of the guild-house."

Trying to avoid a repeat of the dizziness from earlier, Flora lifted herself more cautiously from the bench. Her attention was caught by the Orlesian Wardens, who were walking _en masse_ towards the plinth.

"What are they doing?" she whispered, directing the question towards Leonas. The arl was adjusting the bandages that still covered his maimed hand; a souvenir of the final battle against the Darkspawn.

"They're serving the final watch," the arl replied, watching the Wardens kneel in a circle around their dead brother's plinth. "It's a form of military tribute. They'll remain there, keeping vigil, until the pyre is lit at sunset."

Flora stared at the prone figure of Riordan, ignoring the low conversation of those around her as they made ready to leave. For a moment, she fancied that she saw a faint mirage of Duncan's body, superimposed over his dead counterpart's features.

"I want to do it," she breathed, eyes wide. "I want to do it, too. The final watch."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Goodbye Riordan! I always felt a bit bad that you couldn't remember the characters who died in game with some sort of memorial, lol. Isn't that ridiculous!?

I wanted to show Oghren being more interested in the Wardens, since he ends up joining them! I want to try and do more with him in this story, I feel as though I neglected him in The Lion And The Light!

We also meet the Orlesian Warden in this chapter – the one who is going to take over the Ferelden Wardens! It's the tall woman with the dark hair.

The quote from Leliana's song is actually from Beowulf! It's much too beautiful to have been written be me, lol!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	16. The Final Watch

Chapter 15: The Final Watch

Alistair turned to gape at his lover, his brows rising in consternation. They were standing before the Royal pew in Revanloch's Chantry, the Orlesian Wardens already gathered in a circle around their dead brother's plinth. They were preparing to undertake the _final watch,_ a vigil which would last until Riordan's pyre; and Flora had just declared her intention to join them.

"My heart," the king said eventually, nonplussed. "Sunset is _ages_ away. You'd miss lunch, and dinner."

"And you can't kneel on a cold floor for hours," added Leliana, sternly. "Not in your condition. You're five and a half months gone with child."

"But I was – am – _was_ the Warden-Commander of Ferelden," protested Flora, stubbornly. "I _ought_ to do it."

An incredulous Alistair stared at his former sister-warden, then made a pleading gesture towards Finian.

"Finn, can you say something? It's _freezing_ in here. Flo can't kneel on these tiles until sunset."

But Finian had been watching his sister closely through his remaining eye, and recognised the belligerent obstinacy settling on her features; strong enough to be glimpsed even through the veil. Flora, usually sweet and pliant as an amiable young sapling, was known to dig her heels in on rare occasion.

"Then I'd stoke up Andraste's Flame a little higher," he replied, in rueful tones. "I recognise the look on Floss' face – the same one as our mother used to get when Father suggested that we host a Satinalia ball for all the knights. Stubborn as a mule."

Eamon looked to Teagan, who gave a helpless shrug. Just then another strongly-accented voice piped up, offering unexpected support.

"Eh, I'll do it wi'ye, lass. I liked Riordan – man could 'old his drink. Nice ter say goodbye."

Flora smiled at Oghren, who had manifested before her with a clear determination in his small, clever eyes. For once, the dwarf's breath did not reek of ale.

"Thank you," she said, pointedly ignoring the others. "I want to say goodbye to Riordan properly, too."

 _And to Duncan._

With a slightly belligerent lift of the chin, Flora swivelled on her heel and ascended the shallow series of steps upon which the plinth rested. There was a space near Riordan's feet that was unoccupied, and she prepared to lower herself to the tiles.

Before she could work on the logistics of kneeling – robe, weak knee and belly combined to make this task more difficult - there was a hand at her arm, strong fingers gripping Flora's elbow to help lower her to the flagstones.

"Careful, sweetheart."

At first, Flora thought it was Oghren who had assisted her, but when the voice spoke; she recognised the familiar, clipped drawl. Despite the childhood spent in a stable, there was an unmistakeable thread of aristocracy that shaped her best friend's words; elevating his speech from the common masses.

Alistair smiled ruefully at his former sister-warden, taking to his knee at her side.

"I haven't done one of these vigils since I was a Templar recruit," he murmured, with a wry twist to his mouth. "Should be an interesting experience. It's nearly eight hours until sunset, you know."

Flora blinked at him through the sheer veil, and Alistair's voice softened slightly. He reached out to touch her cheek, thumb brushing over the translucent silk tulle.

"But, you're right. I want to pay my respects to our – to our senior officers."

 _Both of them._

Oghren took to his knee at Flora's other side, and she thought that she had never seen the dwarf look so earnest; without a whisker of joviality on his moustachioed features.

The prospect of remaining in one place for eight hours was not too insurmountable. On occasion in the Circle, Flora had hidden in cupboards or behind library shelves for similar lengths of time to avoid classes and irate Templars. In Herring, she had also spent full days sitting beside dropped lines, waiting for a bite.

Now, she found a position that was reasonably comfortable – kneeling down, with her stomach resting on her thighs and her head bowed.

In small groups the others drifted from the Chantry; leaving behind Flora's Templar watchers (not overjoyed at the prospect of spending the next eight hours in one place), and Alistair's Royal Guards (who felt a similar sentiment). After quietly working out a rota of shifts, the door swung shut quietly behind booted feet; and then there was naught but a weighty silence and the uneven of air.

Flora closed her eyes and let her mind blossom with memory; first of Riordan, and then Duncan, the two men blurring together until they became a strange hybrid.

 _Little sister. You have a great gift._

 _I made the right decision taking you from the Circle._

She remembered when she had first met Duncan, that terrible afternoon in the Circle when Jowan had lost all sense and control, and revealed himself as a _maleficar._ Flora had barely noticed the Warden-Commander's presence, she had been preoccupied with shielding the defenceless Tranquil and shock at Jowan's folly. It was only afterwards, when the blood was being mopped from the tiles, that Flora looked up to see the stranger staring at her; his dark eyes bright and thoughtful.

" _You're a talented healer," he'd said, the words ever-so-slightly accented. "And that shield was an exceptional piece of casting. It was… artistry."_

 _He had Rivaini heritage, she would find out later. They found magic beautiful in Rivain._

" _But I can't do anything else," Flora had replied, too shy to meet his gaze. "I can't fight. There's… there's something wrong with me, I'm flawed."_

" _I see no flaw in you, child. It seems to me as though the Maker has granted you a… a rare talent. A talent that could help to save this country."_

 _And it_ had _helped to save the country,_ Flora reflected to herself, awed at her old commander's prescience. _If not for my spirits, we would have died a hundred times over. At Ostagar, when the ogre attacked us at the top of Ishal. At Redcliffe, when the undead poured forth from the castle. Roasted by dragon fire at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Blasted apart by Zathrian in the heart of Brecilian. Torn apart on the ramparts by the Archdemon's teeth. How many assassins' arrows would have met their mark without the barrier? How many blades sunk into vulnerable flesh?_

 _You were right, Duncan. I hope you can see how right you were._

 _Say hello to my Silver Knight and Golden Lady if you see them. Tell them I miss them, every day._

One of Flora's feet began to tingle and she tucked it beneath her rear, surreptitiously. She opened her eyes, relying on the gauzy organza veil to disguise her curiosity, and glanced quickly to either side.

The Orlesian Wardens were as still as statues, kneeling before their fallen brother. Even the slight draught blowing through the columns – Flora had learnt that there were always draughts at Revanloch, even if it were not particularly windy outside – did not disturb their inert reverence.

Flora slid her gaze sideways, to where Oghren was slumped with his eyes closed. For a moment, she thought that he had fallen asleep; then a slight shift in the dwarf's movement proved her wrong. She wondered idly what had provoked this sudden fascination in the Wardens, but was pleased that Oghren had found an interest that was not at the bottom of a bottle.

On her other side, Alistair was kneeling with an easy grace borne of many years of practice. His face was uncharacteristically grave, his lips moving silently as he murmured fragments of half-forgotten Chantry prayers. Flora knew that he had first volunteered to stay for the vigil to keep watch over her, unwilling to leave Flora in the very spot where an attempt on her life had been made.

Now, looking at the focused reverence on her best friend's face, Flora guessed that Alistair appreciated this chance to reflect on both Riordan's sacrifice and Duncan's death. It was not often that the king of Ferelden could be left undisturbed for an extended period of time; and ever since Ostagar, they had barely had a moment of peace to mourn their ill-fated commander.

Flora lifted her eyes to Riordan's body, letting her memories flood her mind and distract her from her aching spine.

 _You're the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden? You and the lad – was it Alistair?_

 _You've gathered the armies?! Just the two of you – a pair of warden-recruits?_

 _Riordan, if things had gone just a little differently, it would have been you who had gathered the armies. It would have been you who was named the Hero of Ferelden, not me._

 _Though you probably would still have ended up on this plinth, most likely._

Kneeling on the cold tiles with the baby shifting impatiently in her stomach, Flora promised herself fervently that she would campaign for Riordan to also be named as a _Hero of Ferelden._

 _I don't even deserve it. It wasn't me, it was my spirits. I was just their tool. No one praises the rod for catching the fish._

The hours passed by, each one seemingly longer than the last. The echo of a gong rang in the distance, marking the lunch hour. Patches of coloured light from the stained glass windows moved slowly across the flagstones; mirroring the leisurely progress of the sun as it inched along its bow-shaped arc.

Flora had long since passed the point of feeling hungry. Her feet and legs were numb – she didn't know whether it was from cold, or from kneeling down for such a protracted period of time. Rather unfairly, the ache in her lower back had not been masked by the numbness – it had grown more pronounced; a dull throb which gnawed at the base of her spine. The only benefit to kneeling with neck bowed was that it helped to keep the blood flowing to her brain; diminishing the light-headedness that Flora had felt since the morning.

Her stomach rumbled on cue with the dinner gong, and she felt the little creature shift against her kidneys, prodding her with a small foot.

 _Sorry,_ she thought, miserably. _I'm really hungry too. Can't you just… chew on my insides for nourishment?_

 _Actually, don't do that. That sounds really painful, and you're hurting me enough._

 _I feel like volunteering for this might have been a bit of a mistake. I don't need to do this to remember Riordan, or Duncan._

 _Well, too late now. How much longer?_

As subtly as possible, Flora angled her gaze up to the stained glass window depicting Andraste leading her armies into Tevinter. Unfortunately, it was east-facing and no hint as to the sun's position could be gleaned from the leaded aperture.

Suddenly, Yvon murmured beneath his breath and rose to his feet; lifting his eyes to the ceiling. The other Orlesian Wardens followed suit, inclining their heads in turn towards Riordan's prostrate body. Oghren also clambered to his feet, far less gracefully, his stumble giving an ostentatious rumble.

"Cheers," he said to the dead Warden, head swivelling in pursuit of dinner. "For the… dragon."

Alistair rose up with a slight grimace, glancing down at his veiled lover as she remained kneeling with bowed head. He stretched his arms, rubbing the stiffness from his elbows.

"How did I do this every week when I was fifteen?" the king murmured under his breath, then stood up straighter as the Orlesian Warden-Commander turned to him.

"Your presence here is appreciated, your majesty," Yvon Cuvillier said quietly, bowing his lion-like head. "And the lady Cousland. I see that she is still paying tribute to our fallen brother."

The kneeling Flora stared gloomily at the flagstones, watching the progress of a small spider as it crawled along the base of the plinth.

The moment that the Orlesian Warden-Commander had left with comrades in tow, she shoved the veil back over her face and elbowed Alistair in the shin.

"Help me up!"

"What?" said Alistair, distracted by Chanter Devotia's unrelenting glower.

" _Help me up!"_ hissed Flora. "My legs have gone to sleep; I can't move!"

Alistair dropped his attention to his best friend, then frowned; his handsome brow creasing.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, reaching down to haul Flora gently to her feet. "Maker's Breath, you're as white as a sheet. And you're frozen – ah, I'm such an _idiot!_ Why did I agree to this?"

"I'm just hungry," replied Flora, wondering at how the stained glass windows were blurring together into a kaleidoscope of muted colour. "I think… I think- I need to eat something."

Then the world lurched beneath her, and she slid slowly into unconsciousness.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Vigils are not designed for pregnant women, Flo, get with the program! Does anyone even say that anymore, lol? I bet Alistair is good at just kneeling in place, from his decade spent in the Chantry.

Anyway, Flora has still not got over her minor obsession with Duncan, haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	17. The Pyre

Chapter 16: The Pyre

When Flora opened her eyes, the ceiling overhead was low and crossed with wooden beams. She _recognised_ these beams – she had tried to count them one night while trying to sleep – and realised that she was back up in the guest chamber. Chanter Devotia was glowering down at her from the end of the bed, her strange violet eyes narrowed.

"It's a miracle," Flora said wonderingly to the disapproving Templar. "I've _transportationed_ myself from the Chantry up to here!"

The incredulous Chanter shook her head slowly from side to side.

"Flora!"

Alistair, who had been pacing the length of the room, shot to the side of the bed and crouched down; his hazel eyes blown wide with fear and distress. Flora sat up against the cushions and gazed at him, wondering why her knees were so stiff. He reached out and touched her hair and her face with trembling fingers; the crown set to one side on the mattress.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" he breathed, the words emerging constricted from his throat. "Is it the baby? Maker's Breath, this is my fault, I should never have- "

"The baby is fine," a nonplussed Flora replied, feeling it nudge irritably against her spine. "Why am I up here?"

"Of course the baby is fine," came an exasperated voice from the doorway. "The silly child decided to spent all day bent in half, without eating. She's fainted, that's all. And it's nobody's fault but hers!"

"Wynne!" Flora breathed, delighted. "Wynne, you've come to visit me. I thought you'd _forgotten_ about me."

The senior enchanter rolled her eyes, crossing the room with a rustling of her maroon Circle robes. She sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward and fixing the Cousland with her sternest expression. Simultaneously, her lined, elegant hand disappeared into the depths of her robes and withdrew an apple.

"Eat this."

"Shouldn't she have something more substantial than _fruit?"_ Alistair asked, anxiously pleating the blanket into folds. "Shouldn't she have some meat?"

The senior enchanter shook her head, watching Flora take an obedient bite.

"No, she needs something sweet. What _possessed_ you, Florence, to go without food for the best part of the day?"

"I wanted to do it. The vigil," she replied, through a mouthful of fruit. "To comm- comm… commemoo… _remember_ Duncan and Riordan."

"You've _commemorated_ them enough by defeating the Archdemon," retorted Wynne, briskly. "Finish that apple."

Flora took another bite, heaving herself over on the mattress as Alistair collapsed onto the bed beside her, boots and all. The king of Ferelden let out a sigh, dragging his hand over his face.

"That's two heart attacks you've given me within the space of a night and a day, Lo," he murmured, grimacing. "First, the assassin, and now with this _fainting- "_

"And I thought life might get _boring_ after the end of Fifth Blight!" Flora finished, swallowing the last bite of apple.

Alistair groaned, unable to see the humour in her response. He pressed his lips to her ear, clutching a fistful of the pale silk of her dress.

"Sweetheart, you need to take more care of yourself," he said, and there was a raw note of pleading in his tone. "For you, and for the baby."

Wynne, nostrils flaring, did not place much stock in Alistair's form of berating. Like many other grown men, the king was clearly averse to being overly stern to a pretty face.

"Your spirits are _gone,_ Florence," she said bluntly, as Flora's face fell. "They're gone, they're never coming back, they are _never_ going to look after you again, and so you need to start taking some responsibility for your own health."

Flora bowed her head, miserably aware that Wynne had an extremely valid point. The senior enchanter continued, in slightly kinder tones.

"I don't mean to be cruel, but you need to think of the child, whose well-being is now _entirely_ dependent on you. That means sleeping enough, eating regularly, and _not kneeling in a freezing Chantry for eight hours!"_

Alistair, who felt sorry for his former sister-warden, put an arm around her shoulders. Wynne shot him a glare, and he immediately took it away again, forcing sternness into his voice.

"Wynne is right, sweetheart. I'm going to have to… _put my foot down,_ here."

"Put your foot down on what?" Flora replied, perplexed.

"I'd wager that they don't have that expression in Herring," the senior enchanter said, a wry smile curling the corner of her mouth. "Anyway, don't sulk, Flora. We're just concerned for your health. That's _all."_

Alistair returned his arm about his best friend, kissing the side of her ear. Flora leaned her head against his shoulder, then let out a strangled squawk.

"Riordan's pyre," she said, suddenly. "Did I miss it?"

Knight-Captain Gannorn, stationed near the window, took a glance out of the warped glass.

"They're just setting it up in the courtyard," he stated, flatly. "I imagine it'll begin soon."

Alistair opened his mouth to protest, but Flora was already un-entangling herself from his arms, retrieving a woollen jumper to pull on over the filmy silk of the dress.

"Darling, maybe you should _rest,"_ Alistair began, without much hope.

As expected, Flora shot him a slightly withering look.

"I want to say goodbye," she said, her tone inviting no dissent. "I feel fine, don't worry."

Alistair glanced around, then snatched up a bread roll left over from the breaking of their fast.

"At least eat this on the way down," he implored, clambering to his feet and smoothing out his rumpled tunic. "If the baby has inherited our appetites, it'll want more than just an _apple."_

Prepared to acquiesce on this matter, Flora took the bread roll and bit into it.

The sun had disappeared beneath the low hills of the Bannorn, faint ghost-like sketches of constellations emerging star by star from the pallid dusk. Despite the rapid encroachment of summer, Ferelden evenings were still chilly enough to warrant sleeves and outer layers; especially for those situated on its coastline. The gulls wheeled over the crumbling turrets and towers of Revanloch, calling out to each other as they eyed the odd collection of people gathered in the courtyard below.

Although the Chantry officials had been responsible for supervising the mass pyres on the Alamarri plains; it had been several months since the last burning at the monastery itself. The pyre had been built up in the central courtyard, a meticulous arrangement of kindling and larger logs. Riordan, clad in full armour, had been placed amidst the branches; his face waxen and stiff.

The Orlesian Wardens were present amidst the crowd, as were many nobles from Ferelden's Landsmeet. Eamon, Teagan, Leonas and Finian were amongst those who had returned; accompanied by several of the commanders from the disbanded Ferelden free army. Lyna Mahariel had returned to the forests with the Dalish, but General Aeducan was present, alongside First Enchanter Irving.

Loghain, with a pronounced limp and leaning heavily on a wooden stick, had also come to attend Riordan's departure. Escorted by two Royal Guard, he had been brought down from Denerim on a litter; not yet able to ride a horse with his wooden limb. He had greeted Flora with reserved cordiality, granting Alistair a stiff nod. Flora had been oddly gratified to see him – after all, he was technically the only Fereldan Grey Warden in existence, and it seemed fitting that he should be present.

"I bet you could kick someone really hard with that foot," Flora offered, eyeing the iron-capped wooden limb affixed to Loghain's knee.

"Aye, lass," he replied quietly, the northern cadence of his accent reflecting her own. "Any suggestions as to targets?"

"The assassin who tried to throw a dagger at me," replied Flora immediately, and Loghain's lip curled in contempt.

"Bad enough to attack a defenceless girl," he muttered, shifting his weight onto his good leg. "Worse to attack one heavy with child."

Flora grimaced, and then the Chantry Mother cleared her throat, raising her arms to the skies and speaking in beatific tones.

"' _O Maker, we commend this soul into Your keeping. Guide this man to Your side; where he may know eternal rest, untroubled by care or affliction.'"_

Leliana murmured a quiet prayer to herself, bowing towards the pyre with experienced reverence. Six Templars, each one clutching a burning torch, stepped forward.

Alistair glanced around to locate his lover. She was standing nearby, having turned away from Loghain at the sound of the Chantry Mother's words. Her eyes were narrowed as she squinted at Riordan's face, and Alistair knew that she was trying to inscribe every plane and angle onto her memory.

Suddenly, struck by a sudden impulse, the king drew Duncan's sword; which he had carried on his belt since Ostagar. Stepping forward, he ascended the low platform upon which the pyre was built, leaning forward to place the Warden-Commander's sword on Riordan's chest.

"Meet the Maker as a warrior, brother-warden."

He returned to Flora's side and she stared at him, her grey irises wide and placid as the Waking Sea after a storm.

"I don't need Duncan's sword to remember him," Alistair murmured to his once sister-warden. "It belongs with Riordan."

Flora nodded mutedly, gazing at the length of silverite as it lay on the senior warden's chest. Instinctively, she reached out and met Alistair's hand already stretching for her own; their fingers wrapping together in practised intimacy as the Templars stepped forwards, touching their torches to the pyre.

The wood must have been doused in some sort of incendiary fuel, since it flared up immediately with a heat and brightness that made those closest to it take a cautionary step back. The flames rose around Riordan's body, engulfing it in seconds. Billowing smoke began to belch upwards as the pyre consumed its offering; ashes and sparks carried towards the well of the night sky.

 _I remember you were kind to me in the cells of Fort Drakon,_ Flora thought, tremulously. _You told me as much as you could about Duncan. I'm sorry that I always asked more about him, than about you._

She felt a great swell of sadness rise up from her belly like an unseasonably high tide. Unable to help herself, a sniffle escaped her throat; the tears blossoming on her eyelashes and dripping in thin rivulets down her cheeks. She could taste the woodsmoke on her tongue, prickling sharp and acrid against the back of her throat.

Beside her, Alistair - who had presided over a dozen pyres in his capacity as king over the past few weeks - gazed sombrely into the flames. Regret was writ over his handsome features, memories of his old commander flooding his mind. So absorbed was he in his own reminiscence, that he did not immediately notice his companion's distress.

Finian, who found his limited vision distorted by the heat and smoke rising from the pyre, had averted his stare away. Noticing Flora's pale face, he gave her an anxious nudge.

"Floss?" he breathed. "You alright, Flossie?"

"Just the smoke," she croaked back thickly, voice even hoarser than usual. "In my… in my _eyes."_

Her reply was half-masked by the crackling from the pyre as the flames chewed their way through the fuel.

Alistair glanced down at his former sister-warden, then inhaled sharply. Repositioning himself behind Flora, he slid one arm around her waist and the other just beneath her breastbone, drawing her back to his chest. Flora leaned against the familiar muscle of her best friend's chest, grateful for his closeness.

 _So much for never crying in public,_ she thought gloomily to herself. _Now it's happened twice in one day. And you've fainted._

 _How much of this is caused by you, little creature? I never used to be so unbalanced. My Herring-dad would be horrified._

At a couple of inches over five foot, Flora's head was too low for Alistair to rest his chin on. Instead, he bowed his face to kiss her hair, tasting ashes on his tongue. He was reminded suddenly of Cailan's pyre, which had been constructed far more amateurishly than this one. The wood had been damp – there was still snow on the ground at Ostagar, despite it being spring everywhere else in Ferelden – and Wynne had needed to use her own magic to accelerate the flames. There was no danger of a slow burn here – the wood was driftwood, dried out and stored in waterproof containers. The pyre flared up fast and fierce, a mass of pure white heat burning at its core.

Parting that evening proved to be harder than ever for both parties involved. A miserable Flora was desperate for her once brother-warden to stay; yet knew that he needed to return to Denerim, that his stabilising presence in the city was vital in this post-Blight uncertainty.

Alistair, meanwhile, was terrified by the possibility of more assassins, and was also keenly aware of his best friend's distress. He implored both Leliana and Teagan to keep an eye on Flora – fluctuating between instruction and plea – though none of their assurances seemed to assuage his concern.

After promising that he would be back tomorrow evening, the king took his leave with tears in his eyes that were not caused by the wood smoke.

Back up in the bedchamber, both bard and bann demonstrated consummate skill in distracting Flora from her own dolefulness. Leliana sang a motet of northern songs from Ferelden's wildest coastline, several of which Flora half-remembered from her decade spent in Herring.

Teagan then produced a book that he had managed to source from Maker-knew-where, with the alluring title: _Sea Creatures Of Tevinter Legend._ He spent a laborious hour puzzling over the first entry alongside Flora; demonstrating remarkable patience while translating words such as _hydra_ and _mythological._ By the time that they had finished the _Minrathous Melusine,_ Flora was dozing off; her head bowed low over the page.

Teagan gently extracted the book from her fingers, manoeuvring himself off the bed and stretching his cramped limbs. Shooting the two Templars at the door a slightly wary look, the bann made for the cabinet to pour himself an ale.

 _Easier to think of the lass as a niece doing this,_ he thought to himself ruefully, unplugging the bottle. _By the time that we reach the end of the book, hopefully it'll put an end to those dreams about her that I always feel the need to confess to a Chantry Mother._

Leliana, leaning forward to melt the end of her sealing wax in the fire, cleared her throat pointedly. The courteous noble handed the bard the first beaker, pouring himself a second before taking a seat beside the fire.

"So: three remaining Howes," Leliana began steadily, her voice echoing about the chamber.

Teagan raised his eyebrows, glancing towards where Flora was curled up against the cushions. The bard made a soft, dismissive noise; waving her hand.

"Oh, she won't wake up; the child sleeps like the dead. A product of communal quarters, I believe. Anyway, I am unfamiliar with the Howe clan – would you enlighten me? Who do you believe is foolish enough to take out a contract on the widely-adored Hero of Ferelden?"

Leliana's brow creased in a single line; clearly not wholly comfortable with admitting her ignorance.

Teagan downed his ale in a single long draw, setting the beaker down beside the hearth.

"I don't know what his children have heard," he said, frankly. "The Landsmeet know what Howe did to the Couslands. They also know what he planned on doing to the lass, thanks to Loghain. But I'm not sure if the news has spread beyond Denerim."

Leliana finished her drink with more delicacy, her fine-boned face contorted in thought.

"I met the daughter once – Dolores, Delilah, something like that," Teagan continued, his voice quiet. "She seemed reasonable enough. Has the news of Flora's condition spread yet? I can't imagine that a woman would take out a contract on an expectant mother."

Without comment Leliana elevated her shoulder elegantly, inspecting the gleam of her silvered bracelet in a shaft of moonlight.

"The news has reached as far as Val Royeaux, at least," she murmured, with a coordinated lift of the eyebrow. "I have it on good authority that a set of platinum baby spoons are making their way across the Frostbacks at this very moment; each one engraved with Celene's insignia. "

Teagan let out a snort that came out a fraction louder than intended.

"Platinum baby spoons," he repeated, incredulous. " _Orlesians_! Sorry, no offence meant."

The bard waved her hand in a manner that meant _none taken,_ the corner of her mouth curling ruefully.

"If there is a Howe out there with ill intentions towards our future queen," she finished, lowering her voice as Flora yawned and shifted in her sleep. "I have faith that Zevran will uncover them. Beneath the lechery and the witty banter, lies a… _consummate professional."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaah, so it's goodbye to Riordan! He was a cool character, despite having about six lines, lol. Oh well, he had a lot more than that in my story. Anything to bring in more northerners into my story! I don't know why I love the whole regional differences thing in characterisation – oh actually I do know, it's because I'm a proud Welsh girl living in London!

So Loghain's got a false leg now – I think he's going to get a cool, Ambroise Pare one in the near future that'll let him ride horses. Ambroise Pare was a French battlefield surgeon and medical pioneer!

I love the idea of Celene sending this ridiculous, over the top baby present! There's also another gift from Val Royeaux winging its way over the Frostbacks, this one for Flora.

EUROVISION TONIGHT. Best night of the year! Although I don't know why I'm excited, Britain are CLEARLY going to get _nul points_ because of bloody Brexit. We'll probably be booed off the stage!

Replying to reviews in the reviews! Thank you for reading!


	18. The Almost-Proposal

Chapter 18: The Almost-Proposal

Awakening in the night with a dry throat, Flora yawned in a deeply unladylike manner; glancing over to where Leliana lay curled catlike in the blankets at her side. Careful not to disturb the softly snoring bard, Flora moved the furs aside and swung her legs out from the bed. Her foot proceeded to make contact with something soft and unexpected.

There came a quiet grunt from the darkness below, and Flora reflexively lifted her hand to summon light to her fingers. Of course, nothing came; and she had to resort to squinting through the shadows.

"Oh," she breathed apologetically as the Bann of Rainesfere gazed blearily up at her. "Sorry. Did I tread on you?"

Teagan, stretched out on a bedroll on the floorboards, yawned and gave an amiable shrug.

"It's alright, poppet. You weigh about as much as a sack of grain; I doubt you'd have done much damage."

Flora sat up and gazed down at him anxiously, noting the position of the bann's sleeping mat directly alongside the bed. Anybody who wished to reach her would have _literally_ had to step over him; she caught sight of Teagan's sword resting surreptitiously at his side.

"I'm actually small but _dense,"_ she mumbled, distractedly. "Especially with this, _this_ \- "

Flora made a vague circling gesture towards her belly.

"Alistair tried to carry me back up here earlier, you know, like he always does when he thinks I'm tired?"

"Mm."

"Well, he was _sweating_ by the time we got to the stairs," Flora hissed, resting her chin on her elbow and widening her eyes at Teagan. "He had to use _both arms_ to carry me down the corridor."

The bann let out a muffled bark of laughter, using his sleeve to catch the majority of the sound before it could disturb the bard.

"Anyway," Flora continued, apologetically. "I'm sorry for treading on your… on your face, or your stomach, or your… wherever."

"It's fine, Florence. Are you alright?"

"Just going to get a drink."

"Stay there, I'll get it. Water?"

"Mm, please."

Flora lifted her legs back up onto the bed, adjusting the strapping around her weak knee as she repositioned the blankets. Using shafts of moonlight to navigate, the bann crossed to the side-table and poured out a tankard of water; as well as another weak ale for himself.

"Thank you," Flora said as he handed her the tankard, before settling back down against the bedroll. "I'm sorry that you have to do this – _guard_ me. I'm sure you'd rather be in a warm room, with a comfortable bed and- " she remembered an off-hand comment that Teagan had made some weeks ago – "and _wenches_."

The bann stifled another snort of laughter, grateful that he had just swallowed a mouthful of ale. Beside the door, Chanter Devotia gave a soft sniff of disapproval.

"It's... quite alright," he replied gravely, trying his best to keep a straight face in the darkness. "The wenches will just have to do the best they can without me."

Flora rolled over onto her stomach, found this too uncomfortable and relocated to her hip; the child nudging her too persistently to allow sleep.

"When _I_ was pretending to be a wench – remember, when I was _Madame du Poisson_ at the Pearl? – I thought that the workers there were very kind. And discreet. It wasn't them that got me caught by Howe."

She rubbed an idle hand over her stomach, feeling the little creature press a shoulder or the curve of a rump against her palm.

 _I didn't know you existed then. I'm glad I didn't know when I was captured in Fort Drakon; I didn't need anything else to worry about._

Shifting position, Flora felt something drop from the pile of bedding. Blinking, she peered down to see one of the cushions half-hidden under the bed, and made a quick, futile swipe with her fingers. This only succeeded in batting the cushion further into the dark recess.

"Stay there, sweet chuck. There we go, lean forward."

Flora _leaned forward_ obediently, feeling the cushion slide into place against her lower back.

"Thank you," she breathed, feeling the ache in her spine abate a fraction. "For being so nice to me."

"It's my pleasure," replied Teagan quietly, quashing his own selfish feelings with a wistful grunt. "After all, since I count Alistair as a nephew, you're… you're almost like my niece."

Without gleaning his meaning, Flora smiled at him, catching a yawn in her elbow.

"'Night, Bann Teagan."

"Night, Flora."

"Don't let the weever fish bite."

" _Weever fish?"_

The next week passed without incident, Justinian sliding slowly towards Solace with mellifluous ease. In the coastal city of Denerim, Alistair grew reluctantly accustomed to council meetings that lasted eight hours; still new enough to politics that he mostly listened and took notes while Eamon led discussion. Yet the nobles of the Landsmeet learnt quickly that this new Theirin was not to be underestimated. Unlike Cailan, who often neglected matters of government to pursue his own personal follies, Alistair Theirin saw each meeting through to its end; unafraid to insist on further clarification of any issue if required.

At the end of one such meeting, Bann Alfstanna - the Landsmeet's nominated representative in the king's council – petitioned Alistair as to the standing of the lady Cousland. A newly-arrived letter from the Divine had confirmed Florence Cousland's severance from the Fade, endorsing the judgement already made by Ferelden's Grand Cleric and Templar Knight-Commander.

"The people want to see their Hero," the bann stated flatly, her clever, wrinkled eyes seeking out Alistair's own. "They're pestering their local clerics for news. Why don't you bring her back from that ghastly mausoleum tonight?"

Alistair gritted his teeth, hand curling measuredly against the round wooden table. By mutual agreement with Eamon, they had agreed not to share news of the attempted assassination; at least, not until Zevran had returned from his investigations. As much as Alistair was desperate to retrieve his lover from the gloomy clifftop monastery, he knew that there was logic behind her continued stay there – it was far more secure than the very public Royal Palace.

"Florence is still recovering from the battle with the Archdemon," the Arl of Redcliffe interjected smoothly, seeing Alistair at a loss for words. "She needs peace and quiet, and Revanloch can provide it. Besides, her victory feast is next week, and she'll be returning for that. The people can see her then."

Alistair nodded in silent, gloomy agreement with his elder uncle; hoping that his impatience for the session to be ended was not writ too plainly across his face.

The final item on the agenda was Alistair's coronation, which was now only mere weeks away. Delegates from the different nations of Thedas would start arriving in the upcoming days, and would need to be accommodated and catered for sufficiently. The assumption was that Alistair would wed his Cousland bride on the same day.

As this was mentioned, Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a slight grimace contorting his handsome features. The sharp-eyed Alfstanna spotted his momentary discomfort, and a single greying eyebrow rose skywards.

"Is the lady Cousland aware of her upcoming wedding yet, Alistair?"

The following silence proved answer enough, and the bann snorted wryly.

"Does the poor girl know that she's _betrothed?"_

"I'm… working on it."

Unaware that the cloth-workers of Denerim were currently puzzling on how best to incorporate the Theirin lion with the Cousland laurel; the future Queen of Ferelden had spent the recent days at Revanloch immersed in quiet gloom. Riordan's funeral had renewed Flora's grief at the destruction of her spirits, and she had been thoroughly miserable for the past week.

Wynne had stayed for three days; skilfully distracting Flora from her sadness by avoiding the topic of magic entirely. They spent hours in the library, working on both general literacy and Flora's knowledge of the dynasties of Thedas. Both Leliana and Wynne waited with baited breath for Flora to ask _why_ she was learning about the history of Orlo-Fereldan relations; but the question never seemed to come.

"Does she think that Alistair will keep her merely as a mistress forever?" Leliana breathed quietly, the two women watching Flora as she poured over a book of Theodesian maps. "Even when she births a prince or princess?"

Wynne gave a shrug, flashing Flora a quick and reassuring smile as the young Cousland glanced round.

"Over the span of a year, she's gone from mage, to Warden, to _Cousland,"_ the senior enchanter murmured in response. "I don't think a _further_ elevation of rank has even occurred to her."

"But does she not realise what Alistair is _doing?"_

Alistair – true to his word – had arrived at the monastery every evening without fail. Without any prior experience to inform him, he had nevertheless done his best to _court_ his former sister-warden; as would be expected for any young noble seeking a girl's hand in marriage. He had brought Flora even more flowers, until the room overflowed with vases. He had found a large conch shell on the Palace beach and given it to her; beaming as she held it to her ear with astonished eyes.

He had also meticulously found out each of her peculiar dietary cravings – the earth-covered turnips, bowls of cream and mint sauce, smoked haddock slathered with jam – and brought it down from the Palace. On one evening, Flora - almost tearful at the sight of so much appealing food – confronted him as to _why_ he was being so generous.

They were both up on the ramparts overlooking the Amaranthine Ocean, the ochre light from the setting sun spilling over the crumbling stone. Leliana had vanished to give them a fraction more privacy – although naturally the two Templars were still present, standing quietly a dozen yards away.

"I don't understand," Flora breathed, reluctantly tearing her eyes away from the basket of dirt-caked turnips. "I haven't done anything. Why are you rewarding me?"

"Hm, sweetheart?"

"Is it my birthday?"

"No, love. Still a fortnight away."

"Is it Satinalia."

"Not even _close!"_

Flora looked bemused. "Then WHY?"

Alistair wanted nothing more than to ask her then; to drop to his knees and take her hand, and ask the question that had been burning in his mind since South Reach.

 _Marry me,_ he thought, desperately. _I want to be a husband to you._

"Flora..." he began tremulously, then trailed off, a lonely seagull calling out as it wheeled overhead.

Before finishing his sentence, the king reached out and took Flora's hand, lifting her curling fingers to his mouth and kissing them. His lips landed, half-consciously, on the finger that bore the Cousland ring; the one which housed the vein to the heart.

"Well, I'm courting you, aren't I? I want to do this _properly,_ Lo. Everything was so rushed, during the Blight."

Flora stared at him in perplexion, her brow furrowing. Then there came a small flicker of realisation in the depths of her pale irises, brief as lightning across a winter sky; her eyes widening imperceptibly.

"Alistair," she said, her voice small. "Wha-? "

Alistair stared down at his best friend, willing her to say the words; to voice the question that had been on the tip of his tongue for weeks.

"Flora, I- "

" _Unbelievable!"_

Leliana erupted onto the ramparts, storm-clouds massing on her flushed features as she stalked past the Templars.

Flora blinked as though awakened from a daydream, turning to face the bard as Alistair muttered under his breath.

"I agreed to lead a seminar with a dozen initiates on the parallels between the Canticle of Erudition and the Canticle of Exaltations," the bard fumed, grasping the crumbling stone battlements and glowering down at the rocky beach below.

"Sounds fascinating," replied the king drily, accepting that the moment with Flora had vanished. "Let me guess: they didn't turn up to discuss the Chant?"

Leliana snarled quietly to herself, sweeping her fingers down to scoop an earth-covered turnip from the basket. With an eloquently uttered curse in Orlesian, she hurled the unfortunate vegetable over the ramparts. Flora stifled a squawk of dismay, biting her lip as she watched her snack disintegrate into pieces against the rocks below.

" _Non!"_ the bard retorted, irritated. "They spent the hour trying to look down the front of my robes, interspersed with inane questions about _Darkspawn._ Darkspawn!"

Alistair had to stifle a guffaw, while Flora looked suitably indignant.

"How audacious," she breathed, outraged on Leliana's behalf. "When you were trying to _educate_ them, too!"

"Exactly!" replied Leliana with a small huff, tossing her short, auburn braids. "Alistair, stop _laughing."_

Despite his levity, Alistair was reluctant to leave his sister-warden that evening; half-tempted to lift Flora onto his saddle and bring her back to Denerim. His logical mind waged a fierce internal debate with his heart, pointing out the flaws in such an impulsive plan.

 _The Royal Palace is a public building. It has two dozen entrances; more back passages and hidden doorways than are shown on any map. It's not as secure as Revanloch._

A light evening drizzle accompanied the setting sun; the puddles in the courtyard lit in gold and bronze by the waning rays. The king kissed his mistress once more, one palm resting on the pronounced curve of her stomach as he extracted the promise he received every evening.

"Stay with the others tonight, darling."

"I will!"

"Wake Leliana and my uncle if you want to go anywhere."

Flora nodded, although she had not been on any nocturnal wanderings since the assassin in the Chantry.

Alistair stared down at her a moment longer, then glanced around.

"Maybe I should walk you back to your chamber – Lel is up there already."

"I'll be fine," Flora reassured him, gesturing towards the two Templars standing several yards away. "They're still here."

This did not wholly satisfy Alistair, but he gave a tight nod, bending down to kiss her once more.

"I'll see you tomorrow, my love."

The inhabitants of Revanloch had almost grown used to Flora's presence as the Hero of Ferelden – after all, the Blight was three weeks in the past, and had never reached their enclosed little world anyway. However, she was still _female;_ and one not covered by the austere and modest robes of a Chantry sister. The giggling recruits had been warned not to approach the lady Cousland directly, but their eyes still followed her about like cats after a fishmonger's cart.

Flora could feel stares prickling between her shoulder-blades as she passed through the inner courtyard; muffled comments half-hidden behind hands. It was something she had grown reluctantly accustomed to – attention was never something that she sought, but it had been thrust inadvertently upon her during the Fifth Blight.

With the footsteps of Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia echoing against the flagstones behind her, Flora was just about to ascend the steps leading to the east wing when a low, accented voice caught her attention.

"Lady Cousland?"

It was Yvon Cuvillier, Commander of the Grey in Orlais. His tousled, leonine presence stood out starkly against the damp stone of Revanloch; and he bowed towards Flora with the finesse of any Val Royeaux courtier.

"My lady, I have some… questions. Actually, _many_ questions. Do you have a moment?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: I'm sure the Orlesian Warden has questions, lol – like HOW are you UP THE DUFF? HOW did you survive the ARCHDEMON? HOW is this immature nineteen year old the WARDEN-COMMANDER?

Poor Alistair has got himself into a bit of a situation – everyone is assuming that he's getting married to Flora, the coronation/wedding is going ahead… and Flora has no idea, lol. It's because Alistair a) has no experience b) has romantic notions about courting Flora in the traditional way; which is why he hasn't actually proposed to her yet. Which is a slight issue because the coronation is in three weeks time!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	19. An Orlesian Interrogation

Chapter 19: An Orlesian Interrogation

The Orlesian Warden-Commander gazed at Flora, his tawny eyes steady and biting. Flora came to a halt in the corridor, her heart sinking. She had a distinct feeling she _knew_ what the _matters for discussion_ pertained to – the slaying of the Archdemon, the cleansing of the taint, and the preposterous roundedness of her belly. She also guessed that the man had tactfully restrained himself from making such enquiries after Riordan's funeral; but Flora's dolefulness could not shield her indefinitely.

Flora therefore took a deep breath and gave a small nod, following Yvon Cuvillier into a side-chamber that she had never noticed before. It reminded Flora of a Circle classroom – rows of wooden desks, a teacher's lectern at the front, and bookshelves lining one wall. Incongruously, several of the Orlesian Wardens had already taken seats at the initiate desks – Yvon's shaven-headed lieutenant was present, as well as the angular woman with the grey-streaked bun. The seated Wardens rose to acknowledge her, and Flora felt as though she were a teacher arriving to deliver a lecture.

Stifling a laugh at such a ludicrous prospect – she was well aware of her own limited intellect – Flora took the seat that the Orlesian Commander pulled out for her.

Yvon Cuvillier then went to close the door, and Knight-Captain Gannorn let out a soft grunt of warning.

"It stays open," the Knight-Captain stated, flat and uncompromising. For the first time, Flora was grateful for the ever-present Templar guards.

The Warden-Commander made to protest, then inclined his head slightly.

"Fine. Lady Cousland, I should like to clarify a few things, if I may. Would you be amenable to some… questions?"

She gave a gloomy nod, hoping that the mask of solemnity on her features hid her trepidation. Behind her, Gannorn made a small gesture to Chanter Devotia. The female Templar gave a slight grunt, slipping from the room with surprising subtlety.

Yvon paused before speaking, glancing down at Flora with a faintly quizzical expression.

"Forgive my ignorance," he murmured, changing his mind about taking a seat and pacing the length of the classroom. "I'm afraid that communication between branches is poor at the best of times, let alone during a Blight. You were recruited by Duncan, a year ago?"

"Almost a year," Flora corrected, counting back through the months on uncertain fingers. "In the autumn. I don't know exactly when. I came to Ostagar about a month before – before the battle."

 _Before the majority of the Fereldan Wardens were obliterated._

"And you gathered the armies – _two junior recruits_ – and won the support of the Landsmeet," Yvon continued, one golden eyebrow rising incredulously. "And then you slew the Archdemon, and instead of dying; both you and King Alistair were cleansed of the taint."

"I cured Alistair before that," Flora mumbled, cringing inwardly as she recalled her brother-warden's shock and furious indignation. "I didn't want him to risk taking the final blow. He would've done, to save Ferelden."

The angular woman, too tall for the initiate's desk, was scribing Flora's responses on a roll of parchment.

Yvon gave another nod, making a visible effort to stem the flood of questions as they bubbled up within his throat. His eyes fell on Flora's hand, resting idly on her belly in a way that she never would have dared to do when her condition was still a secret.

"I must beg forgiveness once again," he asked, quietly. "Rumour travels on the fleetest of wings, and no faster than within the streets of Val Royeaux. That _is_ the king's child, yes? The former Warden, Alistair? "

Flora nodded, feeling the little creature nudge against her kidneys.

 _Yes, we are talking about you._

"But – how is this possible?"

"I'm- I _was_ an… unusual mage," she replied, deciding that the more she explained, the less she would be questioned. "I couldn't really do much, but I was – I was a good healer. I had spirits that helped me. My body – it cured poisons. I could cleanse the taint, with their help."

 _You kept the vein of Darkspawn ichor in my blood so that I could kill the Archdemon and end the Blight. Once the dragon was dead, your last action was to remove the taint as you left me._

"I can't feel her," Clarel spoke up, bluntly. "I couldn't feel the king, either."

Yvon inhaled, shaking his lion-like head in wonder. He did take a seat then, his powerful frame incongruous behind the recruit's desk.

"So that's how you were able to conceive," he said at last, his voice soft and wondering. "You understand it is _unprecedented,_ yes?"

Flora nodded, shifting position surreptitiously against the unforgiving wooden seat.

There followed a pause for a long moment, the bell for the final evening service echoing in the passage outside. Flora could hear the distant sound of a chattering crowd making their way towards the Chantry, and thought that she would rather sit through two hours of prayer than continue with this polite interrogation.

"And these spirits were destroyed when you slew the Archdemon," Yvon said eventually, tapping his fingers against his knee. "Instead of yourself."

Flora nodded once more, feeling a bolt of guilt ricochet around her skull at the destruction of her spirits. Instead of speaking, she held out her palms; showing the patches of white, sunburst-shaped discolouration.

"I have marks on my back, and my leg too," she said, remembering her obliterated _Peraquialus_ freckles with a small jolt of sadness. "I don't think they'll ever go away."

Yvon reached out and took Flora's hand, fascination momentarily overcoming his propriety. His eyebrows rose as he gazed at the strange, pale markings, extending in curlicues across the surface of her skin; a soft, astonished murmur in Orlesian slipped from his lips.

"Right," he said abruptly, collecting himself and returning upright. "Thank you for your assistance, lady Cousland. Now- "

The Orlesian Warden-Commander turned to his captain and the rest of his Wardens, clearing his throat.

"The Fifth Blight may be over, but Ferelden's Order must be rebuilt. There'll be pockets of Darkspawn that need to be monitored; even leaderless, they still pose a threat to rural communities. I suggest we create a command structure from within our own Val Royeaux ranks. The Orlesian Wardens can afford to be divided, our numbers are strong enough- "

"Well, that wouldn't be very considerate, _"_ came the protest from a wide-eyed Flora. "Their poor feet. Their _blisters._ "

There followed a moment of confused silence, as Yvon Cuvillier turned to look at her. Flora blinked back at him, innocuous.

"What do you mean, my lady?"

"From having to walk _all_ the way to Ferelden, then turn around and walk _all_ the way back to Val Royeaux," she continued, placidly. "Or perhaps it's the poor horses I should feel sorry for?"

"Why would they be walking back to Val Royeaux?" the lion-headed man replied, confused.

"After being stopped at the border, of course," Flora replied, patiently. "Ferelden admits no foreign force without permission from its king, and I don't see Alistair here, do you?"

She was now standing, her pale eyes cold as a winter sea, the imperiousness of a Cousland writ across the fine-hewn features that had always set her apart from the other inhabitants of Herring. For a moment, she envisioned herself back in the Landsmeet chamber, confronting another soldier who had made the mistake of dismissing her in the way that middle-aged men tended to dismiss young, attractive women.

"Also, I don't remember being consulted on this," Flora continued, unimpressed. " _I_ called the armies, _I_ killed the Archdemon. I'm still the _Acting Warden-Commander of Ferelden,_ and when someone replaces me; it'll be someone who Alistair and myself feel is best for this country. We will, of course, consult with Orlais," she added, with a small and humourless smile.

Yvon gaped at Flora, who stared back at him with the arrogant, well-hewn profile of a scion of Ferelden's most ancient dynasty. He had made the mistake of judging Florence Cousland based on her youth, her wide-eyed beauty, and her quiet grief after Riordan's funeral. This sudden flash of sheer, blunt defiance came as a shock.

"Loghain Mac Tir will need to be involved too," Flora added, slow and unblinking. "He's recovering from injury, but he's capable and he values this nation's security above no other."

Yvon, astonished, gave a wordless nod. Flora rewarded his compliance with a patient smile.

"The next time I see the king, I'll let him know that you would like to discuss this," she said, kindly. "We'll sit down together and come to some sort of _arrangement."_

"Yes, my lady," Yvon replied, eyebrows now lodged in his hairline. "I… I apologise for my presumption."

"Hm," said Flora, already tiring of the conversation. "We'll talk about this tomorrow, then."

Her stomach rumbled and she turned towards the exit, trying to ignore the twinge of pain from her knee.

Leliana was standing in the doorway – the Chanter had clearly gone to fetch her – and a beam was curled across her face from ear to ear. On hearing that Flora had been corralled into a classroom by the Orlesians, the bard had scuttled down the corridors in readiness to launch an indignant rescue.

Yet she had arrived just in time to hear Flora's solemn, polite and incontestable response; the young Cousland calmly rebuffing the commander's attempts to seize control of the Fereldan Wardens.

Leliana slid her arm into Flora's, steering her away from the classroom and towards the staircase that led to their guest quarters. The Templar guard followed in their wake, stoic and silent.

After ascending the stone steps, they turned into a damp, labyrinthine passage lined with moth-eaten tapestries. Now confident that they were out of earshot, Leliana kissed Flora on the cheek; inordinately and inexplicably proud.

"Well done for resisting his _cajolement, ma petite._ The Cuvilliers are known for their persuasive tongues; and I know it is your instinct to do as you are told. I hope he did not try and intimidate you in any way?"

Flora gave a little shake of the head, feeling her knee give a more persistent twinge just as the child dug an elbow or a knee into the base of her spine.

"Ouch. No, I… I don't think he did. Or if he tried, I didn't notice."

Leliana smiled, withdrawing the key from her sleeve as they approached their quarters.

"Regardless, it seems that you maintained both poise and bearing in the face of his interrogation. Well done, _ma crevette_."

Flora smiled vaguely, thinking that Leliana seemed almost disproportionately pleased at this small defiance.

The bard was indeed delighted, although for more significant reasons.

 _If she can stand up for herself against Orlais now; she can stand up for Ferelden as queen._

The next afternoon brought a most unexpected visitor. Flora and Leliana had been sitting at the table in the inner courtyard; the one separated from the training area by a high, ivy-covered wall. They could hear the rhythmic sounds of wooden swords beating against shields as the initiates practised drill; accompanied by the irate bark of an instructor.

Leliana was reading from a small book of Chantry homilies, her lips moving silently as she recited them out loud. As a special concession, the bard had been granted permission to lead the Sunday service; and was determined for it to be both an enlightening and _spiritually_ _invigorating_ experience.

Flora had the cards of Theodesian leaders spread out over the table before her; reminding herself of the names of each nation's leader.

 _Celene Valmont I._

She pressed a fingertip curiously against Celene's face, tracing the chiselled angles of the high cheekbones. The Empress had been depicted holding a golden mask in one hand. stylised feathers extending swan-like back from her ears.

"Why do Orlesians like to hide their faces?" Flora asked after a moment, her brow furrowed.

Few topics of discussion could distract Leliana from her piety, but the bard's adopted home was certainly one of them. She lowered the book of prayers, a wistful smile pulling at her lips.

"Ah, but many sports require facial protection, do they not? In jousting, a guard is worn, in fencing, a lighter cover. Orlesian politics is a sport like no other; and the masking of the face adds another layer to the _Game."_

Flora wrinkled her nose; such subterfuge was the antithesis of crude Herring bluntness.

"I wonder if I'll meet any more Orlesians," she wondered out loud, tracing the neatly inked flowers on the edge of the card. "I don't suppose they come to Ferelden very often."

"Well, you would if you went to Orlais," murmured Leliana, lifting a delicate porcelain teacup between equally elegant fingers. "Say, if you visited Val Royeaux."

Flora looked almost comically astonished, her pale eyes widening.

" _Leave_ Ferelden?" she breathed, taken aback. "Why would I ever want to do that? And why would I go to _Val Royeaux_ of all places?"

"Why, accompanying Alistair, of course," countered Leliana, smoothly. "If he ever decides on a state visit."

"Oh," replied Flora, slightly nonplussed. "Because I'm his mistress?"

Leliana raised her eyes above her teacup, pupils glinting like a silverite blade catching the sun.

"The Hero of Ferelden deserves more than to be a _mistress,_ hm?"

Flora peered back at the bard, slightly confused. Leliana kept her gaze, steady and even; this time offering no distracting comment or skilful turn of conversation.

"Alistair will have his own card made soon, to replace that of his brother," she continued, quietly. "I should think he would wish for you to be drawn alongside him."

Leliana's slender fingers made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the various empresses, archons, kings, queens and dukes of Thedas. Flora stared down at them, a slow, primordial thought stirring deep within her mind.

"Leliana," she breathed, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "Does- does Alistair…?"

Just then, a most unexpected visitor entered the small courtyard; bulky enough to seem overly large within the confines of the stone walls. The Templars escorting him were wide-eyed, trying to hide their astonishment. Even the steely Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia, incongruously flanking a large potted plant, were unable to arrest a flinch of shock.

"My lady," squawked one of the young guards. "This _Qunari_ claims to know you?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: STEN has come to visit! Haha, he's come to deliver some home truths about Flora's new role, lol. I like this chapter because we get a brief bit of the 'old' Flora – the defiance, the standing-up to her 'superiors' that happened in several key moments in The Lion And The Light (in the Grand Chantry with Loghain, and again in the Landsmeet Chamber). Flora has been far more quiet and malleable so far in this story – she's still coming to terms with the loss of her spirits, her silent coaches – but never fear, that stubbornness and occasional eloquence is still there!

Not really so much of an 'interrogation' after all - Yvon Cuvillier is a political creature, knows that Flora is Alistair's lover, and doesn't want to cause a diplomatic incident by traumatising her, lol.

Haha, Flora keeps ALMOST understanding what Alistair is preparing to do – propose – and then gets distracted by something! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	20. I'm Not A Ferocious Lady!

Chapter 20: I'm Not A Ferocious Lady!

Flora rose to her feet, transparent delight suffusing her features.

"Ste-e-e-n!" she bleated, scuttling across the worn cobbles. "Sten, I thought you'd gone back to… to wherever you're _from!"_

Flora came to a halt before the lofty Qunari, shuffling from foot to foot. It was clear that she was desperate to throw her arms around his waist – Flora had always been liberal with her physical affection – but likewise knew that Sten would not suffer such a display of sentiment.

Sten gazed down at her with the impassivity of a rock face, his crimson eyes utterly unreadable.

"Clearly I have not _gone_ ," he replied, disapproving of the question's redundancy. "I am here. I intend to _remain_ here until the investiture of Ferelden's leader; and then return to Par Vollen with my report."

Flora smiled vaguely up at him, and the Qunari narrowed his stare; both of them fully aware that she had no idea what _investiture_ meant.

"You've grown larger since last I saw you," Sten said after a moment, lowering his gaze further to the swell of the child pressing against her woollen tunic. "Soon, you may be as wide as you are tall."

"Good," replied Flora immediately, her expression earnest. "My feet hurt all the time; I'd love to roll everywhere. Like a _ball._ "

The Qunari let out a grunt, striding past her into the centre of the courtyard. He swept his ashen, assessing stare around the crumbling walls; appraising the monastery's general decrepitude. Leliana, who had returned to the table with her book of homilies, gave him a beatific smile of greeting.

"I noticed seven serious flaws in this building's security as I was escorted here," Sten said at last, and Leliana's ears pricked up.

"The north tower and the portcullis near the drains?"

The Qunari nodded, and the bard gave a soft cluck of satisfaction under her breath.

"So, I hear that Howes are after you again. How is it that you seem to launch straight from one peril to another?"

This was from Sten, who had returned his stare to Flora. The Par Vollen native had clearly learnt the habit of _rhetorical_ _questioning_ during his sojourn on the Ferelden mainland.

"I don't know," replied Flora, slightly gloomily. There had been no more attempts on her life – clumsy or not – over the past week; the monastery bristled with more guards and patrolling soldiers than the Royal barracks.

Sten grunted, lifting a strong arm behind his back. Lifting _Asala_ from between his shoulder-blades, he let the vast greatsword rest carefully against the edge of the table. Instead of his own life-weapon, he withdrew a slender dagger from his pack. It was cut from silverite, the blade itself curved wickedly to cause maximum damage.

"Without your magical talent, your survival in an attack is not guaranteed," he stated, without emotion. "I… should not wish to see the warrior who felled the Archdemon, silenced by a clumsy amateur. I will show you a few counters that even the simplest and most incompetent children could master."

Flora, temporarily enchanted by his description of her as a _warrior,_ took a moment to register what the Qunari was offering.

"Oh!" she said at last as he glowered at her, expecting a reply. "Thank you! I am an incompetent child."

Unfortunately, Flora proved not to be a master with the dagger. Her natural lack of grace, combined with the cumbersome swell of her belly, a stiff knee and sore feet; all conspired to sabotage her efforts. Leliana watched from her position at the table, unable to stop from grimacing. The two Templars looked on without expression; though a momentary spark of compassion had flickered across Chanter Devotia's face as Flora dropped the dagger for the tenth time.

Gritting her teeth against the pain in her lower back, Flora bent over and retrieved the blade.

"You know, there was someone else who tried to teach me how to use a dagger," she offered casually, sweat pouring down her forehead. "Leliana, remember the Rivaini lady from the Pearl? Zevran's friend."

Leliana snorted; she remembered _very_ well.

"I think she was perhaps more successful at teaching you _other_ things though, _eh, ma petite?"_

Flora let out a cackle, running her thumb idly over the grooved end of the dagger.

"That was a good night," she breathed, wistfully. "Although I did get kidnapped by Howe's men the next morning. Which slightly put a dampener on things."

"Which will happen again if you have no way to defend yourself," snapped the Qunari, demonstrating a singular lack of patience. "Desist with these attempts to distract me."

Flora wiped the end of her sleeve over her forehead, making an effort to mop up the sweat.

"Alright," she said gamely, her feet throbbing inside her boots. "Let's keep going."

An hour later, the gloomy courtyard was losing what little sun it had managed to glean. As the sun lowered itself into the Bannorn, the temperature dropped and a chilly breeze began to explore Revanloch's labyrinthine corridors.

Flora's attempts to master Sten's dagger had proved in vain. Whatever elegance she demonstrated through dance was not mirrored by her normal movement; and this inherent lack of grace, combined with her physical restrictions, served to undermine all her attempts to wield the blade.

The Qunari, making a swift assessment of the situation, reached out to intercept Flora as she went to retrieve the dagger for the fifteenth time.

"This has been a wasted endeavour," he stated, with characteristic, brutal honesty. "Instead, I suggest you focus your efforts on your new role."

"My – my _new_ role?" Flora asked, uncertain.

"Producing the next leader of this nation," Sten clarified, making an irritable gesture towards Flora's swollen stomach. "In your current condition, it is all that you can contribute to this society."

To the Qunari, who lacked any semblance of Theodesian social niceties, this was a mere stating of the fact. To Flora, it was a condemnation of her inadequacy, now that she was trapped in only a single realm.

 _The only time I'll ever go back to the Fade – and possibly see my spirits again – is when I die._

 _Sten's right; I can't do anything without my magic. I am useless! All I'm good for is… giving birth._

Flora felt the tears rising before she could arrest them; streaming down her cheeks like a broken dam. Letting out a choked sound of distress, she scuttled between the old basalt pillars and back into the shadowy depths of the monastery. The two Templars glanced at one another wordlessly, then turned to follow her.

A crease formed in the centre of Sten's brow; the only indication of his confusion. He turned to look at Leliana, who was gathering up her book of homilies and tea paraphernalia, with a scowl writ across her features.

"Why is she caterwauling like a wounded child?" the Qunari asked, nonplussed. "I only stated the truth."

Leliana let out a small huff of displeasure, turning her pale blue stare on Sten as she made to follow in the wailing Flora's wake.

"Sten, remember when you lost your sword?"

"Obviously."

"How did you feel?"

"Maimed."

Leliana gave a little exasperated _huff,_ shooting him a final glance over her shoulder.

"Well, that's how Flora feels, without her spirits. And unlike your sword, there's no way for her to find them again."

The bard left the Qunari in the courtyard, looking as thoughtful as she had ever seen him.

As the last egg-yolk sliver of the setting sun disappeared behind the distant hills, the party from the Royal Palace arrived at the monastery. Stable boys came rushing out to take the horses – they had tossed dice beforehand to see who would get the privilege of leading in the king's steed. Alistair and Teagan, escorted by a discreet contingent of Royal Guard, made entrance into Revanloch monastery; the Knight-Commander hurrying down from his study to greet them.

Alistair gave the greying Templar a stiff nod, not quite ready to forgive him for the previous week's grievous broach of security.

"Anything unusual?" the king asked in place of a greeting; his hazel eyes sharp and clear as Fereldan ale.

The Knight-Commander shook his head, falling into step alongside Alistair.

"No, your majesty. I've had guards stationed at the gate-posts day and night, and they report only the usual visitors."

Alistair shot a quick glance at his uncle, who let a shoulder rise and fall in grim acceptance.

"Hopefully your elven friend will return with news," the bann offered, quietly. "Set an assassin to catch an assassin, if you will."

Alistair let out a grunt of frustration, nostrils flaring.

A pair of excitable initiates rounded the corner before them, chattering away with practise wooden swords bundled in their arms. As they caught sight of the king of Ferelden – six feet and two inches of leather clad, fur trimmed muscle, the gold band squarely atop his lofty head – they gaped in alarm and promptly dropped the swords.

Alistair, wondering if he had ever been so young and naïve, bent to help them gather up the swords. The slightly braver of the two offered a squeak of gratitude, a flush rising to their hairline.

Leliana was waiting outside the doors to the Chantry, her arms folded grimly over her chest. Chanter Devotia stood beside her, stern and impassive as the Qunari.

"Alistair," she warned, the years spent in Val Royeaux shaping her distinctive tone. "She's not very happy."

"What do you mean, _not very happy?"_

"She's been crying, _d_ _e temps à autre,_ all afternoon."

Alistair's brow creased in dismay, feeling his stomach drop unpleasantly within his gut.

"Why? I should have been _told_ ," he protested, one hand reaching to shove open the door. "I could have come earlier."

"Sten said that her only purpose was to birth an heir for Ferelden."

Beside him, Alistair heard Teagan let out a soft groan, the bann shaking his head slowly from side to side. The king himself flinched, part in disbelief and part in sorrow for his former sister-warden; who had not yet found her place in this post-Blight world.

"My poor girl," he said at last, hand resting motionless on the wood. "Is she in there?"

Leliana nodded, gesturing with an elegant hand.

Tactfully, Teagan murmured that he would take his paperwork up to the guest quarters. Alistair gave a distracted grunt of acknowledgement; shoving open the doors with an impatient elbow and stepping forward into Revanloch's Chantry. The doors closed behind him with a dull thud, and the king inhaled a lungful of damp, musty air.

The sacred space was near-deserted, the echoes of a thousand prayers and hymns clinging to the great stone arches that spanned the ceiling. The empty pews stretched out towards the front altar, where the Andrastian flame smouldered away with a soft, potent murmur.

Knight-Captain Gannorn was standing beside one of the pillars, hands behind his back and stance very stiff. It was clear that the Templar intended to maintain a professional distance from his charge; even if she were distressed and weeping.

Flora sat hunched over in one of the pews – not the Royal pew, since she would not presume to sit there without Alistair – with her shoulders drawn up and her head hanging low.

Alistair, feeling his heart rise painfully into his mouth, made his way down the central aisle. To his surprise, the Knight-Captain bowed his head, withdrawing wordlessly to the rear of the Chantry. The next moment, the wooden doors shut softly in the older man's wake.

Flora barely looked up as Alistair sat on the bench beside her. She had recognised his tread on the tiles, knowing the press of boot against stone as well as the sound of her own contracting lungs.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, and then said nothing more, reaching out to turn her face towards his. Flora let her mournful stare settle on him, cheeks mottled with the remnants of tears. Her boots lay discarded to one side, her bare toes brushing the cold tiles.

"My feet hurt," she whispered evasively after a moment, her voice even throatier than normal. "They _ache_. And I… I can't make the pain go away."

Alistair stared at the girl who had shaped his life and saved his nation, whose mooring ropes had come adrift with the loss of her spirits. He didn't know what to say to her; wasn't sure what words could possibly soothe such a gaping wound.

"Here, baby," he said thickly at last, unable to adequately articulate the emotion swelling in his throat. "Let me rub them. It might help the soreness."

Flora blinked at him, and Alistair took her silence as acquiescence. Reaching down, he lifted her feet gently up onto his thighs, frowning at their coldness. Unsure if he was even doing the right thing, he drove his thumbs in small circles over the sore flesh; pressing against the joints and kneading away the tightness with his curled knuckles.

"Your feet are half the size of mine," he commented after a few moments, sliding his palm beneath the pale, pink sole. "Does this feel any better?"

"Mm."

Flora nodded, bowing her forehead against his shoulder.

The moonlight – Ferelden's moon was far more luminous than its insipid daytime counterpart – shone through the stained glass windows; illuminating the leaded fragments in tones of dove-grey and silver.

Alistair ran his calloused thumb over her toes, the acoustics of the Chantry taking his soft words and throwing them between the damp pillars.

"My feet are _huge,"_ he continued, with a rueful smile. "Remember, I could never find boots to fit when we were travelling? I bet you don't miss having to heal all my blisters."

The king bowed his head and pressed an impulsive kiss to her toes. The next moment, he heard Flora sniff, and wet her dry lips.

"I'm not good with a sword, like you," she whispered, miserably. "I'm not a _ferocious lady_ , like Leliana. Even if you took Wynne's magic away, she'd still be the most cleverest – _clever_ – person in Ferelden. What… what am I without my spirits? I can't do anything."

Alistair paused for a moment, his thumb idly circling the delicate bone of Flora's ankle. She bowed her head, miserable in a way that she had not been since the Templars had first taken her from Herring.

"Darling," he said eventually, the words emerging soft and earnest. "You're only _nineteen years old._ If you want to learn how to wield daggers like Leliana, or to write books like Wynne – you have _decades_ to learn how to do it. Look at how your reading has improved over the past six months."

Flora gave a begrudging nod; she could see his point. Alistair squeezed her heel gently, gratified to feel the warmth returning to her skin.

"And at the moment, you're still the kindest and bravest girl I know," he murmured, suddenly feeling the tears prickling incongruously in the corners of his own eyes. "Your spirits didn't give you those qualities. They were attracted to you _because_ of them."

Flora turned her face up to his, and because she held her brother-warden's opinion in such high regard, she allowed herself to take some comfort from his words. She reached out to touch the side of his handsome face gently, barely sparing a glance to the regal band resting on his coppery hair.

Alistair stared back at his companion, wondering at how the moon filled her pale irises with silvered light; the gold fleck left by the Archdemon gleaming like a coin dropped to the bottom of a fountain.

"Merciful Andraste," he said wonderingly after a moment, eyes dropping to the solemn, full curve of Flora's mouth. "You're going to be such a beautiful woman, Lo. I'll be the envy of every man in Thedas, walking into a room at your side."

Flora kept her solemn gaze fixed on him, grave and steady. Her fingers wandered down his jaw, feeling the neatly trimmed hair he had cultivated in an effort to look older. After tracing the strong angle of his chin, she let her thumb move upwards, brushing over the deceptively arrogant Theirin lip.

Alistair let out an unsteady exhalation as she touched his mouth, as though he had been holding his breath since leaving the Royal Palace. His eyes dropped to Flora's foot resting atop his thigh, then slowly moved upwards; along her bare calf, up to where her navy tunic had been rucked above her knee. He stared at the inches of revealed skin, eyes heavy-lidded and burning with something indescribable.

With one hand resting possessive on her thigh, Alistair twisted his head around to scan the pillared recesses of the Chantry. The chapel was empty; the only movement coming from the shadow cast by Andraste's flickering pyre. The moonlight trailed ghostly fingers across the face of the Maker's Bride, the lips of the statue almost appearing to move in its shifting essence.

Alistair turned back to his best friend, who was sitting motionless on the bench beside him; her face cast in silvered tones by the muted light.

"Come here," he murmured, manoeuvring Flora gently onto his lap. "My Ferelden flower."

* * *

OOC Author Note: This is the second time that someone has tried to teach Flora to use a dagger, and – just like the first time – she's completely useless! She's just not a weapons-orientated person… at least she's always up for a try, though, lol. I don't think Sten was being a dick particularly here, I think he was just being honest!

I hope people aren't getting too annoyed with Flo for still grieving over her spirits – the loss was profound, and I wanted to communicate the seriousness of it.

Also, it's been a LOOOONG time since we had any sort of smut – literally, like seventy chapters, haha! Although Chantryshag is not very classy, haha. Definitely not something that unhardened Alistair would do. But our Alistair is very much hardened by this point, haha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	21. The Sacred And The Profane

Chapter 21: The Sacred And The Profane

Flora shifted her weight, leaning forward on Alistair's thighs as her bare toes brushed the cold tiles of the Chantry floor. The swell of her belly – the child that they had made together – pressed against the contrasting tautness of the king's muscled abdomen. She reached out to trace the outline of her brother-warden's face with two fingers, drawing them together along his strong jaw.

Alistair gazed down at her, feeling an incongruous surge of tenderness to complement the tendrils of lust sprouting in his belly.

 _We made this baby at Ostagar,_ he thought, suddenly. _I had her over and over, on that mouldering bedroll in the ruins of the Wardens' quarters; and twice in our own tent the next morning. I couldn't keep my hands off her. I still can't, five months later._

 _I wonder which coupling led to my seed taking root?_

Seeing a glazed expression settle over Alistair's face, Flora decided to take matters into her own hands. Leaning forward, she cupped her palms against his cheeks, pressing her lips to his. Herring locals were virtuous folk, but they found the Maker in the great vastness of the sea, the howl of the wind over the dunes, the swell of relief when the boats returned safe. Therefore, Flora had absolutely no compunction about initiating intimacy in the man-made construction of the Chantry.

Rousing himself from his reverie, Alistair let out a soft murmur of approval into her mouth. Their lips parted wet against each other; tongues moving with languid and renewed familiarity as he reached up to tangle fingers in her hair.

When they parted at last, flushed and breathless, Flora could feel his arousal pressing urgently between her thighs. Beads of sweat had broken out on Alistair's forehead, and he was gazing fixedly down at her chest.

Looking down, she realised the cause of his fascination. Her nipples were taut against the soft wool of her tunic; undeniable proof of her own arousal. A throaty sound escaped Alistair's throat as he stared, transfixed, one hand moving to the laces crossed across her chest. Fortunately, Flora had not used one of her indecipherable fisherman's knots to fasten the garment closed. One gentle pull at the end of a lace and the material opened itself up; the fabric folding outwards to reveal her bare breasts.

Barely daring to breathe, Alistair reached out to cup one full handful tentatively in his calloused palm. He remembered her mentioning some days ago that they were tender, and took especial care to be gentle. His tongue moved with feather-light grace, laving delicate circles across each swollen mound; tasting her nipple rather than suckling enthusiastically.

Flora curled her fingers into the leather of Alistair's tunic, desperate to anchor herself to him before she slid from his thighs into a helpless puddle on the tiles. Her hips were pulsing, instinctively angling her pelvis towards her brother-warden's abdomen; heat licking through her veins like a mage's electricity. The small, still-rational part of Flora's mind warned her that she ought to be quiet- after all, they were in a _monastery_ _–_ but it was fighting a losing battle against the encroaching tide of lust.

It had been a month since they had last lain together. During the weeks of chastity, Alistair had nurtured the memory of his lover's quiet, helpless sounds of pleasure, letting them resonate about his skull as he thrust grimly into his own fist.

Now the object of his fantasies was panting soft and wanton against his ear as he lapped at her nipple, the sound so alluring that he wished he could bottle it.

"More," she whispered hoarsely, her wide eyes fixing his with mingled desire and helplessness. "Please."

For a single moment, the rational part of Alistair's mind reminded him that they were in a _Chantry –_ a sacred space where he should not be harbouring a single lustful _thought,_ let alone enthusiastically fondling his best friend as she straddled his lap on a bench.

Unfortunately, Alistair's hands had a will of their own, driven by something other than reason. Glancing down, he saw Flora's tunic bundled up around her waist, his fingers already at the laces of her smallclothes. She shifted impatiently on his lap, letting his desirous hands divest her of her undergarments.

The moment that Flora's smallclothes dropped down her calf and onto the tiles, Alistair abandoned caution to the wind; angling her on his thighs so he could better look at her.

" _So_ beautiful, Lo," he murmured, thickly. "You steal the air from my lungs. I've _missed_ you."

Alistair's fingers crept over the mound of her stomach; protective and tender at first, then taking on a far more intimate character as they dropped further. Once his hand was resting comfortably between her thighs, his calloused thumb began to move in practised circles.

"You're so sweet," he whispered, listening to the slick confirmation of her arousal. "And I've missed doing this for you, baby."

Flora let her forehead rest on his shoulder, feeling her heart throbbing with escalating vigour against her ribcage. Alistair's lips sought out her ear, gently teasing the lobe with his teeth as he stroked her into squirming ecstasy.

When he dropped his tongue to her nipple, Flora gasped; the sound echoing about the forest of tall pillars surrounding them. Alistair grinned into her breast, grinding his sword-roughened thumb against her most sensitive spot.

"Aaiee- "

"Don't hold back, love," he murmured, feeling her mouthing desperately against his shoulder. "Let it happen, let it _hap- "_

Flora let out a muffled wail, her body convulsing on his thighs; her head flung back with mouth wide and helpless. Alistair pressed his lips to her throat, lapping a line along her neck as he felt her quiver helplessly against him.

He held her tight as she recovered, eyes half-closed and bleary; one large hand stroking the length of her back as he murmured admiration into her ear. Once Flora had clawed back her composure, she leaned forward to whisper her counter-offer; asking only for some assistance in descending to her knees.

Alistair nearly spent himself in his breeches at the prospect, just about managing to restrain himself. For a moment, he was tempted to accept the offer – or simply to take her perched atop his thighs – but distant noises behind the closed rear doorway heralded a return of his senses.

With immense reluctance and an urgent, unsatisfied pulsating in his groin, Alistair reached out and tightened the laces of Flora's tunic, pulling the navy lambswool taut once more. She blinked at him, the corners of her mouth turning down comically. Her expression was one of such blatant outrage that Alistair had to stifle a laugh, knotting the laces in a swift bow before leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

"Darling, don't look at me like that!"

"Like _what,"_ Flora muttered slightly belligerently, slithering off his lap and reaching up to flatten down her hair.

"Like _that,"_ Alistair replied with a snort, rising to his feet and helping her to compose herself. "Your Templar chaperones will be back in a minute, and I'm pretty sure that they wouldn't look too kindly on us… having some _out-of-hours prayertime_ in their Chantry."

"Hm," said Flora grumpily, shifting from foot to foot and running a hand absent-mindedly over her stomach. The baby turned over, pressing something firm and curved against the inside of her belly.

Alistair's eye was drawn to the movement of her hand, and his expression shifted subtly from amusement to affection. He reached down to cup her stomach with his own fingers, never failing to be astonished at the peculiar sensation of _something_ nudging against his palm.

Just then, there came a minor commotion from the back of the Chantry.

"I don't care if I'm interrupting _,"_ rang out a familiar, imperious voice. "I want to see my sister!"

Flora's face lit up and she turned towards the back entrance, all thoughts of intimacy vanished from her mind.

"Fergus!"

She scuttled, crablike, from the pew; a beam spreading over her face. A large group of people had just entered the Chantry from behind – men clad in Highever colours, Flora's own Templars, Alistair's Royal Guard, and Leliana herself. The bard's face was suffused with exasperation and relief – she had clearly been anticipating that they would find Alistair and Flora in some _compromising position._

Yet Flora's eyes were fixed on her elder brother, recently returned from Highever and still clad in travel leathers. Dust from the road covered Fergus' boots, his auburn curls were rumpled and his beard was sorely in need of a trim.

He held out his arms to his little sister, letting out an unsteady exhalation as she flattened herself readily against him.

"Thank the Maker you're alright," he breathed, bowing his head to press a kiss against her hair. "Finian wrote to me about the assassin. I swear, I'll have the remaining Howes hunted down like _rats."_

Alistair, fervently grateful that he had not listened to his baser urges, came to join them; hoping that his face was not too flushed.

Fergus looked up from Flora, his eyebrows rising as he prepared to launch into a tirade of questions. His face was twisted into an ugly blend of wrath and fear.

"The amount of Royal Guard have been doubled," Alistair replied, predicting the teyrn's outraged enquiry. "As have the number of patrols. Bann Teagan is spending his nights down here, sleeping in the same chamber. And Zevran is investigating the source."

The second most powerful man in the realm let out an unsteady exhalation, keeping Flora clamped to his chest. His eyes – which tended more towards blue than grey, having inherited more of Eleanor's colouring than his younger siblings – softened a fraction; mouth twisting with worry.

"My young sister can't defend herself anymore," he said, frankly. "She's as helpless as Oren was. I swear, if anything happens to her- "

"Fergus, everything in our power is being done to ensurer he safety," murmured Leliana, the bard's tone mellifluous and reassuring. "She is never alone."

Fergus let a grunt, lines of fatigue and worry creasing across his forehead. Stepping back, he gazed down at his sister, and his anger softened a fraction.

"Breath of the Maker, Floss. That belly has _grown_ since I last saw you."

"They do say that Theirins make for large infants."

Flora peered over curiously at the man who had spoken. He was clad in Highever colours and appeared in his mid twenties, coppery hair rumpled from the long journey. There was a brutal scar across his cheek, curling down from beneath his eye to the corner of his mouth.

"Florence, this is Ser Gilmore," Fergus said, just about managing to retrieve some courtesy from the depths of his worry. "One of our father's most faithful servants."

Gilmore bowed, his smile distorted by the lurid mark over his jaw.

"And a fellow victim of Howe treachery," he said, returning upright with a rueful grimace. "My lady."

"You were at Highever when it was attacked?" Alistair asked, his own eyebrows rising to his hairline.

Fergus nodded, a shadow falling over his features.

"Gilmore was badly injured in an attempt to defend my father. This is the first he's been able to travel since… since the attack."

"Aye," confirmed Gilmore, his own tone darkening. "Blasted arrow got me in the face."

He gestured to his cheek and Flora flinched, hearing Alistair let out a low whistle.

"Anyway," continued the knight, his gaze swivelling towards Flora once again. "It's a Maker's blessing to see you alive, my lady. I remember you as a child, running amok about Highever and driving Nan to madness."

Flora gazed back at him, vague and polite. She had no idea what _running amok_ meant, but it did not sound too endearing. The name _Nan_ prompted a brief flicker of recognition, but she could not summon the memory of any matching face.

Fergus turned to the Knight-Commander, who had arrived from his quarters in a mild state of consternation. When the Templar general had agreed to temporarily house the Hero of Ferelden beneath Revanloch's leaking roof tiles, he had not envisioned the likes of kings and teyrns also swarming about the monastery. With beads of sweat rising to his forehead, the man attempted to assuage the fears of a growling Fergus.

Flora soon stopped listening to her brother berate the Templar, the image of the Orlesian Warden-Commander's face manifesting on the forefront of her mind.

"Alistair," she whispered, elbowing the king to get his attention.

"Yes, my dear?"

" _Even Caviar_ tried to speak to me today," she said in an undertone, watching a candle in a nearby holster flicker as it neared its waxy base. "About the Fereldan Wardens."

Alistair looked nonplussed, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"Even Caviar?" he repeated, bemused. "Who?"

Flora shot Alistair a slightly anxious look, wondering if there was some problem with his memory.

"You know," she said, patiently. "The Orlesian Warden-Commander. Even Caviar."

" _Yvon Cuvillier,"_ corrected Alistair, just about managing to maintain a straight face. "What did he say?"

Flora shifted her weight off her weak knee, attention caught by the reflection of Andraste's flame flickering across Ser Gilmore's shield.

"He wanted to talk about reforming the Fereldan Wardens. I said that this was a discussion that you needed to be present for, and Loghain Mac Tir, too."

Alistair's brow furrowed, taken aback by the Orlesian soldier's presumption.

"Damned right!" he replied, indignant. "I'm not about to let the Orlesians dictate how the Order will be rebuilt. And... and you're right, Mac Tir ought to be here. He's the only true Fereldan Warden left."

"I'll send a raven up to the castle," murmured Leliana, who had – naturally – been eavesdropping on every word. "We can arrange the talks for tomorrow morning, if you wish. It's a Saturday; so you won't have any royal commitments."

"Typical Lel, knowing my business better than I do myself," Alistair replied, immensely cheered by the prospect of spending the night with Flora under Revanloch's draughty tiles – after all, it made no sense to leave, only to return in a few scant hours.

Since Alistair's presence meant that Teagan was not required for the evening, the bann departed the monastery alongside Fergus. It was a typical Fereldan summer evening, damp and prematurely dark; Revanloch rising like a gloomy spectre from its shroud of sea-mist as it perched atop the cliffs.

Even now - with Justinian fast drawing to a close – it was necessary to light a fire within the chambers of the old monastery. Only the guest quarters, and the private rooms of the Knight-Commander, had the luxury of a hearth; the initiates had to suffice with threadbare woollen blankets.

Within the chamber reserved for Royal guests, Alistair, who could never resist an empty grate and a pile of kindling, was busy demonstrating that he had not become too important to build a fire.

"You need to arrange the small twigs like this, then blow on them," he was busy explaining to Chanter Devotia, who stared back at him with a vague, professional boredom. "Then once you've a flame the size of your palm, you can add the rest of the kindling."

There came a quiet murmuring in the corridor outside as the Royal Guard changed watch, their hushed whispers sliding in through the gap beneath the door. No fixture or fitting sat snug in its frame within decaying Revanloch – panes of glass let in draughts, roof tiles leaked and doors had to be shoved into off-set frames.

Leliana was murmuring to herself with prayer book in hand; an olive-green unguent smeared across her face. Somehow, she had managed to procure yet another piece of flimsy Orlesian lingerie – despite having arrived at Revanloch with only a single leather pack.

Flora, clad in a pair of striped Theirin pyjamas, was already in bed, chewing on the end of a long-handled wooden spoon. She did not understand _why_ she felt compelled to do so – all she knew was that she suddenly wished to have something organic in her mouth.

Once the fire was blazing, a proud Alistair returned upright; chin aloft as he surveyed his creation.

"I can still build a good fire," he said into the shadows, reaching to unbutton his tunic. "Haven't lost the knack!"

Leliana closed her prayer-book, clambering into bed beside Flora and making herself comfortable amongst the cushions.

"Skills so ingrained are not easily lost ," the bard murmured, shooting her bed-mate a perplexed look. " _Ma petite,_ have you turned into a beaver? You have _demolished_ that spoon."

Indeed, the length of the wooden utensil had been so thoroughly _gnawed_ that it was no longer fit for purpose.

Flora let out a small, dissatisfied grunt – this was merely a poor substitute for what she _really_ felt like doing; breaking off fragments of bark from one of the trees in Revanloch's courtyard and devouring them like Orlesian sweetmeats.

"Think of your _teeth- "_ Leliana continued, and then broke off abruptly.

Both Flora and Leliana had been immediately distracted by Alistair's divestiture of his under-shirt. The king reached down to pull off his boots, the taut musculature of his olive-toned stomach contracting as he bowed.

Due to her training the bard managed to recover her composure more quickly, hastily donning a lace-edged eye mask as she slithered down the pillows.

The spoon fell from Flora's mouth as she continued to gape shamelessly at her former brother-warden's well-hewn form; which had lost none of its definition from the lack of travelling. Conscious that they would no longer be fighting Darkspawn on a regular basis, Alistair had begun a drill routine to keep himself in prime fighting condition.

"The Orlesian Wardens have agreed to meet tomorrow morning," Alistair said, crossing the room and sliding into bed on Flora's other side. "Mac Tir should have got the message by now. I'm not sure if he can ride yet, but I'm sure he'll find some way to get down here- "

He broke off in mild surprise, looking down to see Flora pressing her face against the hard, protruding muscle of his upper arm.

"Wha- "

"Mm… "

Alistair continued to stare down at her, slightly perplexed. His confusion only mounted as he came across the mangled wooden spoon in the tangle of blankets.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" he asked, and then flinched as Flora sat bolt upright in shock.

"Aah!"

Leliana put her hands pointedly over her head, rolling over to turn her back on them.

Flora, huge-eyed with alarm, cupped Alistair's ear with a hand and whispered something urgent and unintelligible. Alistair blinked, now entirely confused.

"Baby, I didn't catch that- "

"I left my SMALLCLOTHES in the Chantry," bellowed Flora, the words echoing about the draughty quarters.

Leliana hissed like a bat while the Chanter Devotia mouthed furiously, trying to find suitable words of condemnation from her limited supply. Alistair gaped for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter.

"Right," he replied, clambering back out of bed and reaching for his discarded boots. "As much as it would fulfil some young recruit's wildest dreams to stumble across the lovely lady Cousland's smalls; I have a _civic duty_ to go and retrieve them. Back in a bit, darling."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Out-of-hours prayertime! I haven't used Alistair's old metaphor for sex in ages, what was Flora's version? _Illicit hugging in the Potions cupboard!_ I definitely think Alistair is a tits man, based on… no real evidence, lol. Just a feeling!

So chewing on wood is the latest iteration of Flora's odd cravings, haha.

Please point out any editing mistakes in this chapter, lol, I had to go back to Cardiff for my friend's hen party this weekend and I've spent about six billion years on a train. KNACKERED! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	22. Rebuilding The Fereldan Wardens

Chapter 22: Rebuilding The Fereldan Wardens

A half-hour later, Alistair arrived back in the bedchamber with Flora's smallclothes bunched in his fist, trying his best to maintain a solemn expression. Leliana was snoring softly, curled up on the cushions like a cat; but Flora was still awake, chewing idly on the wooden spoon as she squinted into the darkness.

"Special delivery, darling," the king whispered, tossing the crumpled linen onto the blankets. "I was searching for them for ages, I couldn't remember what pew we were in. The Royal Guard must think me mad."

Alistair sat on the edge of the mattress to pull off his boots, while Flora navigated the nest of tangled furs to wrap her arms around his neck.

"Thank you," she whispered, plastering kisses over his bare shoulder. "I'm sorry to inconvenience you."

He reached up to cover her hand with his larger palm, rubbing his thumb wistfully over the knuckle of her bare ring finger.

"Anything for you, my queen."

Flora paused for a moment, her lips hovering just above the lobe of Alistair's ear. Somehow, that particular term of endearment seemed a little more _weighty_ than when he had used it previously. There was a purpose in the word that was almost a _promise,_ and she did not quite understand what it meant.

Then Alistair twisted his head to smile at her, the mellow whiskey-toned eyes loaned especial richness from the hearth-light. Flora stared back at him, her lips slightly parted.

"What are you thinking, Lola?"

"That you're the most handsome man in Thedas," she replied, immediate and honest. "And also… that I want to go and chew on a tree."

"A _tree?!"_

"Mm. I don't know why."

The next morning, on the way to meet the Orlesian Wardens, Flora finally got her wish. Alistair stood at the side of the inner courtyard, watching in open mouthed perplexity as his mistress broke off a shard of bark from a nearby tree. Standing beneath the shade of its obliging branches, Flora chewed away happily; a blissful expression on her face.

"I don't understand," Alistair muttered to his elder uncle, who had just arrived from the palace to join the meeting. "Is there some sort of _nutritional value_ to it? Does the baby like eating… eating _wood?"_

Eamon suppressed a laugh at the mixture of anxiety and sheer confusion on the king's face, infusing reassurance into his reply.

"Don't worry, son. It's quite normal for women with child to have such… _cravings._ Isolde used to eat lumps of coal from the hearth when she was expecting Connor."

A brief flicker of sadness crossed Eamon's face, as it always did whenever his only child came up.

"Don't worry," the arl continued, forcing his mind from the Circle Tower where his son was currently confined. "It won't do the lass any harm, nor the babe."

Flora crossed the courtyard towards them, her face flushed with contentment.

"Thank you for waiting," she said, earnestly. "I feel a lot better now. And I took some snacks for later!"

She held out her pocket, showing several chunks of bark secreted away.

There were not many chambers within Revanloch that were suitable for meetings – after all, the ostensible purpose of the building was for _reflection,_ not for politicking.

Therefore, the audience between the Fereldan nobility and the Orlesian Wardens had to take place within the same classroom where Yvon had confronted Flora the previous night. A vain attempt had been made to arrange the room for more solemn purpose: the desks had been manoeuvred into a circle, although the chalkboard at the front of the room rather spoilt the illusion.

Flora – who had never excelled within a classroom context – had nevertheless been cheered up by the sight of her lanky best friend trying to fit himself behind the initiate's desk.

"Maker's Breath," Alistair complained eventually, just about managing to fold his frame into the diminutive space. "Can you even _fit,_ Flo?"

"Yes," replied Flora, indignantly. "I can – ouch."

Although she could fit well enough, the unforgiving hard line of the seat did not feel particularly good against her sore back. Alistair, whose head had spun at Flora's grunt of pain, immediately demanded that cushions be brought.

Loghain Mac Tir arrived during the delay, limping markedly and leaning on a wooden crutch. The false limb allowed for relatively free movement, but it would take some length of time to get used to. The former general inclined his head towards Alistair, his tone gruff.

"I'd bow in the proper manner," he muttered, drily. "Except I suspect I may fall."

"It's fine," Alistair replied, hastily. "You're a Grey Warden, there's no need to bow."

Loghain lifted his chin in wry acknowledgement, then turned his dark gaze on Flora; letting out the northerner's soft grunt of greeting.

"How are you feeling, lass?"

"Alright," replied Flora, stoically.

"The babe moving well?"

"Mm, all the time."

Once several hassocks from the Chantry had been brought and carefully wedged at the base of Flora's spine, the summit between Ferelden nobles and Orlesian Wardens could begin.

Eamon glanced sideways at Alistair, ready to step in if his nephew required direction.

Alistair, however, had spent the morning working himself up into a state of mild indignation. As Yvon Cuvillier opened his mouth to speak, the king of Ferelden cut straight across him; blunt and unforgiving as a negligent headsman's axe.

"Warden-Commander, I appreciate your coming here to offer assistance with rebuilding the Fereldan Order, but assistance is _all_ we require. The lady Cousland and I may no longer have the taint, but we both still wish to superviser the rebuilding of the Wardens. Loghain Mac Tir lives, and must have some role to play."

Yvon Cuvillier raised an eyebrow, his tawny gaze swinging across to where the former teyrn was sitting, the wooden limb jutting awkwardly out to one side.

"The man known across Thedas as the Great Traitor of Ferelden?" he asked, deliberately neutral. The greying woman at his side, Clarel, let out a barely audible snort.

Loghain made no verbal response, merely lifted a shoulder in recognition. He was well aware that thirty years of loyal service to Ferelden had been erased by a single command; given in a rain-soaked valley in the shadow of Ostagar; _retreat._

Flora had opened her mouth, ready to come to Loghain's defence; but to her surprise, Alistair was already there.

"Mac Tir has repented for his actions," he retorted, immediately and without hesitation. "He took the taint and was prepared to give his own life to save Ferelden."

"And he _did_ end up giving his leg," Flora added solemnly.

 _And he saved me from Howe. And from the maleficar in the sewers._

"So, what do you propose?" Yvon Cuvillier replied, leaning forward on the desk and steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Alistair glanced sideways at Eamon, who gave a small nod. Two servants clad in Theirin finery trooped in with a map held between them, angling it so that those gathered at the desks could see.

The Arl of Redcliffe stood, retrieving a pointer from the lecturer's stand, then dropped the wooden tip to a settlement in the north-east of the country.

"This is Vigil's Keep, the oldest fortress within Ferelden. It's large enough to house a decently-sized force, and comes with adequate training grounds. The Wardens could use it as a base from which to rebuild their numbers."

Yvon nodded slowly, standing to gain a better view of the marked location.

"That should suffice well enough," he murmured, his Val Royeaux inflection shaping the vowels as they slipped from his throat. "In whose territory does it lie?"

"The former seat of Howe," replied Alistair, barely masking his disgust. "The arling of Amaranthine. But the entire Howe family has been attainted, by demand of the Landsmeet."

"So who owns it now? Presumably it is their permission that must be sought," interjected Clarel, Yvon's shorn-headed lieutenant.

"The new arlessa of Amaranthine," said Eamon, after a long moment. "Florence, will you let the Wardens use Vigil's Keep as a base to rebuild and recruit the Order?"

Flora blinked for a moment, her brow furrowing.

"Eeeh?"

Alistair realised, in the face of assassins, post-Blight confusion and Riordan's funeral, he had entirely neglected to tell Flora that she was now the arlessa of the territory that bordered Denerim to the north.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he muttered in an undertone, leaning across to direct his words into her ear. "I forgot to tell you. The Landsmeet have granted you the arling of Amaranthine, as a reward for your services during the Fifth Blight."

Flora looked slightly nonplussed and a touch perturbed; the only arlessa she knew of was Isolde, whom she did not particularly like. Still, she was a child of Herring – and therefore a master of blank-faced stoicism – and did not want to embarrass her best friend before the Orlesian contingent. Without any concept of what being an _arlessa_ entailed, she lifted her chin.

"That's fine," she said, kindly. "The Wardens can have Vigil's Keep."

Yvon nodded, as one of his juniors made a brief note on a sheet of parchment.

Alistair cleared his throat, grateful to his beloved for not causing a scene.

"And as for the new Warden-Commander," he continued, in measured tones. "Loghain Mac Tir has experience in military matters – including recruitment – and his loyalty to Ferelden is undoubted. However, the Landsmeet would not be happy at giving Mac Tir sole autonomy over an independent militia within Ferelden's borders, in light of recent events."

Loghain inclined his head in acknowledgement, his dark Mac Tir eyes watchful.

"So – if you have a suitable candidate in mind – I would propose a _joint_ leadership," Alistair continued, steadily. "Loghain Mac Tir alongside an experienced Orlesian."

A rueful snort escaped from Loghain, as a reluctant smile curled the corner of his mouth.

"You've the slyness of your father, your majesty."

Yvon nodded slowly, his lazy, leonine gaze sliding sideways to Flora.

"And would the Warden-Commander be amenable to this?"

"Yes," replied Flora, immediately. "I think it's an _excellent_ idea."

Alistair, delighted at such lofty praise from the person whose opinion he valued most, shot Flora a fleeting, proud smile; squeezing her knee affectionately beneath the table.

"And who would I have the _pleasure_ of working with?" Loghain remarked drily, dark gaze moving from one Orlesian Warden to another.

Yvon made a gesture to a tall woman with braided, greying dark hair wound in a tight bun. Her angular face was avian and memorable; her nose prominent and her eyes black as onyx stones.

"My captain, Leonie Caron, has led recruitment for the Orlesian Wardens for the past decade. Our membership numbers swelled after her appointment."

"Where in Orlais are you from, captain?" Eamon asked, having mentally run _Caron_ through his index of Orlesian nobility and come up wanting. "I am unfamiliar with the name."

"Val Royeaux," replied Leonie Caron, in an accent that most definitely did not come from any noble house. "And not from the nice parts. I've no family to speak of, save for my brethren in the Wardens."

The briefest flicker of relief passed over Loghain's face: _if he must work with an Orlesian, at least it wasn't one from some pompous branch of the peerage._

"And your experience?" Alistair asked bluntly, surveying the woman who would be responsibility for caretaking Duncan's legacy.

Yvon opened his mouth, but Caron herself replied in steady and measured tones.

"Fifteen years of service in the Wardens," she began, looking the king directly in the eye. "Responsible for recruiting nearly eight hundred Wardens over ten years. Oversaw the cleansing of a section of the Deep Roads nearly ten miles long. Led the purging of over thirty Darkspawn nests."

"An impressive resumé," Eamon murmured, thoughtfully turning the quill between his old warrior's fingers. "If the king is happy, I see no reason why this shouldn't be enacted immediately."

Alistair nodded, trying in vain to suppress a grin at the thought of Loghain having to work in close quarters with an Orlesian.

"There are still pockets of Darkspawn resistance within Ferelden that'll need to be dealt with," he stated, flatly. "It sounds as though you're well-qualified to deal with them."

There followed silence for a long moment, before Yvon Cuvillier lifted his lion-like head towards Flora.

"Then, if it is agreed, there is but one last thing to be done," he murmured, rising to his feet. "Warden-Commander Cousland, do you relinquish control of the Ferelden Order?"

Flora, with slightly more difficulty, pushed herself to her feet. Her heart gave a lurch, and for a moment she envisioned Duncan's spirit hovering near the chalkboard, looking at her with the faint smile that she could still just about recall. Leonie Caron rose to a stand; Loghain following with a soft grunt of stiffness.

"I… I relinquish control," Flora repeated, grateful that her voice sounded somewhat steady.

Yvon's voice expanded to fill the classroom, his rich, Orlesian tones reverberating about the plastered walls.

"Scribe, note for the records," he declared, smoothly. "That on the nineteenth day of Justinian – _Ferventis_ in the old calendar – Warden-Commander Florence Cousland, Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, willingly relieved her command to Wardens Mac Tir and Caron; who will henceforth lead the Ferelden Order."

Leonie Caron cleared her throat, piercing black eyes lifting to meet Loghain's.

"I suggest we ride to Vigil's Keep immediately," she stated, no longer requiring permission of her former senior officer to speak. "I want to see the condition of the buildings. Can you ride?"

"Aye," replied Loghain, grudgingly admiring the woman's forthrightness. "That's a… sound idea."

As the two conferred in reserved tones, Flora found herself in oddly wistful mood. She had not even _wanted_ to be Warden-Commander – she still remembered her shock when Wynne had named her such in the courtyard of South Reach – but she had come to accept it, much as Alistair had accepted the mantle of king.

Then she felt fingers sliding into hers, a familiar calloused palm pressed against her own. Used to deciphering the minute changes in his former sister-warden's face, Alistair had reached out beneath the desks to _fish-rope_ her, providing continuity in the midst of this great change. Flora clutched his hand tightly, inordinately grateful.

 _My anchor,_ she thought, feverishly. _I might no longer be mage or Warden, but I'm still your best friend._

The Orlesian Warden-Commander lingered after Loghain and Leonie Caron's departure from the classroom; making a subtle gesture to the scribe.

"Your Majesty, a moment, if you will."

Alistair paused, having retrieved the hassock cushions from Flora's seat and deposited them into the arms of a servant.

"Yes?"

Yvon Cuvillier bowed his head towards Flora, eyes dropping reflexively to the swell of her stomach.

"I apologise if this seems forward," he murmured, in decorous tone. "But it ought to be recorded, both for posterity, and for the archives. When exactly was the child conceived?"

"Maker's Breath," muttered Alistair, wishing that Eamon had already left the chamber. The arl busied himself with a retainer, blatantly pretending that he was not eavesdropping. "Well, it would have been when we were at Ostagar, so – around the beginning of Drakonis?"

"Carp season," added Flora, helpfully.

Yvon, who had never handled a fishing rod in his life, shot her a slightly bemused look as the scribe made a note.

"And the conception occurred in the – _ahem_ – usual way?"

Alistair's jaw dropped in disbelief and he let out a slightly incredulous snort.

"As opposed to what? By _osmosis?_ For Andraste's sake! Yes, it happened the _usual_ way. Happy? Or do you want even more _details?_ It was a cloudy night, the bedroll was covered in mildew, I think it was snowing- "

"It _was_ snowing," Flora clarified, helpfully. "You had snowflakes in your hair. They melted and dripped onto me."

Alistair's gaze softened, and he turned to face his lover; reaching out to slide a hand through her hair.

"I remember thinking afterwards, that there was no way back," he said, very quietly. "I could never be just your friend anymore, not now I had seen you in the way I had."

Flora smiled vaguely at him, letting the memories rise to the surface of her mind like seaweed cast up by the tide. She remembered the way that he had looked immediately afterwards, gazing down at her with a mixture of adoration and astonishment.

"Anyway, " Alistair said after a moment, turning back to Yvon Cuvillier with a wry, incredulous smile. "I don't know what else you want. Eyewitnesses? A _reenactment?"_

Yvon shook his head magnanimously, glancing to his shorn-headed lieutenant.

"That, ah, won't be necessary, your majesty. Thank you for your time, King Alistair, Lady Cousland."

* * *

OOC Author Note: So this was my solution to the taking over of the Fereldan Wardens – since neither Flora nor Alistair has the taint any more, they can't do it! But I always thought it was a bit odd that everyone would be ok with some Orlesian coming in to run a militia within Ferelden borders! This is my way of resolving that issue – a joint responsibility between Loghain and an Orlesian. So they can keep an eye on each other!

Yvon doesn't recommend Clarel to take over, because he knows that he'll be experiencing the Calling soon, and she's going to take over the Orlesian Order.

Replying to reviews into the reviews, thank you!


	23. Naming Baby

Chaper 23: Naming Baby

After the Orlesian Wardens had departed, conversing softly in their melodic native tongue; Eamon, Flora and Alistair were left alone in the classroom. The lunch gong sounded in the distance, followed by the cacophonous thudding of several hundred feet heading into the dining hall.

Yet Flora, unusually, made no movement towards lunch. Instead, she reached out and put a hand on Alistair's arm, her expression entreating.

"Alistair?"

Alistair had an inclination as to what she was about to say, an apology already rising to his lips.

"Darling- "

"I'm an _arlessa?"_

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry that I didn't tell you about Amaranthine. I didn't – I didn't want to give you anything more to worry about, what with everything else going on. The Landsmeet approved it last week."

Flora gnawed on her lip for a moment, then turned grave and solemn eyes up to him.

"I'm very grateful," she began, measuredly. "I think it's very nice of you, but… I don't need a reward for helping during the Fifth Blight. I just asked for a feast, and that's happening soon, so…"

She gave a mild shrug, as Alistair and Eamon glanced at each other. They had suspected that Flora might react this way; and the arl of Redcliffe had already devised a solution.

"Then how about your brother – Finian – taking temporary ownership?" Eamon suggested, swiftly. "Despite the Orlesian frippery, there's a sound head on those gangly shoulders. The men respect him, after he led Highever into battle. Since he's unlikely to have heirs – unless something drastic changes with his, ah, _predilections in partner_ – Amaranthine would revert back to your children in the future."

Flora gave a little nod, turning back to Alistair.

"That sounds good," she replied, placidly. "Do I have to say: _I_ _relinquish being arlessa,_ like I did Warden-Commander?"

Eamon snorted, shaking his head.

"That won't be necessary, lass."

Shortly afterwards, Alistair returned to Denerim for yet other inimitable meeting – this time with the mercantile guild. They were determined to make a concerted effort to rebuild the Fereldan trade network, which would first require repairs to be made to the broken King's Highway, and other roads damaged by the Darkspawn.

He arrived back at Revanloch shortly after sunset, vaulting off his sweating horse and leaving it in the safe hands of the stable-boys. Trailing Royal Guardsmen, the king took the steps up to the guest chamber two at a time; causing much consternation as those he encountered dropped into bows hasty enough to make their heads spin.

He found Leliana in the upper hallway, conversing as best she could with a stern-faced Chanter Devotia. Leliana greeted him with a peck on the cheek, her own blue eyes sparkling with interest.

"What a calling to follow," the bard mused, enraptured. "To dedicate oneself so _wholly_ to the Chant that one utters nothing else. How selfless, how pious!"

"How impossible for you, Lel," Alistair added, amiably. "You enjoy the sound of your own voice _far_ too much."

Leliana let her slender fingers collide delicately with his elbow, feigning outrage.

"Honestly! Such cheek."

Alistair grinned at the Orlesian's slender shoulder-blades, following the lay sister as she ascended the final set of steps with the fleet footedness of an elven _halla._

Templars and initiates dropped into further rapid bows as the King of Ferelden strode down the corridors; his gaze fixed purposefully in the direction of the guest quarters.

Leliana kept up a light patter of conversation as they wound their way through Revanloch's labyrinthine passageways.

"How are the preparations for the coronation going?"

Alistair shrugged a shoulder, just about restraining himself from letting out a soft and exasperated grunt.

"I don't even understand why I _need_ to be officially coronated, anyway. I'm king already, aren't I? I'm wearing a fancy hat and people call me _Your Majesty._ "

"It's tradition, Alistair. The people expect it. Besides, aren't you intending to wife our lovely Florence as part of the ceremony? That's what the Chantry Mother mentioned the other morning. Theirin and Cousland united in the Eyes of the Maker: hence, the realm stable for the foreseeable future."

Alistair contorted his face wordlessly; Leliana was a skilled interpreter of facial expression. The bard raised a plucked eyebrow with a small sigh, gesturing them onto the guest corridor.

"It seems as though the bride herself is going to be the last to know about her own upcoming nuptials. Assure me that you at least plan to propose before the _morning of the ceremony!"_

"I'm going to," retorted Alistair, indignantly. "I just want it to be _perfect._ Everything else about how Flo and I got together was all…. well, it was all death, and despair, and Darkspawn. But this can be different."

Leliana flashed him a quick, wistful smile, pausing before a narrow window to admire the streaked apricot and mauve of sunset.

"It's a sweet notion, but don't leave it _too_ long, _hm?"_

Alistair nodded dutifully, courtesy dictating that he wait for the bard as she gazed at the waning sun.

"How is Lo?" he asked, trying not to convey impatience through his tone.

"Tired," Leliana murmured in response, watching the ghostly outline of a constellation emerge from the twilight. "The babe has worn her out today, I fear. She's slept on and off for much of the afternoon."

As Alistair's mouth dropped open in dismay, Leliana stifled a smile and reached out to put a reassuring hand on the new father's elbow.

"It's wholly normal, Alistair. Don't fret."

Alistair grimaced, abandoning courtly manners and striding off down the corridor without a further word. To his gratification, the doorway to the guest chamber was guarded by no less than _four_ Templars – the Knight-Commander was clearly taking no chances.

Knight-Captain Gannorn opened the door, greeting the king with a neutral inclination of the head. Alistair half-expected his former sister-warden to be asleep, but Flora was sitting up against the cushions, slightly paler than usual but appearing cheerful enough. Leonas Bryland was sitting at her bedside, _Sea Creatures of Tevinter Legend_ clasped in his non-mangled hand. An expression of sheer incredulity contorted his grizzled features as he stared down at the contents of the pages.

"Lo!"

Lifting the crown from his head and setting it on the dresser, Alistair crossed the room in three lengthy strides and perched on the mattress. Flora smiled at him, reaching out her hands for him to clutch. His anxious hazel gaze searched her face, noting the shadows beneath his best friend's eyes and the slight waxiness of her skin.

"Love, how are you feeling?"

"Fine," Flora replied, blinking up at him. "But I've slept for _hours,_ in the middle of the day! My dad would be horrified. Herring folk don't _nap."_

Alistair inhaled, kissing her fingertips with a slightly feverish intensity.

"Arl Leonas has been reading with me," Flora continued, her smile widening. "And he brought me a _plant._ I'm going to try and keep it alive without magic!"

She gestured across to the windowsill, where a pale green tendril sprouted tentatively from a pot.

"I'll be in the dining hall when you're ready to leave, lad," Leonas offered, rising to his feet with a soft grunt. "And I'll see _you_ soon, pup."

As the general departed Alistair leaned forward, stroking his fingers over his mistress's forehead and flattening the rumpled hair with his palm. Dropping his hand to the back of Flora's neck, he touched his forehead to hers gently, pressing them together for a long moment.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, and she smiled at the endearment, her pale eyes anchoring themselves to his. "Is the baby misbehaving itself already? I heard it's been wearing you out."

"Yes," she replied, immediate and indignant. "It keeps poking me in the kidneys, even when I order it to _stop._ It must get this disobedience from you; I always did what I was told as a child."

 _Or at least I did when I was in Herring,_ she thought to herself, grimly. _It sounds like I was a brat in Highever._

Alistair inhaled, pulling the blanket back to gaze at Flora's swollen stomach. The folds of her striped Theirin pyjamas draped open, revealing the firm curve of peachy flesh that seemed so incongruous on her slight frame. He leaned forward to put his face close, assuming his best stern expression.

"Stop prodding your mother," he instructed, solemnly. "I'm the king of Ferelden, and you have to listen to me."

Alistair pressed a tender kiss to the ripe mound, feeling something shift beneath the thin band of muscle. Flora reached down to touch his tousled, tawny head as it bowed before her; Alistair caught her fingers and entangled them tightly within his own.

"Have you had any ideas about _names_ yet?" he asked, tentatively. "I was thinking about some on the ride over."

Flora was momentarily startled, her eyes widening a fraction.

 _I've called you 'little creature' for so long that I almost believed it was actually your name._

"I don't know," she said, astonished. "I hadn't thought about it at all."

Alistair smiled at her wonderingly, still bemused at the odd circumstances of _them_ becoming parents.

"Give me a name – your gut feeling!" he demanded, catching Flora off-guard. "Quick, Lo, what're your instincts saying to you?"

"Tuna," she replied, alarmed.

Alistair's jaw dropped and he stared at her with utter incredulity.

" _Tuna?"_

At the doorway, Chanter Devotia and Knight-Commander Gannorn shared a look of mutual disbelief.

"Yes," Flora retorted, defiantly. "What's wrong with it?"

"What's _right_ with it?!" countered Alistair, his hazel irises round as copper coins. "Why on earth would you name an innocent baby after a _fish?"_

"Not just _any_ fish," said Flora, stubbornly. She was prepared to defend her impulsive response, despite being wholly aware that it was also ridiculous. "The tuna is strong and powerful. It provides meat for many people. It swims _majestically."_

A muscle in the corner of Alistair's jaw flickered as he gazed at her, unsure whether or not she was joking. Flora's solemn expression gave no clue away, her grey eyes fixed earnestly on his.

"Let's have a look in here for some inspiration," he replied at last, kicking off his boots and reaching for the pile of books stacked on Leliana's cabinet.

The stars emerged like bright lanterns, hanging from a veil of twilight like some fantastical ornamentation in an Orlesian whorehouse. The initiates within Revanloch went to attend evening prayers; the piety of their hymns echoing down the monastery's draughty halls and cobwebbed hollows.

Within the chamber reserved for royal guests, Flora and Alistair rested side by side on the bed and poured through several of Leliana's heftier tomes. The far more literate Alistair would scan the pages, pointing out the various names and letting his companion enunciate them with meticulous care.

Teagan arrived, travel cloak slung over his arm, just as they were puzzling over an entry from _The Legend Of Calenhad: Volume One._

"Right," said Alistair, nodding a greeting to his uncle. "So, from this chapter, we have Myrddin and Simeon for boys, or Shayna and Mairyn for girls. What do you think?"

Flora, who was chewing the edge of a shard of bark, gave a little shrug.

"It has to be something I can spell," she said, eventually. "I don't think I could spell any of those."

Alistair closed the book, sneezing as a plume of dust billowed straight up his nose.

"Uncle, what names do you think sound authoritative and powerful?"

"Teagan," said Teagan, flashing them a wry grin as he hung his cloak on a nearby stand. "Can you spell that, poppet?"

"T-e-e-g-i-n," recited Flora, vaguely. "Is that right?"

"Not far off," replied the bann kindly, going to retrieve his bedroll and blankets from where they were kept beside the window. "Can you spell Alistair's name yet?"

Flora scowled - not appreciating the impromptu literacy test - but she liked Teagan and made a valiant attempt to rise to the challenge.

"A-l-i-s-t-a-r-e," she offered, then caught sight of Knight-Captain Gannorn's incredulous expression and grimaced. "Oh, is that wrong? It's _wrong,_ isn't it?"

Knowing that his best friend was still self-conscious about her poor literacy, Alistair drew Flora's head towards his and pressed his lips to her cheek.

"I adore you more than a nug loves elfroot," he said, kindly. "My lovely Lo."

"I adore you too," replied Flora without hesitation, pulling a small face. "And I hope that the baby gets _your_ brains, rather than mine."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Literally everyone knows now that the upcoming coronation is actually a coronation/wedding, lol – apart from Flora herself!

I've read several fanfictions where a pregnant Warden names the baby Duncan, and I did think about it for a while – but Flora and Alistair, by mutual silent agreement, have agreed not to do so. They've got other ways in mind to remember Duncan, rather than saddling a baby with such a weighty, solemn and sad memory. So, no consensus on names yet! But it's definitely not any names mentioned in this chapter, haha. Those names were actually taken from the codex entry for Legend of Calenhad!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	24. No More Oysters

Chapter 24: No More Oysters

On a damp and drizzly afternoon several days later, Flora met with the head cook from Denerim's Royal Palace. Their purpose was to discuss the feast which would shortly take place to celebrate Flora's role in ending the Fifth Blight. Her flippant, offhand comment from months prior had been taken seriously – to her slight awe and embarrassment.

In truth, Flora did not want any reward. She did not want to become an arlessa, and she certainly did not expect any _monetary_ compensation. Flora had requested that her Herring-dad be purchased a new fishing boat – and as far as she was concerned, that was sufficient. However, everybody seemed determined to impose some sort of remuneration upon her; and so she had agreed to a feast in the hope that the nagging would end.

It was a typical Fereldan summer day – despite it nearing the end of Justinian, a vast swathe of raincloud hung overhead, blurring the line between sea and sky. Rain pattered against Revanloch's leaded roof, water running in rivulets down the walls where it had managed to find some gap in the roof. Puddles formed across the uneven flagstones of the inner courtyards, and the younger, rowdier initiates delighted in crashing their boots into the pooling water.

Flora met with the head cook in the Knight-Commander's office; with the classrooms all in use, the chief Templar had volunteered his own quarters. The man – a balding human in his middle years with a belly that suggested he frequently partook of his own dishes – was so intimidated by Flora at first that he was barely able to speak.

Flora gazed in perplexion at the man as he blushed and fumbled with his recipe cards, bemused as to the cause of his discomfort. She knew that the solemn, haughty beauty of her face sometimes made her seem cold and unapproachable, but the cook had seen her many times before, during her residence in the Royal Palace.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, hating to see anyone in such squirming discomfort as the portly man accidentally dropped his sheath of recipe cards on the tiles. "Am I doing something to... disturb you?"

"No!" squawked the cook, crimson flooding to his cheeks. "No, no, no, my lady – your great _dragon-slayeriness_ \- Madame Hero of Ferelden- "

Flora realised then that it was not so much her _face,_ but her _accomplishments_ that served to intimidate. As the blushing cook spread the recipe cards across the table, she pulled an apologetic face at him.

"Please," she asked, wide-eyed and earnest. "Would you be able to speak them to me? I can't read very well."

As Flora had hoped, her humble request made the man a little more comfortable in her presence. In a far steadier voice, he read out the list of dishes that would be served in a few days time.

"A pottage of ham and leek; capon with blackberry sauce; ragout of wild deer; fried oranges from Antiva; eel and trench pie; honey-mustard spiced eggs…"

Flora had no idea what half of these dishes were, but nodded solemnly at each one regardless.

"Who is coming to the feast?" she asked curiously as the man paused for breath. "Will the army leaders be coming? The nobles?"

"The armies have already feasted and departed, my lady," the cook replied. "The nobles have also already hosted their own private banquets for their retainers. This feast is for _you,_ and you can invite whomsoever you wish."

"Huh," said Flora, shifting in her seat as the little creature nudged against her spine. "Is it taking place in the Royal Palace?"

"Wherever you desire, my lady. If you wish to eat in the gardens – although perhaps _not,_ if the weather is like this – it can easily be arranged."

Flora thought for a long moment and then smiled at him; her eyes thoughtful.

"Thank you."

The sun emerged after lunch, pale and insipid at first but then increasing in intensity as the hours drew on. To Flora's relief, the babe had deigned not to leech the entirety of her energy that day; she was able to accompany Leliana down to the rocky beach at the base of Revanloch's high promontory. Knight-Captain Gannorn, envisioning the king's limitless wrath if she fell, barely dared to breathe as Flora clambered across the seaweed-covered stones.

But Flora had spent more of her life traversing mossy rocks than she had tiled floors, and she was wholly comfortable with navigating the treacherous slippery surface. While Leliana covered herself in sunlight atop the flat edge of a boulder; Flora perused the various rock pools, dropping an expert hand into their navy crevasses. Sure enough, she had soon collected nearly half a bucket's worth of oysters.

However, to Flora's dismay, the moment that she cracked open a shell, she felt a violent curling of nausea in her stomach; strong enough that bile rose to the back of her throat.

In horror, she let the oyster drop onto the sand and went to wake Leliana, who was dozing in the late-afternoon heat.

"The baby doesn't like oysters!" Flora bemoaned loudly, as the bard grimaced and shielded her eyes from the sun. "I don't think it's related to me. How can it not like oysters? I just spent an hour collecting my midnight snack."

She scowled, giving the bucket a little discontented rattle.

Leliana ended up taking the collection of unfortunate oysters to the smoky labyrinth of Revanloch's kitchens; where the cooks took them with mild suspicion. Seafood was not a frequent occurrence in the diet of a Templar – the recruits existed on vegetable pottage, while the officers were afforded meat.

The bard ducked out of the kitchens, hearing a rattle behind her that sounded suspiciously like a large quantity of oysters being dumped out of a window. She met Flora at the foot of the stairs, and the two made their way back towards the guest quarters. Flora made little conversation; she was still sulking over the oysters, hands and feet covered in sand, and her hair teased into untidy whorls by the salt-laced breeze.

The presence of crimson and gold clad Royal Guard in the upper passageway indicated that Alistair had already arrived. Flora perked up a fraction, tilting her cheek for Leliana to kiss as the bard prepared to take her leave.

"I'll leave you in Alistair's capable hands," the lay sister murmured distractedly, already planning what she intended to do with her two hours of relative freedom. The Grand Cleric had been so impressed with Leliana's exquisite singing voice that she had requested the bard perform a solo at the next day's Evensong.

The Royal Guard flanking the entrance to the guest chamber shifted their pikes to acknowledge Flora's arrival. One opened the door for her; with a smile of gratitude, she stepped inside the chamber, blinking at the dimness within.

Alistair – worried that the chamber might be too cold for his pregnant mistress – was just drawing the heavy curtains closed, shutting out the chilly evening air. A fire had already been lit in the hearth, though its flickering reach only extended partway across the dusty floorboards.

Although the connection of shared blood between them had been severed, Alistair still recognised the sound of his former sister-warden's step. He turned around, unable to stop a reflexive grin from spreading across his face as he set eyes on Flora.

"Sweetheart!"

Flora beamed back at him, barely registering the golden band atop his head or the _facial hair of authority_ sprouting from his jaw. Instead, she saw only her best friend and long-time companion, and went scuttling eagerly into his open arms.

Alistair embraced her, delighted in no less degree. After clutching her tightly to his chest for several long moments, he drew back a fraction and dropped his hand to her stomach, sliding an affectionate palm over the swollen mound of flesh.

"How are you feeling, darling?" he asked, gratified to see her looking fresh-faced and beaming.

"Good," she replied immediately, peering up at him through her eyelashes. "I slept well last night."

Alistair smiled down at her, lifting his palm to cup her cheek; brushing a thumb along her angular cheekbone.

"But," a solemn Flora added, watching her best friend's expression change almost comically at the conjunction. "I don't think the baby can be related to me."

Alistair looked somewhat perplexed, looking at her, then down at her stomach, then back at her face. His eyebrows shot into his hairline.

"Wha- ?!"

"It doesn't like _oysters,"_ Flora complained, indignant. "How can it not like oysters? They're the _best._ They're so flavourful, and salty; and you don't need to waste time _cooking_ them, you can just eat eighteen at once without stopping. They look so beautiful, with their shiny black shells, like… like _mysterious snails of the sea."_

Alistair studied his best friend's earnest face as she soliloquised about the qualities of oysters; trying his hardest not to laugh out loud. A legacy of her Herring upbringing, Flora rarely spoke in such volume outside exceptional circumstance.

"Maker's Breath," he said, as she paused to inhale. "You make me so happy, Flo."

Flora interrupted herself mid-sentence and smiled shyly up at him; he gazed back down at her, with the green filaments standing out stark in his hazel irises.

Without another word, Alistair drew her down onto the window bench, letting their mouths collide in lazy trajectory. As he kissed her tenderly and without reservation, Flora curled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck; vaguely remembering a time when he had been too self-conscious to kiss her in public. As Alistair had grown more comfortable with the notion of being king, he had also become accustomed to the lack of true privacy that accomplished such a status.

Still, if they had been in the Royal Palace, the king would have eventually ordered any other occupiers of the room to leave. As it stood, Alistair was not entirely sure that his jurisdiction held within Revanloch, and so did not order the Templars to depart.

Chanter Devotia was snoring on a pallet near the door, in preparation to take the second half of the night shift. Knight-Captain Gannorn gritted his teeth, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and hoped very much that the king was not planning to actually _bed_ his mistress. Based on tavern songs he had heard on the occasional patrol around the city, the new Theirin and his crimson-headed Cousland were known for their brazenness. Fortunately for the uncomfortable Templar, the occupants of the window seat managed to exercise some degree of restraint.

Flora inhaled unsteadily, able to breathe only when Alistair's mouth wandered down her throat, his hand pulling her hair loose from its restraining band. Moments later, his lips were parting hers once more, his tongue insistent on laying claim to her mouth as though it were territory to be won.

With Flora's back angled towards the Templar, Alistair was able to work his hand through the opening of her tunic, seeking the curve of her bare breast. He kissed her ear as his fingers meandered gently over the firm mounds of flesh; considerate of their new sensitivity.

In contrast to the tenderness of his touch, Alistair's gaze caught Flora's like a barbed hook. His pupils were blown wide and black with desire, all traces of her compassionate brother-warden vanished in a swell of raw-edged lust.

"By the Maker, Lo," he whispered in her ear, voice throaty and desirous. "I want you so badly, I can't think straight. All I can think of in meetings is _you,_ naked on the furs in the Royal bedchamber."

He ducked his mouth to her neck, tugging the soft skin gently with his teeth as his fingers sought out her nipple.

Flora tilted her head to the side with an appreciative little grunt, trying to envision herself posing seductively amidst the velvet cushions. The thought amused her slightly – sexual allure had always been more Leliana's area of expertise. Additionally, with her swollen stomach, sore feet and aching back; she did not feel at her most _beguiling._

Suddenly, there came a confident rap on the window, several inches from Flora's head. A figure cloaked in shadow crouched on the sill, features obscured and the glint of weapons at their hip.

Alistair reflexively drew his mistress into his arms, twisting to position his own torso between Flora and the glass. From the doorway, the Knight-Captain drew his sword with a singing metallic chord, and made to stride across the room.

Flora peered over Alistair's shoulder, then beamed and reached out to tap her fingers against the glass in response.

"It's Zevran," she said, as the king let out a muted sigh of relief. "He's back! What does he have against _doors?"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: So of course seafood is a big no-no for women who are up the duff! To Flora's horror, her body has developed a gag reflex for oysters, lol. She's actually genuinely enraged by this, since oysters were a Herring staple!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	25. An Assassin Within Revanloch?

Chapter 25: An Assassin Within Revanloch?

Alistair leaned forward to unfasten the rusting window catch, standing back as the frame swung inwards with a creak. The elf, lithe as a cat, slithered his way onto the bench, his face hidden by a low hood. The formfitting leathers he wore gleamed oddly in the candlelight, leaving dark smears wherever they touched the wood.

"Greetings, _mis amores,"_ he purred, weariness running through the words. "I am very glad to see you both. And I am seeing quite a _lot_ of you, _mi florita."_

The elf drew back his hood, winking leisurely at Flora in a way that did not quite hide the deep lines of tiredness scored beneath his eyes.

Flora absent-mindedly tightened the laces of her tunic, brow creasing as she stared at her Crow companion more closely. Reaching out, she pressed a finger to the oily patch on the elf's leathers; when she withdrew it, the tip came away a brownish-red.

Alistair came to the same realisation moments later, inhaling sharply in dismay.

"Zev," he breathed, alarmed. "Are you _injured?"_

The elf shook his head, fatigue ingrained deep in the angular crevasses of his face. His olive skin appeared a shade paler than usual, the tattooed marks standing out as though freshly inked.

"No, _mi rey._ It is not my blood."

Alistair barked for a servant; one came scuttling into the room with head bowed. The king proceeded to deliver a set of terse instructions: for a bath to be brought up and the lay sister Leliana to be located.

Meanwhile Flora was gazing anxiously at the elf, her eyes dropping to the blades at his hips. They were still caked in dried blood, and it was this that alarmed her more than anything, since the Crow took meticulous pride in the care of his weapons.

"Zevran," she whispered, alarmed. "Wha- "

"You are looking radiant, _mi sirenita,"_ he interjected, skilfully avoiding her concern. "Fecundity suits you, my ripening little peach."

Flora frowned at him, unswayed by his diversionary tactics. The elf continued, determinedly.

"Anyway, I have _news_ of your assassin. I shall update you both on the situation; appraise you of what I have learnt- "

"Not before you bathe, and sit down properly," Flora interrupted, with Herring bluntness. "And have something to _eat."_

A muscle in Alistair's jaw flickered – he was keen for any news on the one who had attempted to kill his beloved and best friend – but acquiesced to Flora's solemn declaration.

Zevran eyed her for a moment, and then sighed, leaning his white-blond head back against the glass. Flora surreptitiously looked him up and down, noting a bloodied smear of crimson on the pointed length of his ear. Licking her thumb, she reached out, and wiped it away.

It was a kind and oddly maternal gesture; the elf exhaled slightly unsteadily, anchoring his fingers in the folds of his leathers to stop himself from touching her.

"You must be hungry if you've been travelling," Flora said, glancing around. "Hm, what would you like?"

Unfortunately, the only food present was that which satisfied her own strange cravings – bundles of tree bark, a basket of earth-covered turnips and a pot of mint sauce.

"I'll have some fare brought up," Alistair called from across the room, shoving the poker into the hearth to perk up the flames. "I can hear your stomach rumbling from over here."

Flora knelt up and refastened the window, pulling the curtains closed once again. When she turned around, the elf had his eyes closed; in his stillness, the violet shadows etched around the sockets stood out all the more starkly.

Unsure whether or not he was dozing, Flora reached out and touched her finger to his cheek, tracing the faded pattern tattooed against the rich, stewed-tea skin.

Zevran opened a dark, inscrutable eye and watched her, a myriad of indescribable emotions swirling in the depths of his pupil.

"You look tired, _carina,"_ he murmured, seeing the remnants of similar shadows beneath Flora's own eyes. "Is it the babe keeping you awake, or has our king been exercising his _royal prerogative_ at every available opportunity? Have the Templars been amenable to granting you some privacy, hm?"

Flora had no idea what a _prerogative_ was, and so merely smiled enigmatically in response.

The elf realised that she had no idea what he was asking, and let out a weary chuckle. Reaching out, he mirrored her gesture; letting his thumb trace the high angle of her cheekbone.

"Congratulations on your retirement, Warden-Commander. I heard about the visit from the Orlesians. Did they smell of sugared violets and political intrigue?"

Flora pulled a little face at him, slumping down against the wall and resting an absent-minded hand on her belly.

"I think they tried to take over the Fereldan Wardens," she replied, somewhat uncertainly. "But Loghain Mac Tir is in charge now, along with one of their lieutenants."

"They'll watch each other like hawks," called Alistair from across the room, batting out a spark that had landed on his knee. "Loghain won't have time to get up to anything devious; he'll be too busy making sure there's no foul play from the Orlesian woman."

Despite his weariness, Zevran managed to summon a wry chuckle, dark eyes flashing.

"You're making Loghain work with an Orlesian? How deliciously _twisted_ of you, Alistair. Perhaps they'll hate each other so much that they'll fall into bed."

"Maker's Breath!"

"Aaah!"

Neither Flora nor Alistair were much grateful for this mental image being inserted into their heads.

Soon afterwards the bath arrived, alongside a fleet-footed Leliana. The bard elbowed her way impatiently past the servants, going to greet Zevran with a smile.

" _Mon chèr,_ " she murmured, kissing the elf's tattooed cheek as he winked at her. "You must tell me the results of your investigations later."

He inclined his head, tucking away a strand of platinum hair that had escaped its tight braid.

Alistair directed the bath to be placed beside the hearth, as Flora went to intercept a servant carrying a tray.

"Thank you," she said, casting an appraising eye over the contents. There was a pot of freshly brewed tea, and an odourless vegetable stew accompanied by several slices of thick, grainy bread.

Zevran lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth, just about managing to disguise the faint curl of his lip that accompanied any Fereldan cuisine.

"Tell me, _nena._ Has this country ever heard of using _spices_ to flavour its food?" he begged after a moment, wide eyed. "If not, I know several Antivan merchant princes who are always looking to expand their trade networks."

Flora smiled at him, patting her stomach as the little creature nudged against her kidneys.

The servants soon departed, leaving the bath steaming before the fire. Zevran – like Flora – had never been self-conscious about disrobing before others. Discarding his bloodied leathers and similarly-coated blades, he strode across the room, tan and feline.

Alistair coughed, hastily directing his attention to the hearth. Leliana, who appreciated both aesthetically-pleasing male and female forms in equal measure, eyed the elf surreptitiously. Flora, who had a healer's ambivalence to the naked body, dutifully followed in the elf's wake with the congealing, tasteless stew.

" _Ayuadame,_ its following me," breathed the elf, glimpsing the hated bowl from the corner of his eye. "The stuff of nightmares. I will stick to the marginally less offensive bread, I think, _mi florita."_

Flora nodded, perching carefully on the stool beside the bath as the elf lowered himself into the water.

"Alistair," murmured Leliana, drifting across the room like some ethereal spirit in her flimsy Chantry robes. "I have also been making some enquiries about our three remaining Howes."

Alistair's head snapped up from the hearth, his stare tautening as it met the duck-egg blue gaze of the bard. Reaching out, he took Leliana's arm and drew her to one side; lowering his voice as he glanced back at his seated mistress.

"Tell me, Lel."

Meanwhile, Flora rested her arm on the side of the bathtub and prodded at the floating foam with wary suspicion. Fortunately, there was no offensive flowery aroma rising from the water – Revanloch soap was made from plain, unscented animal fat.

Zevran exhaled unsteadily, closing his eyes and gripping the edge of the bathtub. Flora eyed his slender fingers, the nails of which were caked with something dark and sticky. Her gaze travelled over his faintly discoloured knuckles, which appeared to have recently made contact with something organic and yielding.

The elf watched her from beneath pale, half-lowered eyelashes, hair plastered to his shoulders.

"Do not judge them too harshly, _mi sirenita,_ _"_ he murmured wryly, watching the soapy residue congeal atop the tepid water. "They are not the large, honest hands of your former _brother-warden,_ strong and sword-calloused. They are the hands of a killer."

"I like your hands," Flora retorted, gazing enviously at the elf's graceful fingers. "They're very elegant."

"And they have done many gruesome things, _carina,"_ the elf said, watching the water roll down his forearm. "Things which would give you nightmares, if you were still capable of having them."

Flora held up her own smaller, far less elegant hand, with the fingernails bitten and the strange, moon-colour marking seared across the palm.

"Well, I once broke a man's head into pieces with this hand," she replied, recalling a rain-soaked balcony and the flash of sheer terror in Rendon Howe's eyes as he realised that Flora was _not_ Tranquil after all. "And I still like it well enough."

Zevran smiled back at Flora, the bone-white of his teeth in gleaming contrast to the rich lustre of his tattooed skin. He reached out with wet fingers and gripped her wrist, bringing her hand close to his face and eyeing it, solemnly.

"This is the hand of the _Hero of Ferelden._ The hand which slew the Archdemon and ended the Blight. I'm surprised the Landsmeet haven't wanted to preserve it."

Flora looked alarmed. "Cut it off?!"

" _Cara,_ no! I mean immortalising your fingerprints in plaster."

"Oh."

Later, after the elf had deliberately lingered over dressing to make Knight-Captain Gannorn distinctly uncomfortable; king, Cousland, bard and assassin sat down together as Zevran prepared to share his findings.

Flora leaned back against the cushions, incongruously hoping that she could push right through them and disappear into the depths of the bed. She had quite happily been in denial for the past fortnight – Howes, assassins and poisoned blades had been lodged firmly in the back of her mind – and was not looking forward to Zevran's revelations.

Alistair, conversely, was sitting bolt upright. One hand was resting protectively on Flora's bare calf, palm sliding up and down the skin. The fingers of his other hand lingered near the hilt of his nearby sword; as though ready to take it up immediately against any offending parties.

"So I have questioned Delilah Howe," Zevran began, wet hair hanging dark and wet around his bare shoulders as he paced about the bed. "She has married a commoner, and no longer considers herself a Howe. I have it confirmed by three sources that Rendon Howe disowned her six months ago, due to her _lowly_ choice in partners. She is with child – much further along than you, _carina-_ "

"Hence the marriage," whispered Leliana, surreptitiously.

" – and when I questioned her, there was no lie in her face. She is fully cognisant of what an animal her father was; of his betrayal at Highever, the kidnap of Florence Cousland and subsequent plan to illegally Tranquilise her."

Flora cringed, as she always did whenever the hated man was mentioned. Alistair felt her flinch as though struck, and a quick flash of Theirin anger passed across his face like an ill wind. Muttering a curse under his breath, he reached out and drew her beneath his arm.

"The elder brother is still in the Marches," continued the elf, quietly. "And although it would not be _impossible_ for him to orchestrate some scheme from there, my little birds suggest otherwise. No, it is the younger brother, _Thomas,_ whom I believe is behind this plot."

"Thomas," Flora said in disbelief, remembering the sallow-faced youth who had sat opposite her at Howe's dinner table. "I said sorry to him for killing his father. He said that he didn't even _like_ him!"

"Where is he?" the king demanded in sudden rage, releasing his mistress and reaching for his sword. "I swear to the Maker, I'll go there tonight, I'll get some men- "

"Hold, Alistair," Zevran replied, reaching to place slender fingers on the fuming man's elbow. "I have not finished. I have made enquiries amongst the various assassin guilds – the Denerim Avengers, the Beards, the Loyalists, amongst others – and nobody knows of a contract on _mi florita's_ life. Indeed, they were near-incredulous at the prospect. Unsurprisingly, nobody wants to go after the _Hero of Ferelden."_

Alistair, whose eyebrows had risen into his coppery hairline at the sheer number of assassin guilds apparently operating within Ferelden, ground his teeth.

"So, what are you saying?" he asked, bluntly.

Zevran turned to Flora, who was anxiously rubbing the heel of her hand across her stomach.

" _Nena,_ I believe that it was not an assassin who made the clumsy attempt on your life in the Chantry," he said, quietly. "I believe it was Thomas Howe _himself._ Furthermore, I believe that he has located himself nearby."

"How do you know that?" demanded Leliana, her eyes at once both shrewd and surprised.

Zevran slipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers, withdrawing a small vial filled with a blackish-green ichor.

"I distilled the poison used onto the assassin's blade into its various essences," he murmured. "The core component was the crimson lily-wort, a flower only found along this particular stretch of coastline. I believe that Thomas Howe is nearby, possibly _very_ nearby."

"Within Denerim?" Leliana asked, softly. "Hidden in one of the caves along the coastline?"

"Or even closer still," replied Zevran in low tones, the surface humour that usually danced across his words entirely absent. "Perhaps within the monastery itself."

There was a silence, during which Alistair gaped in horror; loosing his grip on the sword hilt and tucking his lover beneath his arm once more. Flora swallowed, feeling the little creature nudge against the base of her spine.

"There are three hundred initiates here," murmured Leliana, glancing around as though her pale blue gaze could penetrate Revanloch's stone walls. "How old is Thomas Howe, two decades? He could easily blend in amongst them."

"I'll have the recruits numbered and interviewed tomorrow," Knight-Captain Gannorn interrupted from beside the door. "If this Howe is hiding within Revanloch, we will find him."

Alistair was already on his feet, sword at his side, looking ready to lead an immediate charge into the initiate dormitories. Leliana reached up to put placating fingers on his elbow, shaking her head.

"Alistair, brute force is not the way to bring this vile creature to the light," she breathed, as the king put a despairing hand to his head. "We must proceed carefully, or else we will drive the Howe back underground. We know that he can be stealthy – after all, he slipped from Eamon's estate without notice."

Alistair groaned, turning to Zevran with a raw plea in his eyes.

"Zev- "

"Give me a day," replied the elf, quietly. " _One_ more. I believe I am close."

Alistair stared down at the former Crow, who raised cunning dark eyes to meet his own.

"But, if he _is_ here, Lo is in danger," he said, a clear note of despair ringing through his words. "If anything happens to her- "

"I will not allow it," said Zevran throatily, a harsh, ragged edge to his reply. "You _know_ I would not permit a hair on her head to be harmed. Or for any misfortune to come to your little babe. The thought is… _anatema."_

Alistair glanced once towards the door, paused, then nodded wordlessly. Letting the sword drop to the floorboards with a clatter, he strode to the sideboard and poured himself a flagon of ale with a trembling hand.

Flora, her own alarm sufficiently assuaged by Zevran's reassurance, shifted position amidst the furs until she could put her arm about his neck. The elf reached up to touch her fingers as she pressed her lips affectionately against his cheek; his eyes half-closing.

Alistair threw back the flagon in a single, quick gulp, barely noticing its stale tepidness.

"Right," he said, low and determined as he turned back towards them. "What do you need me to do?"

"Return to the city tonight, as normal," replied Zevran, steadily. "Host tomorrow's meeting with the Fereldan merchants, as planned. Basically, do not act as though you are suspicious. If our treacherous _halla_ catches the scent of a wolf, then it will flee."

"Does that make you the wolf?" Flora asked, resting her chin on his shoulder.

" _Sí,"_ breathed the elf, and there was a dark menace in his smile. "My claws have been sharpened, and my belly hungers for foul traitor-meat."

"Oh! Are you going to _eat_ him?"

" _Qué?!"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooohhh, so the treacherous Howe is within Revanloch! Now we'll just have to draw him out of hiding….. Nathaniel Howe is going to make an appearance later on; I can just do more headcanon stuff with Thomas, since there's no lore on him. At least, not that I can find, anyway!

Hurray, Zevran is back! He's one of my favourite characters, and I really adore the closeness between him and Flo. I do feel sorry for him – I bet Ferelden cuisine is super bland, if it is meant to be based off Medieval England, lol.

I'm going back to Wales for a few days, so I'll probably be able to update next on Wednesday or Thursday! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	26. To Be A Current, Not A Rockpool

Chapter 26: To Be A Current, Not A Rockpool

Once Alistair had departed, with even greater reluctance than usual, the other occupants of Revanloch settled down for the night. A lone priestess tended the eternal flame in the Chantry, while the guards made silent patrol along the monastery's crumbling ramparts. A watchful moon filtered through the clouds, penetrating the broken roof tiles with rays of searching light; as though attempting to illuminate any possible Howe intruder lurking within.

Up in the guest chambers, Bann Teagan, who had had a long day arguing with the stonemasons about the cost of rebuilding Denerim's broken defences, was snoring away on the bedroll. Leliana had just finished applying her facial unguents, and was leaning forward; eyes closed in pleasure as Flora knelt at her back, kneading her fingertips into the bard's skull.

" _Ma petite_ ," Leliana murmured, exhaling as the tension across her temples began to dissipate. "Just so you are aware. There may be some time tomorrow when I, and your usual Templar guards, will not be with you."

Flora blinked, sliding her fingers in slow circles behind Leliana's ears. The bard's strawberry blonde locks felt conditioned and silken, much – Flora reflected – like the bard herself.

"Oh!"

"If that is the case, Bann Teagan will be with you, as will Lieutenant Rutherford."

"Alright," said Flora, bemused. "Why?"

The bard made no reply, merely let out a little sigh and rolled her shoulders. Flora stuck an immature tongue out at the back of Leliana's skull. The next moment, she felt bad and pressed her cheek affectionately against her companion's hair.

"Well, I'm sure you have a good reason for it," Flora conceded amiably, leaning back into the cushions and yawning. "Watch out for Thomas Howe. He might jump out at you from behind the Grand Cleric's giant hat!"

Zevran, who had just been admiring his own taut, biscuit-brown torso in the mirror, turned around and flashed them a brilliant smile.

"Bedtime, with my two beautiful _pelirrojas_!"

Skipping across the floorboards, the elf made to gleefully clamber into bed beside Flora; Leliana let out a warning snarl.

"On my other side, _dépraver_!"

Zevran pouted, but obediently rolled across to relocate himself on the far side of the bed. Leliana lowered her lacy eye mask just enough to shoot him a warning glower.

"Envision me as the impenetrable wall of Minrathous," she said sternly into the darkness. "None shall pass."

Zevran blew a plaintive kiss in Flora's direction, over Leliana's muscled, silk-clad stomach.

"Alas, we must postpone our passion once again, _carina_."

"Oh, well. Have some interesting dreams," Flora replied, smiling sleepily back at him. "Tell me about them in the morning."

An owl hooted from the depths of some vaulted crevasse, a light night-time drizzle pattered against Revanloch's roof tiles. The city of Denerim, sprawled on the estuary two miles to the north, was lost in a caldera of smoke and shadow; its braziers smouldering in vain defiance of the sodden darkness.

Alistair, tossing and turning within the Royal bedchamber, stretched out an unconscious hand into the hollow of the mattress. Flora's old fishing jersey, its fraying navy wool unravelling in a half-dozen places, lay on the pillow beside him.

His sleeping mind was crowded with images of faceless Howe descendants, each one brandishing a fragment of their father's broken skull. He saw his best friend, vulnerable and defenceless, startled fingers flying to her throat as a dozen crimson birds flew from her mouth.

The king awoke in a cold sweat, shouting out in alarm. Moments later, several guardsmen burst through the doors with pikes raised, torchlight sweeping the chamber.

After reassuring the guards that all was well, Alistair leaned back against the cushions, trying to calm his racing heart. He reached for Flora's fishing jumper and held it against his chest, finding some small measure of comfort in the salt-roughened wool.

Meanwhile, within the decrepit towers of Revanloch monastery, Flora herself was having a restless night. The little creature was testing the boundaries of its confined quarters, nudging irritably against her kidneys and spine. She had tried sleeping propped up against the cushions, curled on her side, and eventually tried rubbing her hand over her belly in an attempt to soothe it.

 _I shouldn't call you little creature_ , Flora thought to herself, pressing the heel of her palm against her swollen stomach. _Everyone keeps saying how big you are._

 _Please don't get too big. I'm already not sure how you're going to… fit._

 _I mean, I know how it happens. I'm a healer. I just can't see it happening in this instance. Especially if you've got three more months of growing to do._

The rubbing motion seemed to settle the not-so-little creature, and Flora managed to glean an hour or so more sleep. When she woke next, it was to the sound of the guard changing shift on the midnight bell.

Yawning, she was about to roll over and attempt to reclaim sleep, when the balance of light inside the room shifted; shadow and moonbeam briefly merging as a figure moved before the window.

In mild alarm, Flora sat up and rubbed her eyes, squinting towards the opened curtains. A moment later, she recognised Zevran's form silhouetted before the leaded glass. The elf was leaning back against the stone frame, naked from the waist up, his hair braided neatly behind his head.

Yet it was his expression that caught Flora's attention; the tan features uncharacteristically austere, the gaze clouded and distant. There was none of the usual humour in the laughing mouth, which was pulled taut.

Flora shoved the blankets back with a foot, taking care not to tread on Bann Teagan as she clambered inelegantly upright.

Immediately, Chanter Devotia let out a little cough of warning from where she was stationed beside the door, her violet eyes narrowing through the shadows. The Chanter clearly believed that Flora was ready to embark on another of her nocturnal wanderings, and relaxed a fraction when the Cousland padded towards the window instead.

Zevran heard Flora's approach, and turned to face her, his angular features immediately assembling themselves into a charismatic smile of greeting.

" _Carina_ ," he murmured, teeth very white against the gloom. "Why are we up at this hour?"

Flora looked at him dubiously, the gold mote embedded within her iris gleaming with reflected moonlight. The elf continued in a similar charming vein, his smile fixed and brilliant.

"Doesn't this lighting suit me, hm? I look almost Dalish. I heard the forest elves caper and cavort about beneath the full moon – or perhaps that is the Witches of the Wild, I know not."

He held out a sinewy arm, the lean muscle harbouring the coiled strength of a wildcat. The tattooed markings extended down his shoulder-blades and wound to his elbows, the ink faded from longevity.

"Zevran, I thought you were Antivan," Flora whispered back, solemnly. "Not Orlesian."

Zevran managed to maintain his charming grin while simultaneously twitching his brows together in confusion. Flora propped herself up against the opposite window frame and continued to stare at him, unblinking.

"I am bemused, _nena_ ," the elf said at last, quizzical and smiling. "What do you mean, Orlesian? Surely my fashion sense is not that bad?"

Flora made a little gesture, passing her fingers in front of her face with a smile and a frown in quick succession.

"The mask," she explained, pale eyes unfathomable as the Waking Sea. "You're wearing it now. You don't need to, not in front of me."

Zevran stared at her for a long moment, the smile gradually turning rictus.

Subtle as a sea change before a storm, the veil of outer charm slipped away. The elf seemed to age several years before her, his mouth pulling grim and humourless; old regrets shadowing the rich depths of his irises.

Flora did not say anything, but looked at him silently; for once, she was not distracted by the sight of the nearby ocean. The elf was never shy about shedding clothes in daylight – he revelled in his own fine-hewn physicality – but the daylight warmed the rich skin sufficient to hide what lay beneath its surface.

Conversely, the silvered hue of moonlight illuminated a dozen old wounds, the scar tissue pale and discoloured. Some appeared to be the careless remnants of battle – from the rare occasion an opponent had managed to land a lucky blow – but others were of far more insidious more nature. These earliest ones spoke of systematic and deliberate infliction; of chains, and manacles, and a punishing lash.

Flora looked at them, recalling the brief fragments that the elf had shared with them about his childhood with the Crows.

 _They were… not kind to my fellow bond-slaves and I. Most of us did not survive training._

 _But, enough of that! Where to now, hm? My, the colouring of sunset suits you, mi sirenita._

"I think you are lucky, _mi florita_ , not to dream any longer," murmured the elf at last, pensively. "I wish I was afforded the same luxury."

Flora leaned her head against the window frame, wistful and contemplative.

"I think I would have had a lot of nightmares," she agreed, her pale eyes seeking out his. "Is that why you're awake? A nightmare?"

Zevran almost smiled and spun her a pretty lie, then remembered that Flora had politely and insistently requested the removal of his mask.

" _Sí_ ," he replied instead, soft and without pretence.

"Si," repeated Flora, in her flat, northern augmentation.

"No: _sí_ , like this. Sí. _Sííí_."

"Si," she said obediently, then smiled at him. "Is that better?"

Zevran flashed her a quick, ambiguous grin; his gaze sliding sideways towards where the moon left dappled patches on the vast, dark swathe of ocean.

"What was your nightmare about?" Flora asked after a moment, fiddling with the fraying sleeve of her Theirin-crested pyjamas.

For a moment, Zevran stared at the window as though the reflections of his reproachful dead were gazing back at him through the leaded glass. The elf flinched fractionally, the movement so infinitesimal that Flora almost missed it.

"Tell me, _bella_ ," he said, quietly. "Do you think that your Herring past will ever leave you? Or does the saltwater run so deep in your veins that it is impossible to drain?"

Flora made a vain attempt to decipher the elf's euphemism, her brow furrowing. Eventually, she gave up and asked him to clarify.

"What do you mean?"

The elf gave no reply for a moment, turning his eyes away from the sad imagined faces of betrayed friends. When he spoke, the words emerged low and rueful.

"I do not think that I will ever leave my mistakes behind, _mi florita_. The shadow of the crow's wing will fall across my path for the rest of my life."

Flora pressed her finger against a warped mark in the glass, thoughtfully. The elf continued in a quiet, dry voice; grateful that she had not attempted to interrupt him with platitudes.

"You said in the Brecilian Forest: Zevran, you are free. But I am a prisoner of my own past, _carina._ I do not wish to be a Crow, but if I am not a Crow, I… I do not know what I am."

Flora held her breath as her friend continued, wondering what arcane alignment of stars had occurred to prompt this uncharacteristic confession. Zevran had rarely mentioned his youth with the Crows on their travels; clearly, it was a rite of passage he chose not to dwell on.

The elf licked his dry lips, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cool, uneven glass.

"During the Blight, I had a purpose – to assist you and Alistair in defeating the Darkspawn. What now is the purpose of Zevran? I am masterless, guildless, aimless."

He opened his eyes, to see Flora proffering a tankard of weak ale, having spotted it abandoned half-drunk on the sideboard.

In defiance of his usual caution when ingesting strange fluids, Zevran drank the liquor in three long gulps, grateful for its tepid refreshment. Flora watched the muscles in the elf's tan throat contract as he swallowed, thinking on how to best phrase her thoughts.

"When my spirits left me, I didn't know what to do," she said at last, careful and solemn. "They had been with me for as long as I could remember, longer than any real person. I thought they were my parents when I was younger, because the other children in Herring teased me about not looking like my dad."

Flora swallowed, feeling the perennial sadness rise once more to the forefront of her mind.

"When they left – were destroyed? – I felt useless. I felt like a crab in a rock pool; trapped in my own body, weak and… and pointless."

" _Nena_ ," said Zevran, and then cut himself off as she continued; her voice small.

"And I still feel a bit useless, even now. But…"

"But?"

"But," Flora whispered, determinedly. "I'm sure I'll find some new purpose, now that there's no Blight. Even though I can't heal anymore, and my spirits are gone… I can do something else. I can move on from them, from my old life. I'm sure I can. I have to, or I'll never… I'll never grow up."

Zevran looked at her, his dark pupils thoughtful and unreadable. She was looking out at the ocean, fingertips pressed against the glass, more dark red hair hanging free from her braid than was contained within it. The pyjama shirt – clearly one of Alistair's, from its size – drooped just enough at the neck to show the highest arc of the white scar between her shoulder-blades; the Chantry-like sunburst that had resulted from the Archdemon's soul attempting to take root.

 _"Mi florita_ ," he murmured eventually, and then trailed off; unsure what to say.

Flora smiled sideways at him, quick and fleeting as a fish darting through a patch of sunlight-dappled water.

"And if I can move forward, you can, too. We'll be currents together," she said, determinedly. "Currents, not crabs stuck in rock-pools."

Zevran opened his mouth to speak his heart plainly, and then arrested himself at the last minute; reaching out to finger a thick rope of loose hair.

"Currents, not rock pools," he repeated instead, feeling his gut constrict. "Constantly moving forward, not stagnating."

"I know it's going to take a while," Flora added, pulling a rueful face. "I saw a skull on a tapestry the other day – you know, the battlefield scene in the Chantry corridor? - and it reminded me of my Golden Lady. I spent the whole afternoon as an… an _emotional shipwreck_."

She grimaced, nudging her fingertip into a pockmarked section of the window pane. There was silence for a few heartbeats; an owl called out for its mate from somewhere beyond the glass.

"Why are you so kind, _carina_?" the elf asked eventually, watching Flora trace her name in the condensation.

"Because," she replied, soft and without hesitation. "People have been unkind to me."

Zevran inhaled suddenly, turning away from her and staring very hard up at the beams that ran horizontally across the ceiling.

"Go back to bed, _amor,_ " he said, an odd throatiness blurring the words.

"Eh?" said Flora, blinking. "Why?"

"Because I like Alistair very much," the elf continued, measuredly. "And I do not wish to disrespect him by kissing you, _advertencia justa_."

Flora's brows drew together as she thought on this. After a moment, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his cheek, firm and affectionate.

"Try and get some sleep," she told him kindly, clambering off the window bench. "You and Leliana have some big plans tomorrow, apparently, which neither of you will tell me about!"

The elf inclined his head, feline gaze tracing her steps across the room.

"Remember what our bard said," he murmured, the words carrying easily through the still, damp air. "If we are not with you tomorrow, stay with the bann."

* * *

OOC Author Note: OK I literally edited this on my phone with 0 signal on the Welsh coastline so apologies for any glaring spelling errors! I hope I've not completely messed up this chapter, because I actually love this one – I think it's really important for Flo's character development. And of course, I love Zev as a character and I think he's so much more complex than just a flirtatious rogue! I've only touched on the complexity in my account, but I wanted to at least allude to it.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	27. A Conversation With Cullen

Chapter 27: A Conversation With Cullen

When Flora awoke the next morning, she was alone amidst the rumpled blankets of the bed. Bann Teagan was dictating quietly to a clerk clad in Redcliffe colours at the door; while a familiar Templar with curly blond hair stood stiffly beside the hearth. Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia were nowhere to be seen.

Flora rubbed her eyes with her thumbs, yawning. The sun was spilling through the leaded window, illuminating the dusty floorboards with a languid, buttery light. The Herring part of her soul was immediately ashamed at sleeping in so late; it must have been at least _mid-morning_.

"Sorry, poppet." Teagan turned away from the clerk, apologetic and freshly-shaven. "Did I wake you?"

"No," Flora replied, her curious gaze sliding sideways. "Morning, Lieutenant Rutherford."

The lieutenant swallowed and began a reply that was an octave higher than normal; before clearing his throat and making a second attempt.

"Good morning, my lady."

But Flora was so distracted by the terrible realisation that she had _missed breakfast,_ that she did not reprimand Cullen for his use of her honorific title. Immediately anxious, she put a hand to her stomach, feeling the little creature nudge against her palm.

"Has everyone broken their fast already?" she breathed, dismayed. "I need to go to the kitchens."

The bann stepped to one side, revealing a tray of freshly cut fruit and seeded rolls resting on a low stool.

"Here," he said, hastily. "Anything else you want, just let one of the servants know. Lay-Sister Leliana has requested that you… not leave the guest quarters today."

Flora, already halfway across the room, paused with one hand stretched towards the tray. She blinked, pale eyes moving from Teagan, to Cullen, then back to the bann.

"I can't leave the rooms?" she asked, nonplussed. "Why? What's going on?"

The younger Guerrin shot a quick side-look at the lieutenant; Flora spotted the fleeting exchange of glances, and narrowed her own stare.

" _Why_ can't I leave?" she repeated, an unconscious note of Cousland imperiousness creeping into the query.

Teagan let out a sigh, taking a step towards her.

"Leliana and your Crow are now convinced that Thomas Howe may be hiding within Revanloch," he said, watching Flora's eyes widen in alarm. "It's almost a certainty, in fact."

"So he _is_ here?" she breathed, disbelieving. _"In the same building?"_

Indeed, it appeared that Revanloch's crumbling chambers and labyrinthine passages had harboured a more insidious presence than mildew or mice.

"I… I- "

Seeing Flora mouth wordlessly as she paled, the freckles standing out like flecks of tan ink against her nose, Teagan hastened to reassure her.

"Child, no harm will come to you," he hastened to reassure her. "I swear by the Maker. Don't be frightened- "

"I'm going to knock his teeth out!"finished Flora, the words emerging as an enraged hiss. "He's _here?!_ Let me out, I'm going to find him, I'm going to _find_ him and impale his manhood on a fishhook; which I will then _use as bait!_ If it's anything like his father's, it'll be miniscule- "

Cullen, who had witnessed Flora's similarly violent outburst in the Chantry after the initial assassination attempt, was not taken aback. He stepped across to bodily block the doorway as Teagan gaped, momentarily too surprised to intercept Flora as she lunged forwards.

"I wish I'd never said sorry for killing his dad now," Flora fumed, sidestepping like a crab in an attempt to dodge the stoic-faced young Templar. "I should've butted out his teeth with my head. I'm going to do it now, once you _move out of my way!"_

"Flora, _no."_

The combination of her name, and the authority in the officer's voice, caused Flora to come to an abrupt halt. For a moment, she was no longer _lady Cousland_ or _king's mistress_ _;_ but merely an apprentice being reprimanded by a Templar. Despite no longer possessing magic, deference to the Chantry's soldiers was still ingrained within Flora's psyche.

"It's important that you stay here," Cullen repeated, a fraction less sternly. "The bard Leliana requested it."

Inwardly, the young officer was quailing at his own audacity – after all, this was the _Hero of Ferelden_ whom he had just told off. But Flora had visibly given up; her head hanging in defeat. She had remembered her promise to be _cautious,_ and knew that that charging down Revanloch's damp corridors (like an enraged bull) in pursuit of assassins was perhaps not the most sensible course of action.

 _You're alone now. There's no one to protect you any more. No shield but your own skin._

Frustrated at her own vulnerability, Flora went to sit on the bed with shoulders slumped.

The next few hours passed with excruciating slowness. The quiet noises of Revanloch at day – muffled footsteps, hushed conversations, the distant clash of training swords from the inner courtyard – seemed to taunt Flora; now that she was confined to within four walls. The thought that Zevran and Leliana might be engaged in some potentially dangerous activity – involving a Howe, no less – while she was trapped useless inside the room, proved a source of great frustration.

Teagan dragged the writing desk over to the window, where there was the best light, and busied himself with correspondence. The young Templar lieutenant stood beside the door, one hand on his blade in readiness, chin raised.

Flora had taken her cards of Theodesian leaders to the bed, but she had memorised every angle of their inked faces already. Gazing across the room, her pale irises settled on the young Templar, whom she had first come into contact with during her earliest years at the Circle.

"Lieutenant Rutherford," Flora said eventually, her words breaking the silence.

The officer, who had been making a conscious effort not to look at Flora as she sprawled back against the cushions, now had little excuse. Hoping that his cheeks were not deepening their colour, Cullen returned her stare.

"Yes, my lady?"

Flora let the card featuring Empress Celene slip from her lap, pressing her fingertips together thoughtfully.

"We've known each other for a long time," she said, thoughtfully. "And you probably know a lot about me, after… after everything."

"Well, all of Ferelden knows about you now, I would assume," Cullen replied, with a wry half-nod of acknowledgement. "If not Thedas."

"I imagine that Herring is going to become a rather popular destination for travellers in the future," Teagan added from beside the window. "People will be curious to see where the Hero of Ferelden grew up."

Flora was silent for a moment, knowing that such an influx of strangers into the insular community of Herring would cause no small amount of consternation. Deciding that she could do nothing about this grim prospect, she pressed onwards.

"But I don't know a thing about _you."_

"What would you wish to know, my lady?"

Flora thought hard for a moment, frowning. She had incorrectly predicted that the shy young man would politely deflect any personal enquiries, and thus had not prepared any questions.

"I feel as though you're from a small village, like me," she said at last, carefully. "Is that right?"

"I was raised in a village by the name of Honnleath," the Templar said, with a slight inclination of the head. "There weren't many of us there. Our Chantry was only a little larger than these chambers."

"Where is Honnleath?" Flora asked, unfamiliar with the name.

The junior officer paused, before continuing in a carefully measured voice.

"It… it _was_ in southern Ferelden."

The use of the past tense did not escape Flora, who understood immediately that Cullen's hometown had met the same fate as poor, lost Lothering.

"Oh," she breathed, immediately regretting having asked. "I'm sorry."

"My family fled when the Darkspawn came," Cullen continued, steadily. "To South Reach."

Flora grimaced once more at the mention of Arl Bryland's doomed seat. She dared not ask if his relatives had survived the horde's assault; yet the young captain continued to speak without prompting.

"My sisters and brother made it to Denerim, thank Andraste. Our parents were delivered to the Maker's side."

Cullen spoke with the resigned tone of a man who had prematurely forced himself to come to terms with such a tragedy. Flora, who had been devastated by the departure of her spirits, was humbled by the man's Herring-like stoicism in the face of an even greater loss.

Letting the rest of the cards fall from her lap, she clambered out of bed and crossed the chamber, coming to a halt before the Templar. Not wanting to make Cullen uncomfortable, she made no attempt to embrace him; but reached out and took his gloved hand, clasping it between both of her palms.

"I'm sorry," she said solemnly, meaning it. "I'll never forget the villages and towns that the Darkspawn stole from us. Their names have been engraved on my bones."

It was an odd expression of sympathy – a typically fatalistic northerner's saying - but the sincerity of the words was clear. Cullen glanced down at her, his bruised, bronze gaze meeting her steady silvered one.

"Thank you."

Flora nodded, letting his hand go after a final tight squeeze.

"I should have known you were a man who had sisters," she said, angling the conversation gently away from death. "You were always kind to me in the Circle. Are they younger or older?"

"Mia is the oldest," Cullen replied, some of the rigidity loosing in his face as he uttered his sister's name. "Rosie is only sixteen summers old."

"Sixteen," repeated Flora, trying not to grimace as she envisioned the horrors that the girl must have experienced over the past year. "Are they still in Denerim?"

"Yes, I- I believe so."

"You don't know?"

The Templar coughed, eyes darting over her shoulder towards the window.

"The Chantry discourages contact with our families," he muttered, stiffly. "They suggest we do not even think on them. They're seen as a distraction."

"Oh."

Flora, who could not envision her family being anything other than an integral part of her life, glanced down. Then the Templar coughed, a slight awkwardness creeping into his tone.

"I was never very good at that part," Cullen said, frankly. "The forgetting of the family. It's my second greatest failing as a Templar."

"What's the first?" Flora asked, curious.

There was a brief pause, while the officer considered how best to phrase his answer. When they emerged, the words were carefully selected.

"Not following protocol when I found out that you were violating curfew. You should have been disciplined for climbing up onto the roof."

Flora peered up at him through her eyelashes, the corners of her mouth tightening in disapproval.

"It's not a failing to be kind," she told him, sternly. Cullen's eyes slid evasively from her own, darting once more towards the window.

With that said, Flora went to retrieve _S_ _ea Creatures of Tevinter Legend,_ taking the book over to the window bench to glean some light from the watery sun. The Templar watched her as she went; the latent meaning of his words writ plain across his clean-shaven face.

 _My greatest failing as a Templar was how I felt about you. I harboured inappropriate desires, in violation of my sacred oath to the Chantry. I almost acted on them._

Teagan, who recognised that particular brand of longing only too well, rose from the writing desk in a pretence to fetch some ale. As he passed the young officer, he lowered his voice and directed his words like a spear-thrust into the man's ear.

"Mind yourself, Templar. She is for the king _."_

 _And if I can keep my feelings submerged, so can you._

"I know, my lord. I am… I've requested a transfer to Kirkwall, in the Marches," Cullen replied, not quite able to look the bann in the eye. "They're telling me it'll be a promotion."

"Hm," said Teagan shrewdly, watching the young man's gaze edge back over the room in small increments, until it was settled once more on Flora. She was puzzling over some inscrutable word from _Sea Creatures of Tevinter Legend,_ holding the book an inch before her face and squinting at it in bemusement.

"Well, I think that would be a good idea, lieutenant. Need some help, petal?"

This last part was directed to Flora, who was now holding the book upside-down in an effort to extract some sense from the text.

"Yes! Please!"

Flora made no further attempt to leave the room that day; after all, she was more than used to being confined in cramped quarters. She puzzled over several more entries from _Sea Creatures_ with Teagan, then spent an hour writing out a series of improvised sentences that the bann dictated.

Many of them were related to the great horse fairs of the Marches that Teagan had attended in his youth. Flora painstakingly scribed statements such as _the dappled grey mare was sold for fourteen guineas,_ and _the final steeplechase was won by a brave Ferelden Forder._

The bann, with a patience that he had not known he possessed, corrected each misspelled word, adding in capitalisations and commas where necessary.

Grateful for Teagan's assistance, Flora opened her mouth both to thank him and suggest a tactical break; anxious not to dissuade the bann from helping her in the future.

Teagan appeared about to follow her suggestion, half-rising to his feet as he set down the quill. Then, struck by an idea, he sat back down and cleared his throat.

"Do you know how to spell _Theirin,_ pet?"

Flora thought for a moment, her expression dubious. She had a vague idea, but the name was full of confusing vowels and she was not entirely sure where they all belonged.

"T-h-," she began, then trailed off. "Um: _T-h-e-r-r-a-n?"_

"I'm going to teach you how to write it," the bann said, not quite looking her direct in the eye. "So that you're confident in the future."

 _When you're using it as your new name,_ he thought with a faint pang of regret. _Surely, you must have some inkling as to what Alistair intends by now?_

Flora smiled at him, reaching to pull a fresh sheet of parchment onto her knee.

"Alright," she said, and there was no hint of realisation in either expression or reply. "Teach me."

* * *

OOC Author Note: So I wanted to show how conflicted Cullen is in this chapter – he's def still got some issues from the whole desire demon torture episode! He still carries a torch for Flora, but feels incredibly guilty over it – hence him being like YES YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN DISCIPLINED FOR GOING ON THE ROOF to Flora, lol. So he's going off to Kirkwall to try and get this rid of this inappropriate desire!

Slipped in a nasty little memory of Flora's imprisonment in Fort Drakon by Rendon Howe – when he forced her to bathe him, believing it to be the ultimate test of whether she was really Tranquil or not. Surely a Cousland who retained pride and dignity in their heritage would never stoop to such lows, with the man who had ordered the slaughter of Highever! Luckily, Flora had a healthy dose of Herring stoicism, and a healer's indifference to the naked body – hence she could maintain her poker face.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you! Oh I got a new commission of Flo, it's on my tumblr! thelionandthelight (all commissions are on the subpage /florart)


	28. In The Traitor's Lair

Chapter 28: In The Traitor's Lair

The hours passed by slow and steady, beams of light moving gradually across the floorboards as the sun began its long western arc. Teagan finished his correspondence and positioned himself at the window, watching various Templars come and go beneath Revanloch's crumbling entrance arch. The city of Denerim was visible in the distance, the Royal Palace perched on its supervisory edifice high above the estuary.

Cullen Rutherford was still berating himself inwardly for informing Flora that he ought to have had her disciplined for breaking curfew in the Circle. He stood, stiff and unhappy, before the doorway, tawny eyes fixed on the plastered wall opposite, mouth folded into a tight line.

Flora watered the plant that Leonas had given her, then became unduly anxious that she had over-saturated it. Not wanting it to die – after all, she could no longer prod life back into it with a finger – she spent several minutes scooping out the excess water with a spoon. Deciding grimly that horticulture wasn't for her, she sat back down on the window bench, taking the seat recently vacated by Teagan. Turning over the parchment so that _the Ferelden Forder won the steeplechase_ was on the back, she began to painstakingly scribe her own sentences.

This was an arduous and time-consuming process, and soon a sweat had risen to Flora's forehead. She bit the end of the ink-pen, unable to stop herself from gnawing the end of the wooden shaft. Before she could stop herself, she had demolished near a quarter of it with her teeth.

"Bann Teagan, I've eaten your pen," she called across the room, sweating and unhappy. "I'm really sorry, the baby made me do it."

The bann came over and inspected his gnawed ink-pen, snorting. Curious, he glanced over Flora's shoulder at the scribbled sentences, one eyebrow rising.

"What's this, poppet?"

"A letter to Connor," she replied, frowning down at her spelling. "Do you spell Gregoir, _G-E-E-G-A-R?"_

Teagan paused, the chewed ink-pen motionless between his fingers; something odd flickering in the depths of his pale green Guerrin gaze.

"You're writing to my nephew?"

"Mm, at the Jainen Circle. I wrote to him when we first came to Denerim, I told him I would. He wrote back. He's seen lots of ships, and he's made a friend called Hen- _Henrich."_

When she wasn't delivering a speech for a specific purpose, the rhythm and flux of Flora's diction was classic Herring – short, rather abrupt sentences, strung together like fish on a line. Yet, Teagan was not listening to her peculiar northern delivery. The bann was still speechless at the revelation that – in the middle of the assembling of the army, in those frantic, dark days before the horde arrived at the city walls – the young Cousland had remembered a promise she had made months ago to a frightened ten year old boy.

"Anyway, how do you write Gregoir?" Flora repeated patiently, plucking the ink-pen neatly from the bann's fingers. "Grongor? _Gree-gwaaar?"_

Teagan took a deep, steadying breath; forcing the storm-surge of inappropriate emotion back into his gut.

"Shift over on the bench, lamb, I'll check your spellings. I'm not sure about Gregoir, but I'd wager it's not spelt _Gree-gwar."_

Worn out from such mental exertions, Flora decided to have a short rest. The baby, after shifting restlessly in her belly for an hour, had also deigned to settle down; mother and child taking concurrent naps. Entirely nonchalant about preparing for bed with others present – after all, she was a veteran of communal sleeping quarters – Flora changed back into her striped Theirin-crested pyjamas. Teagan gritted his teeth and directed his eyes to the ceiling; while the Templar kept a carefully neutral expression.

Seagulls made lazy circles around the crumbling towers of Revanloch as the sun eased itself beneath the horizon. Instead of the usual dinner gong, there came a strange succession of noises from somewhere within the monastery's labyrinthine heart. There was a distant echoing crash, followed by a quickly muffled shout. The acoustics of the cloisters meant that the sounds were projected even as far as the guest quarters, rousing Teagan from his musings.

The Mabari at the door – one of the guard-dogs brought down from the palace – let out a low growl of warning as the bann's hand went to his sword-hilt, immediately alert. He crossed the room in six steps, positioning himself at Flora's bedside.

Cullen, who had also heard the noise, drew his sword with a singing of metal as he met the bann's quick glance: _yes, I heard it too._

Flora, whose quick nap had accidentally turned into a four hour snooze, woke disorientated, having been disturbed by the bann's footsteps rather than the strange noise. In an instant she took in Teagan's vigilant expression and the Templar's drawn sword, and sat up in alarm.

"Wha- "

In the distance, there came the sound of running footsteps, metal boots against time-worn flagstones. Another shout followed it, ragged and muffled. Flora heard this new set of noises, and frowned in confusion, swinging feet legs out from beneath the furs.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know," replied Teagan tersely, keeping close at her side. "Stay with me."

Flora shot him a slightly bemused look, wandering over to the window and peering down into the courtyard. Her face immediately brightened, spotting a familiar crimson and gold banner leaning against a wall.

"Ooh! Alistair is here," she said, pleased. "I wonder why he hasn't come up? Maybe he's on his way."

Another distant shout echoed through the corridors of the monastery. Teagan glanced at Cullen, and the Templar gave a brief nod; positioning himself before the door.

"I'm hungry," continued Flora obviously, giving her swollen belly an absent-minded rub. "Did I miss dinner? Do you think there'll be anything left? That's _two_ meals I've missed today."

Nobody made any reply, and she scowled over her shoulder, one palm spread over the window pane.

There suddenly came a loud, staccato rap on the door, so loud and unexpected that it startled each occupant of the room. The bann let out a muffled blasphemy under his breath, drawing his own sword as he shot a quick glance at Cullen. The Mabari snarled, low and threatening.

"Call off the dog," came a terse, familiar snap from the other side of the wood. "The danger is over."

It was the Templar Knight-Commander, and Cullen hastened to open the door. The man strode in, seemingly aged a decade, shock and rage engraved into the lines of his greying face.

"What's happened, man?" Teagan demanded, not quite ready to sheathe his blade.

The Knight-Commander glanced at Flora, who now looked thoroughly confused.

"My lady," he said, heavily. "The king is asking for you."

From the tone of the man's voice, it was clear that Alistair was not asking for, but _demanding_ that his mistress be brought to him.

Unable to locate her boots, Flora ended up sliding her feet into a pair of Leliana's silk slippers; which were too large and required the curling of toes to keep in place.

They followed the Knight-Commander down a series of passageways, past whispering initiates and restless guards. All of Revanloch seemed to be aware that something strange had transpired, that something was _not quite right._ Teagan, sweat beading on his brow, kept so close to Flora's side that he was almost treading on her heels.

Soon, it became clear that they were heading towards Revanloch's main Chantry. Clumps of grim-faced Royal Guard shifted their pikes from hand to hand as Flora approached; a tacit acknowledgement of their future queen.

There was a crowd gathered before the great doors that led into the Chantry. It was made up mainly of Templars and Royal Guardsmen, yet there were a not-insignificant number of soldiers clad in Highever livery also present. It was a Cousland retainer who first spotted Flora's approach, and gave a sharp bark of instruction.

"Make way for the lady Florence!"

The crowd parted before them, quiet and sombre.

Beyond the great doors, Revanloch's Chantry appeared the same as it had always done; a vast, cavernous space lined with a forest of ancient pillars. The stained glass windows and plethora of candles made little headway against the incense-scented shadow, yet there was a distant side-chapel that blazed with the brightness of torchlight.

It was towards this illuminated enclave that the Knight-Commander headed, his expression becoming more strained by the minute. A cluster of senior officers were gathered within the small chapel, huddled around a statue of Maferath.

The tallest man in the group turned around, hair gleaming burnished gold in the reflected light. Yet Alistair's face was pale and sickly beneath the summer tan, twin wolves of fear and anger fighting in his expression. A fine line worked its way across his forehead, and he appeared to have aged several years since Flora had last seen him.

The moment the king set eyes on her, a vast and indescribable relief passed over his face. Abandoning his terse conversation with a senior officer, Alistair strode forward with arms outstretched.

"Flora _."_

Flora, who still had no idea what was going on, went dutifully into her best friend's embrace, letting Alistair fold her tightly against his chest. She could feel the reverberation of his racing heart, thunderous within his ribcage.

"Alistair- "

" _Thank the Maker."_

"What's going on?"

"Just let me hold you for a second, Flo, I can't _think_ straight- "

Flora gave up on extracting any sense from Alistair, clutching a fold of his tunic and letting him calm himself against her body. One of Alistair's hands had slid down to cradle the swell of their child, cupping it with a protective palm.

Out of the corner of her eye, Flora saw Teagan make his way through the crowd, then seemingly disappear into the ground. After a moment, she realised that a bronze grill set into the tiles had been moved to one side, revealing a flight of mildewed stone steps. They appeared to descend into a shadowed recess beneath the chapel, from which more angry and incredulous voices were rising.

Flora thought that she recognised one particular murmur; and indeed moments later Fergus Cousland emerged from the hidden stairway, his expression very grim.

"Fergus," she breathed, then repeated his name a little louder, squirming away from Alistair's arms. _"Fergus!_ What's happened?"

Fergus let out a low hiss of warning directed towards the Cousland retainers gathered about them, shaking his head quickly from side to side.

"Don't let my sister go down there and see it," he instructed, voice taut. "It won't be good for the babe."

Flora, who was now beginning to grow a little irate, thrust Alistair's arms away and strode towards her brother; trusting in the haughty arrogance of her face to convey an authority that her striped pyjamas lacked. The Cousland soldiers, caught between loyalty to the teyrn and reluctance to stand in the _Hero of Ferelden's_ path, looked mildly terrified. Ultimately they gave way, letting Flora confront her brother.

"Who's down there?" she asked, bluntly. _"What's_ down there?"

Fergus' eyes slid over her shoulder to Alistair, knowing that the king was the only one who Flora would ultimately listen to; not because of the crown, but because he was her best friend and former brother-warden _._

"Alistair, the shock won't be good for the child," the teyrn repeated, hearing muffled conversation from below. "You ought not let her- "

"Flo will be fine," Alistair said heavily, knowing his lover better than any other man present. "She can handle it, she's seen far worse. Sweetheart, let me help you on the steps."

This was in response to Flora, who had dodged Fergus' restraining arm and was striding determinedly towards the stairs. Alistair shot forward with remarkable speed for a man his size, reaching out to grip Flora's elbow as she peered down the treacherous flight.

"Lo, let me go first."

The steps were basalt and crumbling from age; there were at least a dozen of them, descending to a candlelit hollow beneath the Chantry tiles. Alistair led the way, keeping a tight grip on his best friend's arm as she navigated the treacherous stairwell. Flora slid one hand along the wall, the stone slick with mildew beneath her palm.

At the bottom lay a subterranean crypt that was both ancient and decrepit. The curved stone ceiling was cracked, the altar long since crumbled away into fragments. Spiders had decorated the low vaulted stonework with veils of webbing; these too were coated in a thin, dusty film. Candles – Flora recognised them as ones stolen from the Chantry above – littered the floor, their wax melting into soft pools on the broken tiles.

Yet it was not towards the scattered bones or ancient altar that Flora's eye was drawn, but to the figure hanging from a rusting iron hook bolted at the highest point in the curved stone ceiling. Thomas Howe, slack and grey, rotated slowly as he dangled by the neck; his expression contorted. Mottled black and blue bruising was visible on the skin beneath the taut ligature.

Flora had seen a hanged apprentice in the first month of arriving at the Circle (and her first drowning at the age of seven); dead men held no fear for her, especially after the events of the past year. Still, she felt a pang of sadness as she gazed upon the young man's bulging-eyed face, since Thomas Howe had only been her age.

Zevran and Leliana framed the scene, he leaning against the wall and cleaning a blade, and she in the process of removing something from her hooded cloak. It appeared to be some sort of padding, and to Flora's surprise, she spotted her own missing boots on the bard's feet.

"Thomas Howe _was_ here," Flora breathed, astounded. "All along. Are you alright?"

Casting a wary glance at the hanging man, she sidled past and went to her companions; her eyes sweeping over them to ensure that they were not hurt.

"We're fine, _ma crevette,_ " Leliana replied, her face flushed with pleasure at a job well done. "Zevran, perhaps you would like to recant the story? This is the fruition of your scheming, after all."

The elf nodded, unable to stop his lip curling in contempt as he eyed the rotating corpse.

"I wanted to ascertain whether my suspicions – and the rumours from my contacts - were correct, about the Howe being present within Revanloch. When he first attacked you, _carina,_ it was from within this Chantry; so it was here that Leliana and I put our plan into motion. With the aid of your Templars, of course."

Zevran made a gesture, and Flora turned to see Chanter Devotia and Knight-Captain Gannorn flanking the stairwell, their expressions equally neutral.

"Our lovely bard took your boots, borrowed your mourning garb and your voice, and made a loud display of grief outside the Chantry; sending the Templars away so that she could pray for her departed spirits alone. Providing the perfect bait for our would-be assassin."

Flora turned to Leliana, noticing the discarded cushion that the bard had used to emulate a swollen stomach.

"You pretended to be _me?!"_ she breathed, astounded. They both had red hair, but in all other aspects, the tall and graceful bard was Flora's physical opposite.

Leliana pulled the dark veil of mourning back over her face and somehow appeared to _shrink,_ carrying herself in such a way that she seemed several inches shorter.

"' _Leave me in peace!'"_ she demanded throatily, in a near-perfect emulation of Flora's flat northern tones. _"'I want to say a prayer for my spirits without you both glaring at me!'"_

The inflection, speech pattern and mannerisms were flawless; Flora's jaw dropped in shock.

"Leliana, you sound just like a Herring girl," she said after a moment, her eyes wide and round. "You're so _clever."_

The bard smiled demurely, pushing back the veil and reclaiming her full height.

"Well, the Howe was fooled well enough," she murmured, eyes lifting towards the shadowed ceiling. "He made his move in the Chantry, 'forcing' me down here at knife-point. Very quickly, it became clear that I was not his intended prey."

Flora's mouth twisted in dismay and she went over to her companion, reaching out to clutch Leliana's slender, lace-gloved fingers.

"That was so _dangerous_ for you," she bemoaned, clasping Leliana's hand tightly and bringing it to her chest. "You could've been hurt."

Meanwhile, Alistair had crossed to stand beside Zevran; his face still contorted with rage and relief. The elf glanced sideways to confirm that Flora was still preoccupied with Leliana, then lowered his voice.

"I offered him a choice of farewell: the noose or the knife," Zevran murmured, dark irises settling once more on Howe's dangling figure. "Just as you requested, _mi rey._ No possibility of _carina_ feeling sorry for him and begging for his life."

Alistair gave a taut nod, his green-flecked hazel eyes lacking even the slightest shred of remorse.

"I know he was young – well, my age – but he threw a _blade_ at Lo. No mercy for anybody who tries to harm her, _ever."_

"I agree, Alistair. And, see- "

The elf made a gesture towards the back of the crypt, just as Flora withdrew anxiously from Leliana.

They turned as one to see a strange tangle of metal and leather near the crumbling wall; the torchlight reflecting off stained chains and blunt-edged blades.

Fergus, avoiding a half-broken skull lying on the dusty floor, approached the pile as though in a dream. Reaching down, he lifted a pair of rusting manacles, a metal gag attached by a corroded chain. Other various instruments lay haphazardly amidst the crumbling fragments of brick; a pair of pliers, a blade with jagged teeth, a spiked cuff for the neck.

"Maker's Breath," the teyrn muttered, contempt infusing the words. "The sick little bastard. These are _torture_ devices."

Flora flinched as Alistair inhaled unsteadily beside her, the king's pupils shrinking to small dots of unadulterated hatred. A heartbeat later, he had wrenched a pike from a nearby guardsman, striding across the dusty tiles towards the manifestation of Howe's sadistic urges. Spurred by a volatile, barely controlled rage he used the blunt wooden end of the pike to systematically break manacles and torture devices alike into fragments of jagged metal. This was no small feat; but Alistair's strength was fuelled by unadulterated fury. He laid into the twisted iron as though he were beating in the skull of a Howe – father or son – fragments of stone skidding outwards as the tiles splintered under the brutal battering.

Meanwhile, Flora looked down at her stomach, feeling a lump of sadness rise painfully through her throat.

 _Little creature: can you feel pain in there? I don't think you would have survived what Thomas Howe had planned for me._

The thought of the unborn child experiencing even the slightest discomfort was so distressing that tears threatened to spill over her cheeks. Flora took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. She envisioned her Herring-dad's familiar scowl; his furrowed grimace of disapproval at such a rampart display of emotion.

 _Calm down. Alistair needs you to be calm; or he'll get even angrier._

 _You're a northerner. You're the rock against which the ocean breaks itself._

She took another steadying breath, envisioning the soft, grey whisper of waves creeping over shingle-ridged sand. Walking past the hanging corpse without looking at it, she crossed to the back of the crypt; where her former brother-warden was losing himself in a fit of brutal, helpless rage.

"Alistair," Flora said, and her quiet, flat intonation was enough to break through the muddied crimson haze of Alistair's fury.

He turned with the guard's pike still gripped in his fists, eyes wide and staring. Flora stepped forward, kicking the remains of a manacle across the dusty tile, and reached up to touch his face.

 _Calm down,_ her eyes warned him, torchlight catching on the gold flick embedded within the pale iris. _Brother-warden._

"Flora," the king said, raw and despairing. "He wanted to _torture_ you. I could tear him apart with my teeth, like a Mabari."

"Alistair."

" _Look_ at all this stuff, Flora! He wanted to hurt you – to _punish you._ Maker's Breath!"

"It's pointless to get angry about things you can't change," she replied, with Herring-instilled practicality. "Think about what you can do stop such things happening in the future. It's more _productive._ "

Alistair deflated, anger draining out of him like a spilt wine glass as he saw the logic behind her argument. He let the pike drop from his hand as though it had scalded him; the wooden length clattering onto the fractured tiles. Flora gazed hopefully up at him and he reached out to cradle her cheeks in his hands, framing her face with his cupped fingers.

"My northern star," he said at last, the words emerging soft and rueful. "Right, then."

The king turned to the others crowded within the crypt, his face filled with grim purpose.

"I want the body cut into four pieces and hung over each entrance to the city," he said, referencing the standard punishment for traitors. "And Fergus, you've a Mabari bitch in pup?"

"Aye," replied the teyrn, with a nod. "Saela. She's from the same litter as Jethro, very good blood. Due in a month or so, according to the kennel-master."

"I want two of the pups – the _strongest_ two – for Flo. To guard her, and the babe."

"I think that sounds very good," replied Fergus, relief infusing the words. "I was saying to Finn the other day; if only my father had had more hounds at Highever, Howe's treachery might have been averted."

Alistair exhaled unsteadily, his hand stretching blindly behind him. Flora's fingers wrapped themselves dutifully in his, and the king drew his mistress to stand close at his side.

"And Zev, Leliana, anything that you want, you'll have it," he said, quietly. "Anything within my power to give. I can't thank you enough for what you've done."

Both bard and Crow immediately opened their mouths to protest, but Alistair shook his head to interrupt their rejection.

"Think about it," he instructed, firmly. "Let me know."

"Aye," added Fergus, stepping forward to pass a palm over his little sister's head. "I'm a man of great resources, too. I'm sure that between us, we can come up with a suitable reward."

" _Your Lordship,"_ murmured Zevran, a faint teasing tone to his reply. "We once swore that we would protect our Warden from all who wished to harm her. That oath did not end when the Blight did."

Flora, inexplicably touched, extracted her fingers from Alistair's and stepped forward; avoiding the Cousland retainers as they busied themselves retrieving the dangling corpse. She embraced both of her companions in turn, not quite sure how else to express her gratitude.

That night, Alistair took far longer than normal to part from his mistress; unable to remove images of rusted manacles and other cruel devices from his mind. He stood in Revanloch's outer courtyard, mindless of the pouring drizzle, his arms wrapped around Flora's waist as he gazed down at her in the torchlight. She stared back up at him, the fire moving across her face like the setting of the sun; hair hanging in damp tendrils before her ears.

"I love you," he told her for the third time in an hour; for the thousandth time in six months; earnest as when he had first confessed it in the bedchamber at Redcliffe Castle. "I love you more than I can say. Maker, I can't wait for this month to be over."

Flora smiled up at him, grateful that some of the tension had drained from her brother-warden's furrowed brow. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the remains of Thomas Howe being brought out wrapped in undignified hessian sacking; a cart waiting in readiness to transport the corpse to the city.

Despite everything that had transpired, Flora felt a pang of sympathy for a young man who had been born into a cruel family through no fault of his own; who had been warped by the twisted predilections of his father, and consumed by a subsequent need for revenge.

 _I hope you find some peace in the Fade,_ she thought, swallowing her sorrow so that Alistair did not see it. _I hope the spirits are kind to you._

Turning her gaze from the hessian sacking as it was dumped unceremoniously in the back of the cart, Flora stood on her toes to kiss her best friend on the mouth.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, as Fergus waited patiently on horseback nearby. "I love you too."

Alistair bowed his head to close the ten inch difference in height between them, kissing her on the nose, both cheeks and mouth in rapid succession; clearly reluctant to leave.

"Alistair, any much longer and it's going to be your birthday," Fergus called down impatiently from the saddle. "Justinian will end, and you'll still be attached to my sister's _face_."

"Is it my birthday soon, too?" asked Flora, with vague curiosity.

"Aye, Floss," replied Fergus, smiling at her. "The day after. First of Solace. Are you looking forward to it?"

"As much as any other day," said Flora, honestly. She had never celebrated her birthday, and had only a vague understanding of when in the year it fell. Nobody in Herring put much stock in the day they were born; and they certainly did not expect anyone else to recognise the occasion.

Fergus glanced at Alistair, who had a slightly odd expression on his face.

"Well, you'll be turning two decades of age, Lo," the king said, carefully not looking directly at her. "It's a… special moment. It needs to be properly commemorated."

"I'm not going to be 'two decades' whatever that is," Flora corrected, shooting him a puzzled look. "I'll be _twenty._ One up from nineteen."

As she held up a finger to illustrate Alistair bit back a laugh, kissing her on the mouth to hide the grin.

"That's right, darling. My mistake."

* * *

OOC Author: Classic Flora at the end there, lol. Maths is not her strong suit! Or writing, or reading, haha.

I wanted to have a bit of Leliana being a badass in this character – and also show off her bard/rogue-y type skills! With the masquerading as Flora in her mourning gear (including the veil), to lure Thomas Howe into showing himself.

The chopping the traitor into bits and hanging them at the city entrances sounds messed up, but was a legit tactic used in Medieval times to dissuade criminals! But I also wanted to show a bit of hardened Alistair. Flora still has some residual guilt after blowing up Rendon Howe's head (oops), so she would have shown some compassion towards his son.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	29. An Audience With The Grand-Duc

Chapter 29: An Audience With The Grand-Duc

Three days later, the morning of Flora's celebratory feast arrived. It was an unusually fine Fereldan summer day, the sky a clear and uninterrupted swathe of duck-egg blue, blurring into an Amaranthine ocean unruffled by breeze.

Within Denerim, the people chattered amongst themselves excitedly; the gossip on the streets being that the _Lady Cousland_ was returning – albeit temporarily – to the city. Royal Guardsmen were bribed to leak details of her route up to the palace; which gate would be used, and whether she would be travelling on roadways or taking a barge. Fortunately, Theirin soldiers were loyal – and wary of the king's reprisal - and they betrayed no details of the lady's chosen course.

Still, nothing could dampen the spirit of excitement within the city – all districts rustled with a buzz of gleeful gossip, save for the docks. This part of the city still housed near two hundred refugees, those who not yet managed to scrape together the coin for passage out of Ferelden. These unfortunate travellers huddled in grubby clusters beneath the tiles of an abandoned fish market, hungry and forlorn; many of them from Gwaren, Lothering, and Honnleath.

Revanloch, hunched on its rocky promontory, managed to somehow defy the brilliant sunshine and remain as dour and sombre as ever. The late-Justinian warmth could not penetrate the crumbling stone walls, and made little headway within the shadowed courtyards.

Up in the guest chamber, Flora had been awake for several hours in anticipation. She was perched on the edge of the bed, wincing as Leliana wove a half-dozen slender braids within her heavy mass of hair. The bard was determined to emphasise Flora's Alamarri heritage; knowing that her colouring of pale skin, watercolour grey eyes and oxblood hair harkened back to these first ancient rulers of Ferelden.

"Ow! _Ouch."_

"If you'd brush your hair and braid it in the evening, like I _tell_ you, it wouldn't work itself into such a bird's nest by morning!" retorted the bard, whose own strawberry blonde locks were already neatly coiffed. "Anyway, have you changed your mind about the robe?"

" _No!"_

Flora, having successfully negotiated her way into her usual navy tunic and boots, now watched Leliana put the final touches on her makeup. The bard had managed to perfect the art of enhancing her features so subtly that it was impossible to tell that cosmetics had even been applied. The lay sister _tsked_ at herself in the mirror, licking her fingers to mute some of the _rouge_ decorating her cheeks.

"Too much _maquillage_ for this outfit," she murmured absent-mindedly, smoothing a hand over her damask Chantry robes.

"Mack-a-what?"

"Cosmetics," replied Leliana, taking one final glance in the mirror. "Are you ready, _ma petite?_ Ugh, are you wearing _those_ boots? I despair!"

Flora finished tightening the leather strap around her knee, feeling the usual reflexive defensiveness that rose whenever Leliana criticised her footwear.

"These boots have been with me since Ostagar! They've been in the Deep Roads, the Brecilian Forest… _I killed the Archdemon in these boots!"_

"All the more reason to throw them out," retorted Leliana, immediately. "They're probably covered in all sorts of- "

"Lady Cousland?"

A servant clad in a Chantry tabard made a demure entrance, head bowed.

"Oh, is the escort from the Palace here?" Leliana asked, glancing around for her silken purse. "Tell them we'll just be a moment. They're _early._ Is Bann Teagan with them?"

The Chantry servant bowed once more, while simultaneously shaking his head.

"No, lay-sister. The Lady Cousland has a guest, they're waiting downstairs."

Flora frowned, she was not expecting anyone in particular. Leliana's face settled into a more prominent scowl, her powdered nostrils flaring.

"They've picked a poor day to visit," the bard grumbled. "We need to depart for the feast; they'll either have to accompany us, or wait here until we return. Who is it?"

The servant swallowed, and Flora noticed beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"An Orlesian, by the name of _G-Gasper Deshallyon."_

"Gasper Deshallyon?"

" _Gasp.. Gaspard Deshallon…"_

Leliana inhaled sharply, her fingers fluttering towards her mouth.

" _Gaspard de Chalons?_ The _Grand Duc?_ Cousin of the Empress Celene? _Chevalier_ of the Order?"

"He's a long way from Val Royeaux," Flora said, unimpressed by a string of titles. "Do you think he's lost?"

Leliana shook her head slowly, finely plucked eyebrows lodged within her auburn hairline.

" _Non."_

"Then why _is_ he here?"

"I believe he has a purpose, though I know not what it could be," the bard murmured. "Still, there is only one way to find out. Are you ready for your first diplomatic exchange with the _Valmonts, ma crevette?"_

Flora grunted, grateful for the natural haughtiness of her fine-boned features; solemn and enigmatic as any Orlesian mask.

"Not really."

Before they left the room, Leliana slid one of her narrowest blades up her sleeve, expression carefully blank. Flora gaped, eyes expanding like saucers.

"Do you think he's _dangerous?"_

"Not _dangerous,_ exactly," replied the bard, summoning a bright and detached smile. "But ruthless – _oui._ Very much so."

The Grand _Duc_ was waiting downstairs within the Knight-Commander's office. The Knight-Commander himself had been relegated to the mildewed corridor, twitching and unhappy. The entrance to the office was flanked with Orlesian guards, clad in the argent and blue livery of the Valmonts. Instead of the closed-face helms worn by the Theirin Royal Guardsmen, these soldiers had their faces obscured by ornate silver masks. Their halberds were decorated with finely worked filigree, though the blade's razor-sharp edge proved it a weapon well enough.

As Flora and Leliana entered the room, Gaspard de Chalons was inspecting a moth-eared tapestry depicting Andraste and her disciples. Hearing the door open, he turned on a heel with militaristic swiftness; crossing the room in a handful of strides.

"My lady Cousland," he said, bowing down with a practised flourish. "It is a privilege and an honour to meet you."

He gripped her fingers and kissed them in typical Orlesian manner; Flora took advantage of this brief interlude to dart her eyes quickly over this mysterious new arrival. The _duc_ was a stocky, powerfully built man who appeared to be nearing his sixth decade, greying hair cropped close enough to his head to see the pink skin below. He was regally clad in crimson and ochre, and small, clever green eyes were framed by a silvered mask.

Flora continued to gaze at the _duc_ thoughtfully as he straightened, not entirely sure what to say. The Orlesian noble graciously pulled out a chair for her to sit, taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk. Leliana elected to remain standing; made subtle by the demure camouflage of a Chantry sister.

"May I first pass on our gratitude to the nation of Ferelden for the defeat of the Fifth Blight," Gaspard said quietly, peeling off his leather travel gloves one finger at a time.

Flora nodded slowly, her pale eyes meeting the glass-green irises of the _duc_. He was staring at her with unblinking intensity, as though trying to penetrate the ambiguous mask of her haughty features in order to perceive the girl underneath. Flora, who had once looked the Archdemon in its scaled, hooded eye, was unimpressed.

 _Is he trying to intimidate me?_

There came no response, and Flora gave an inward sigh; wondering if she would ever get used to the silence that now followed her thoughts.

 _Well, I think he_ is _trying to intimidate me. What is it with these Orlesians?_

On getting no reply from Flora save from a slight nod and a contemplative stare; Gaspard continued, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Orlais would have stood ready to assist… if assistance had been requested."

"Ferelden managed well enough alone," said Flora blandly, fixing her pale, Cousland eyes on him.

Gaspard nodded, settling back in the chair and touching his fingertips together.

" _Oui,_ especially considering that Ferelden is not exactly renowned within Thedas for its military prowess."

Flora felt outrage flare within her stomach; with effort, she kept it from her face.

"I'm surprised that Orlais doesn't remember the strength of our army," she replied, innocently. "How many decades has it been since the rebels ousted you from Ferelden?"

Gaspard's grey eyebrows rose from behind his mask, his fingers steepling together.

"Forgive me, my lady," he countered, in arch tones. "Were you even _alive_ during the Orlesian occupation, or the Fereldan war of independence? You do seem very… young."

"You're right," replied Flora, equally neutral. "I'm not old enough to remember a time when Orlais was a great military power. I'll have to check my history books later."

Leliana had to bite back a smile, inordinately proud of her young charge. The grand _duc_ looked astounded for a moment, and then let out a gruff bark of laughter, looking a fraction friendlier.

"My lady, I have a gift I wish to formally present to you, on behalf of the Empress and I."

Gaspard barked out an instruction in his native tongue, and two livery-clad retainers came struggling in; clutching something large and covered in a silk cloth. With mutual grunts of exertion, they deposited the item onto the desk, bowing low before making their exit.

The grand _duc_ rose to his feet, taking hold of the navy satin and pulling it free with a triumphal gesture. A great golden fish rose up from a sculpted wave; each fin and scale carved with exceptional care. Flora stared at it, utterly nonplussed.

"It is, ah, how do you say it? _Un hareng."_

"A herring," she translated, having recognised the shape of the fin.

" _Oui._ The story of your… _unusual_ upbringing has been a source of much fascination in the _salons_ of Val Royeaux."

The _duc_ eyed her from behind the ornate mask, his curiosity no less assuaged by meeting the Hero of Ferelden in person. Florence Cousland gave nothing away, her face as ambiguous and fine-featured as any Orlesian mask.

"Hm," Flora said at last, reaching out to run her finger over the gilded scales. "I'm not sure how good a swimmer this fish would be. But thank you for this _imaginative_ present."

Gaspard made no reply; merely curled his lips upwards at her beneath the mask.

Leliana took advantage of the pause to clear her throat delicately. When she spoke, the Orlesian accent had been smoothed away to near-nothingness, her tongue shaping words like a Fereldan.

"Lady Florence, the feast will be starting soon. We ought to depart."

"Please," interrupted the _duc,_ inclining his head politely. "Allow me to escort you to Denerim, my lady. I have a carriage and horse waiting in the courtyard."

In a split second, Flora weighed up the benefits and drawbacks to accepting the Orlesian's offer.

 _He's not going to hurt me. It'd start a war._

 _What's a carriage, anyway? Some sort of fancy cart?_

 _If I say no, it'll look like I'm afraid._

 _Leliana will be with me, I'll be fine._

"Thank you," she said at last, unable to stop herself from casting a final, dubious glance at the golden fish statuette.

As it happened, a carriage turned out to be more than just a _fancy cart._ A sweating coachman held open the gilded door, as Flora eyed the ornately worked metal with increasing wariness. Leliana clambered in beside her, with a soft purr of appreciation at the velvet furnishings.

"I'm not sure carriages have caught on yet in Ferelden," the _duc_ commented idly, settling back against the cushions as Flora sat rigidly opposite, trying hard not to let her apprehension show on her face. "Does your king still ride around on _horseback?"_

"Yes," Flora replied, summoning some spirit into her reply. "The king of Ferelden is loved by his people and can ride freely among them. From what I've heard, it's no surprise that some Orlesian nobles require a layer of protection between them and their subjects."

The _duc_ snorted once more, eyeing her with increasing appreciation as the carriage set off.

"You are… not what I expected, Florence Cousland. That child is the king's, yes?"

Flora nodded, already deciding that she hated this new form of transport. They went over a large pothole and the entire carriage rattled, the occupants within jolting up and down. Grimly, Flora anchored herself to the velvet bench with her fingertips, offering a silent apology to the little creature within her belly.

"I see," replied Gaspard, seeming to retreat into his own thoughts. _"Interesting."_

The journey took longer than it would have done on horseback, due to the need to navigate the crumbling roadways and clifftop path. The horses made a wilful effort, sweat breaking out on their flanks as they heaved the carriage down the final long incline towards the city walls.

To one side, the Alamarri plains stretched out to the west of the city, the river estuary gleaming in the sunlight as it snaked leisurely towards the Bannorn hills. The land had been irrevocably scarred by the battle that had taken place there a month prior; only a few scant patches of grass remained amidst a sea of mud and earth. The remains of the dwarven trenches and gullies could still be seen, along with the tangled wreckage of field weaponry too broken for redemption.

Flora did not want to look at the plains, memories of the battle too raw and sharp still for palatable recall. Gaspard, conversely, appeared fascinated by them; shifting position along the velvet bench to gain a better view.

Meanwhile Leliana hummed softly to herself, peering out of the window and fiddling with the lacy edge of her glove. By some miracle – or a set of well-honed abdominal muscles – she barely seemed to register the uneven surface; remaining perfectly serene and stable as the carriage lurched about her.

"It appears that Ferelden's roadways are in need of some maintenance," offered the grand _duc_ at last, relying on his muscled bulk to keep him steady on the cushions. "You may wish to whisper something on the matter to your king, my lady."

Flora, who was jammed into one corner of the bench in an attempt to wedge herself in place, managed to summon up a retort.

"My king is committed to rebuilding the nation after the Blight," she replied, feeling the little creature nudge irritably against her kidney. "Filling in _holes in the roads_ is not a great priority for him at the moment."

Gaspard opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching hoof-steps, and the shouts of men. Leliana peered out of the carriage window, her sky-blue eyes lighting up like Dalish lanterns.

"It's Bann Teagan and the escort. Stop the carriage!"

The bard reached out to open the carriage door as the bann reined his horse expertly to a halt alongside them.

Teagan's expression was a mixture of raw suspicion and naked alarm; he had clearly identified the Valmont coat of arms painted on the side of the carriage. Surprise was quickly added to the blend as his gaze settled on Flora, rigid and unhappy in one corner. He stared at her, and she made a tiny grimace back at him.

" _Grand-Duc,"_ the bann said, after a short pause. "You're aware that you've arrived a fortnight early for the coronation?"

"I am aware, _bann,"_ replied Gaspard, equally coolly. "I have some personal business with the new teyrn of Highever."

Teagan made a quick gesture inside the carriage, his Guerrin eyes hawklike in their unblinking focus.

"This is not the teyrn of Highever," he stated, evenly. "And your decision to visit the teyrn's sister at Revanloch is in deliberate defiance of protocol. She is not of voting age; there ought to have been elders present."

The grand _duc_ smiled, though his eyes behind the mask stayed sharp and thoughtful.

"My apologies," he murmured, after a moment. "Although I do not believe that the lady had any need for elders. She defied me as belligerently as any _Landsmeet_ veteran."

Teagan flashed Flora a fleeting smile of approval.

"Still," he continued, voice steady. "I'll take Lady Cousland to the city from here, _grand-duc._ Lay-sister Leliana, would you like to accompany us?"

"I'll be fine," a demure Leliana replied in her Fereldan-accented guise, folding her fingers in her lap. "We'll follow you in the carriage."

 _And I'll see what I can find out about this man's purpose,_ her eyes added, silently.

Teagan gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, then reached out his arms towards the carriage. Flora clambered to her feet, awkwardly stepping over the _grand-duc's_ boots to reach the doorway. The bann leaned over and lifted her onto his saddle, feeling an internal twinge of relief as she settled back against his chest.

" _À bientôt,_ my lady," called the _grand-duc_ out of the window, his mouth curling upwards in an amused smile beneath his mask.

Teagan barked an order to his retainers, and they turned their horses back around towards the city of Denerim. The city walls were now only a few minutes ride away; they were close enough to see the great banners of Theirin hanging crimson and gold against the lofty stonework.

The bann let out a low exhalation, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Flora's abdomen as they rode slowly towards the western gate.

"I'm sorry that I was late," he said after a moment, removing a strand of her hair that had blown back against his face. "Are you alright, poppet?"

"Mm," replied Flora, letting go of the pommel and trusting in the bann's strong grip to keep her astride the saddle.

"Do you know who that was?"

"… Gosper?"

" _Gaspard de Chalons,_ one of the most notorious members of the Orlesian court and ruler of Verchiel." Teagan wrinkled his nose, his distaste for Val Royeaux politics apparent.

"Outmanoeuvred to the Sunburst Throne by his cousin Celene, his wife Calienne engineered the death of Celene's mother in a _hunting accident,_ then was murdered herself by Celene's father."

Flora twisted in the saddle and gaped up at him. The bann laughed at the expression on her face, shortening the reins expertly as they approached the gate.

"I know, pet. Stuff of stories, isn't it? The Orlesian Court is a snake-pit."

"It sounds horrible," replied Flora, bluntly. "I can't believe someone as lovely as Leliana came out of all that. Why would he want to see _me?"_

Teagan let out a low, ambiguous grunt, his grip tightening a fraction around her waist.

"Well," he said, softly. "You're a valuable political pawn now, Flora. A Cousland girl, Hero of Ferelden, and carrying a royal child."

 _In addition to the incalculable advantage of that face_ the bann thought, but did not add.

"A valuable political _prawn_ ," replied Flora, remembering his attempts to teach her chess. She smiled to herself, feeling a low rumble of laughter within the bann's chest.

"Indeed. Looking forward to your feast? I hope you didn't break your fast too extensively this morning."

"Oh, I ate a _ton_ earlier. But I've always got room for more," Flora replied, blithely. "I think I must have two stomachs, like a starfish. You know, a starfish isn't actually a fish? It's part of the mollusc family."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I always headcanon Alamarri culture as being based on the Celts, since they're meant to be the tribal ancestors of Ferelden's greatest families. So I envisioned an Alamarri hairstyle to be very Celtic, lots of little braids and woven bits!

I like this chapter because Flora is inadvertently showing her capability to be Queen – Ferelden needs leaders who can be defiant and independent in the face of Orlais. But I think it's important to note that her ability to engage in political wordplay with Gaspard isn't a product of her Cousland blood, but her Herring childhood – she was raised in a community of grim-faced fishermen, who feared the sea and little else. Her fisher-father, Pel, wouldn't have taken any shit from an Orlesian duke; and neither will Flora, lol.

Orlais is definitely still a great military power, haha, Flora is just being obstinate! I think Gaspard appreciates the verbal sparring, though. Imagine her face when she sees the giant gold fish, though! Part of her is like OMG GIANT METAL FISH, and part of her is like _what's the point?!_ Also, she is Bad at Orlesian names... GOSPER.

Updating a day early because we have a public event thing at work tomorrow. Hurray for machine-gun toting police guarding the office! Welcome to London in 2017, lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	30. Flora's Feast

Chapter 30: Flora's Feast

As Teagan and Flora approached the city gates, a shout went up on the walls. Flora blinked in astonishment as a swarm of soldiers popped up on the ramparts like herons, swords raised in greeting. More armoured men came streaming out from beneath the portcullis, forming a guard of honour at either side of the road.

"What's going on?" Flora asked, peering over her shoulder. "Is this for Gosper?"

"No, petal."

 _Lady Cousland!_ the cry echoed down from the city walls. _Lady Cousland!_

Hearing the outcry of the guards, it was now the turn of the civilians to flock down towards the gate. Children scampered onto the city walls, clinging precariously to the ramparts as they waved frantically at the approaching riders. In mere minutes, a crowd of almost two hundred had formed to greet the lady Cousland as she returned to Denerim for the first time in three weeks. They knew that she had arrived for her celebratory feast, and wanted to gain a glimpse before she vanished behind the fortress-like walls of the Royal Palace.

For a fleeting moment, Flora was genuinely astounded. Safely enclosed within Revanloch's walls, the Templar initiates under strict instruction not to harass her; it had become easy to ignore her new prominence within Fereldan society. To be so suddenly reminded of her own fame was somewhat disorientating.

 _Lady Cousland! Lady Cousland!_

Still, Flora had been the centre of attention before. She summoned a memory from when she had been Warden-Commander - inspecting the troops on the Alamarri plains, with the heat of ten thousand curious stares resting between her shoulder blades.

Teagan felt her stiffen, pushing herself up on the saddle to gain a few extra inches of height.

 _At least,_ Flora thought grimly to herself, sweeping her cool Cousland stare across the assembled crowds. _They don't expect me to smile and wave. They know I always look sulky._

 _Don't look at the cage above the gate; it's got a bit of Thomas Howe in it._

She lifted her chin to acknowledge the cries and hails, hearing the excited murmurs reach a frenzy as her swollen stomach came into full view of the crowds.

"The taverns are taking bets on when the royal baby is due," Teagan murmured in her ear, clearly amused. "A great deal of coin is wagered on the workings of your belly."

"What are the odds?" breathed Flora, genuinely curious. A daring youth darted forwards, tucking a flower into Teagan's stirrup before being chased away by a guard.

"Fourth week of Kingsway is the most popular bet, last I checked," Teagan replied with a chuckle, betraying his own vested interest. "But there's an increasing number who believe it'll be the middle of Harvestmere. First children are often late, or so I've been told. Not exactly my area of expertise."

Teagan, the confirmed bachelor, gave a wry shrug.

"Me either," said Flora, bestowing a smile on a small child who was running alongside their horse and squeaking with excitement.

"Soon as you're back in the palace – next week, aye – we'll get the midwife in again."

They had reached the largest bridge, where the main roadway cut a great east-west swathe through the city. Teagan made to turn the horse's head westwards, towards the noble district and royal palace; then Flora reached out to rest her fingers on the back of his hand.

"Not that way," she said, conspiratorially. " _That_ way."

"East?"

"Mm."

Meanwhile, up in the Royal Palace, Alistair had finally acquiesced to some assistance with dressing. He was so distracted by the multitude of events in the upcoming fortnight – Flora's feast, their birthdays, meetings with the trade guilds, the coronation – that he had fastened his tunic incorrectly three times in a row.

Eventually, he let out a frustrated bark for help. The young groom, who had been waiting for this moment for months, scuttled in from the Royal corridor with head bowed decorously to hide the beam of delight. Alistair, a little self-conscious, stood rigid in place as he was laced and buttoned into the garb of a Fereldan king.

Running a finger over the neatly trimmed hair across his jaw – Alistair reckoned that the short beard added at least five years to his age – he glanced around for the crown. Guilluame, the Royal Steward who had served the Theirins for two generations, advanced with the spiked golden band in its protective case.

"Are you coming down to the feast, Will?" Alistair asked, adjusting the position of the band on his head and glancing briefly in the mirror. "The head cook has been back and forth to Revanloch at least three times. I'm glad that Flo has been so enthusiastic about organising it."

"It should be a _memorable_ occasion, Your Majesty," murmured Guilluame decorously in response, knowing far more than he was letting on. _"Speaking_ of the lady Florence-"

Alistair grimaced to himself as they headed down the Royal corridor together, making their way towards the great hall where banquets were customarily held.

"I know what you're going to ask."

"Majesty?"

Alistair put on a rather poor attempt at a Nevarran accent, in an effort to emulate Guilluame's distinctive intonation.

"' _Your Majesty. Does the lady Florence actually_ know _about her upcoming nuptials?'_ Well, the answer is, no. No, she does _not._ She has no idea, and the dressmakers' guild keeps nagging me about getting her measurements for the _bridal gown._ The standard-sewers have already made three dozen banners with our combined heraldry! And _she doesn't know!"_

Guilluame blinked, running his fingers through the oiled point of his silver beard.

"I see your dilemma," he said at last, as they passed the hunted _halla_ tapestry at the top of the stairs. "If I may presume to ask – _why_ haven't you asked the lady yet?"

"I don't know," replied Alistair, bleakly. "She was so upset after finding out that her spirits were gone. And then – I suppose I wanted to court her properly. She deserves the best, Will, she deserves the best of _everything_. I wanted the proposal to be perfect. But now the coronation is – ten days away! – and she doesn't know that we're getting married on the same day."

Alistair visibly slumped, head bowed like a chastised Mabari.

"I just didn't want to overwhelm her," he muttered, glancing up at the stained glass Calenhad window. The sunlight shone through, illuminating his ancestor's face in jewel tones. "It took me months to accept becoming king. Marrying me is more than just a ring, it's a _throne."_

Guilluame gave a soft grunt of acknowledgement, silvery eyes flashing like fish darting through the water as they approached the main hall.

"The lady Cousland seems to be an adaptable creature," he replied diplomatically, ears pricking as booted footsteps approached from a side corridor. "Ah, here come the others. Excuse me a moment, your majesty."

Sure enough, Finian's high-pitched laughter preceded him around the corner; the young, russet-haired noble appearing particularly piratical in a leather eye-patch.

"I'm going to need all my shirts let out before the coronation," he was saying, with a slight roll of the eyes. "This'll be the fourth banquet this month. Fergus, _you're_ getting a little soft about the belly- "

The teyrn, who was deep in conversation with Leonas, managed to elbow his brother in the ribs without interrupting his sentence.

"Morning, Alistair."

"Morning, uncle," Alistair returned his uncle's greeting as Eamon clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Has Teagan gone to collect Flo?"

The arl of Redcliffe gave a nod, having seen Teagan off with several retainers on horseback earlier that morning.

"Aye, lad. There was a short delay, but he's well on his way. They ought to be here by now."

Alistair beamed, delighted to have his best friend back within the confines of the palace.

"Where is she?" he asked, immediately. "Is she with the others – oh."

The king trailed off as they entered the entrance hall, brow furrowing. The cavernous space was dim and smoky as usual, the fireplaces lit in defiance of the sunlight filtering in through the high windows. Gathered in one corner were several of Flora's companions – Wynne was talking animatedly to Oghren, while Zevran leaned against a hearth and fiddled idly with a blade strapped to his forearm.

"Ha, it's Prince Charming!" Oghren bellowed across the entrance hall, waving a meaty arm in greeting. "All hail! You know," he said, to a wide-eyed passing servant. " _I_ knew the king when he were just plain _Warden Alistair,_ blue-ballin' over a lass he hadn't even bedded- "

The dwarf let out a cough as Wynne's bony elbow swung with surprising strength into his ribcage.

The senior enchanter advanced across the entrance hall, her eyebrows rising into her silver hairline.

"Dear boy," she murmured, kissing Alistair on the cheek as her shrewd blue gaze searched his face. "The beard suits you. You look the spit of Maric."

Alistair smiled distractedly at her, eyes moving towards Zevran.

"Morning. I thought Flo would be with you?"

"No, _mi rey_ ," replied the elf, frowning."I haven't seen her since I last saw you."

There was a brief, puzzled silence. Oghren squinted about the entrance hall, which was deserted save for a handful of servants.

"This feast don't seem very well attended," he said at last, brow furrowing. "Who did she invite?"

Alistair gave a helpless shrug, as Fergus and Finian glanced at one another in similar confusion.

"I don't know. She's been quite _vague_ about the whole thing. Shall we check the great hall?"

A handful of minutes later, and both nobles and companions were staring with mild consternation into a shadowed and entirely empty hall. The hearths were unlit, the long tables deserted; the candelabras hanging in darkness overhead. The hall's only occupant was an old Mabari, greying in the muzzle, snoring beside a cobwebbed suit of armour.

"I don't understand," said Alistair, at last. "I know the feast was definitely _happening_ today – the cooks have been preparing the food since Tuesday. The kitchens have been going all night."

"Could it be taking place outside?" suggested Finian, brushing against a wall tapestry and sneezing at the subsequent expulsion of dust. "In the gardens? It's sunny enough."

They gazed at one another in the shadowed hall, equally perplexed.

Eventually Zevran cleared his throat, the noise echoing up to the rafters overhead.

"My little peach does have quite the ravenous appetite," he said at last, at a loss for any other explanation. "Perhaps she has arrived, _descended_ upon the feast like a horde of locusts, and it is all gone?"

There was a moment of silence as those present considered this possibility.

"I don't _think_ she could eat that much," said Alistair, uncertainly. "I mean, I know she eats a _lot,_ but- "

"Your Majesty, my lords!"

Guillaume had arrived behind them, looking slightly out of breath; a pink flush illuminating his tawny skin.

"I apologise, King Alistair. I meant to tell you earlier – the lady Cousland's feast is not being held within the palace!"

"She's not here?" Finian repeated, a furrow forming in the centre of his noble brow.

"Where's my wife?" the king chimed in, somewhat plaintively. "My _future_ wife."

"I believe the lady is at her feast," continued the Royal Steward, quietly. "Which is being held down on the docks."

"The docks? With the _fishermen?"_ Fergus asked, confused. "I suppose that makes sense."

"Not with the fishermen."

Wynne corrected the teyrn gently, the corner of her mouth turning upwards in a wry smile.

"With the refugees."

Horses were called for and brought quickly to the gravel forecourt before the great palace gates. The sun bore down on them brilliantly from above; not a single scrap of cloud marring the sky as midday approached.

They made good time through the city, Royal Guardsmen sent in advance to ensure that a path within the crowds was cleared. The people of Denerim, who had come onto the streets to welcome back the lady Cousland, now received further compensation with a glimpse of their popular young king.

 _Theirin, Theirin!_ the cry went up, and Alistair lifted a distracted hand to acknowledge the hails; preoccupied with thoughts of his former sister-warden.

Despite her grief for the loss of her spirits, the concern over the assassins, the isolation at Revanloch; Flora had not forgotten about the plight of the refugees, whom she and Alistair had seen every day during their residence at the Pearl. There were hundreds of them, from Loghain's ravaged teyrnir of Gwaren, from poor lost Lothering, from Cullen Rutherford's home-town of Honnleath. Their regional accents may have been different; but they all wore the same hollow and hopeless expression, the faces of those who had lost everything.

"We came down here a dozen times," Leonas was saying to Fergus, their horses abreast in the centre of the road. "So the lass could offer her mending services. Even in the days right before the battle."

"' _Heeling here too-day (free)'"_ murmured Zevran, riding close behind. The elf recalled the clumsily painted sign that Flora had hung up on a bedsheet loaned from the Pearl, standing on a crate and offering her liberal talents to any who required them.

Denerim's docks lay at the eastern edge of the city; consisting of a dozen wooden jetties extending into the muddy green estuary. An eclectic collection of buildings were clustered on the dockside itself; whorehouses, warehouses and fish markets competed for space on the salt-stained boardwalk.

The old fish market – little more than a tiled roof perched upon crumbling stone arches – had been left as temporary shelter for the refugees. When Alistair had last been there, it was a forlorn and desperate place; with families huddled in miserable clumps around the remains of wooden stalls.

Now the sound of sizzling meat and chatter echoed about the stone arches, the hollow space filled with long tables that had been brought down from the palace and quickly assembled. Each surface was crowded with platters and dishes, jugs of ale wedged into any available space; vast cauldrons of stew and soup were stationed to one side. The head cook at the Royal Palace was directing several of his underlings as they carved meat from a pig precariously balanced on a makeshift spit.

The homeless families were gathered at the tables with plates piled high, speaking with mouths full as they conversed animatedly. Such was the level of chatter that Alistair's arrival was not immediately registered. Only when the Royal Guard flanked the entrance, did the news begin to spread like wildfire.

 _The king is here! King Alistair is here!_

Those nearby dropped their forks and scrambled to stand, in mild panic. Alistair held up his hand, shaking his head and raising his voice so that it reverberated through the old market.

"Don't interrupt your meal on my account," he instructed, gesturing for them to remain seated. "We've come to join you."

"Sounds good to me," chimed in Oghren, who had his eye on a nearby pork pie.

So it followed that the most prominent nobles in Ferelden – including the Royal General and the teyrn of Highever - sat down on the benches amidst the common folk and began to gather food onto some hastily provided plates.

Meanwhile Alistair was scanning the old market like a hawk, the green veins in his irises standing out stark against the hazel. After a few moments, he caught sight of a splash of crimson in a far and unobtrusive corner. With a heart throbbing irrationally hard against his ribcage, the king made his way through the tables and free-standing cauldrons.

Flora was standing away from the crowds, deep in conversation with an auburn-headed man whose fingers were twisting nervously in his ragged sleeves. She was listening earnestly to the man's shy muttering, while simultaneously resting a grubby, copper-haired baby on her swollen belly. Teagan was standing close by, leaning against a pillar; bann flashed king a wry smile of greeting as Alistair neared.

"I can't believe haddock season starts so _early_ down south," Flora breathed in wonder, shifting the infant expertly to her hip as it wriggled. "Fishing in Gwaren sounds very different. I wonder if the seawater is warmer?"

Alistair stopped abruptly in his tracks, mesmerised by the sight of his mistress with the widower's baby. The rational part of his mind reminded him that Flora had spent ten years in a tiny village; it made sense that she had helped to look after the younger children and was thus comfortable in their company.

Yet he had never _seen_ her with any before, and her natural ease with the baby made his heart swell with affection in his chest. The infant made a snuffling noise, wrapping its fingers in her hair, and she kissed it on its plump little cheek.

"Flora," Alistair said quietly, and Flora startled, having been so immersed in conversation with the Gwaren fisherman that she had not noticed the king's arrival.

The widower froze in momentary panic, unsure how to respond. Flora carefully extracted her hair from the baby's clenched fist, tickling it under the chin before handing it back to its father.

Turning back to Alistair, Flora smiled up at him anxiously; hoping that he wasn't annoyed that she had neglected to inform him of her plans to relocate her feast to the docks. The king stepped forward, cupped her cheek in his hand and lifted her chin; gazing down into her solemn, earnest face.

"My sweet-hearted girl," he said softly after a moment, shaking his head. "This was meant to be _your_ feast."

"Eh, I don't need a feast," Flora replied, with northern candour and a shrug of the shoulders. "I'm going to get fat enough by Kingsway – or Harvestmere - I ought not stuff my face with food."

The old market had fallen quiet behind them, those at the tables pausing with forks halfway their to mouths as they watched the king greet his mistress. More of Denerim's citizens had crowded in beneath the arches, curious and wide-eyed; always eager to catch another glimpse of their handsome new Theirin, and the girl who had ended the Blight.

Alistair made as though to kiss her, then felt the heat of several hundred eyes raising the hairs on the back of his neck. As though on cue, Eamon sidled out from a nearby pillar, lowering his voice to a murmur.

"Florence, they're waiting for you."

Flora grimaced, she had not expected to actually _address_ the crowd. However, public speaking was something that she had grown reluctantly accustomed to over the months, and so she headed towards the auctioneer's block at the front of the market, judging it to be more stable than standing on a crate. The throngs parted to clear a path before her, hungry fingers still clutching pieces of cooked chicken and broth-soaked bread.

Alistair followed in her wake, overtaking Flora easily on the last few strides to offer her assistance onto the auctioneer's platform. There must have once existed a wooden scaffold or makeshift step; yet this had clearly been scavenged for fuel. In the absence of any stairs, Alistair lifted his mistress bodily up onto the raised stone plinth.

Flora looked out over the gathered people, her friends and companions blending in amidst the refugees, with the people of Denerim clustering on the fringes of the crowd. She caught sight of her brothers – their tall, russet-haired frames distinct – and half-smiled at them. Zevran was loitering near Finian; murmuring something quiet in her slender brother's ear. The elf looked up to meet her gaze, then blew her a kiss.

The crowd fell silent beneath Flora's pale Cousland stare; the cool, watercolour appraisal that her ancestors had used to hold Ferelden's wild north in check. Flora licked her lips - relatively certain that the baby had left a handful of apple sauce in her hair – and began to speak.

"I remember what it's like to be hungry," she began, quietly. "When I grew up – in Herring – there were some weeks when the catch was bad, and all we caught had to be sold. There were times when we cooked seaweed into a stew because there was nothing else to eat."

Flora hoped that the compassion in her voice made up for the haughty beauty of her face; which she resented and had no control over.

"This food doesn't in any way compensate for what's been lost," she continued, earnest and solemn. "It doesn't make up for the homes, the towns, the _family_ that you've left behind. I've never been to Gwaren or Honnleath, but I... I have been to Lothering. I think of Lothering all the time. I had Lothering in my heart when I killed the Archdemon."

Flora paused for a moment, wondering at how clear poor, lost Lothering stood out in her mind; the village preserved with especial clarity despite having featured so fleetingly in her life.

"I just wanted to do something to help," she said at last, a raw echo to the words. "Since I can't mend you any more. I'm _sorry_ that I can't mend you, I wish I could. I was useful when I had my spirits. I think – I don't really know what to do without them. I feel a bit use _less_ , to be honest."

Flora half-smiled to take the edge from her northern frankness, but the candour in the words gleamed like pyrite in a river stream. Each phlegmatic cough she heard from the crowd cut her like a small, pernicious blade; as did each glimpse of a bandaged limb that she now had no hope of mending. To her horror, Flora felt tears prickling in the corners of her eyes.

 _Don't cry! You don't cry in public!_

 _If you do cry, blame it on the little creature unbalancing you._

" _Your Majesty!"_

The cry rose first from the back of the market hall, thin and defiant.

Flora blinked in slight surprise, a faint line of confusion forming on her brow as the tears arrested themselves on her lashes.

" _Aye! Your Majesty!"_

Seconds later, the hail came again, louder this time and joined by several more voices. It continued to build upon itself, a dozen more voices joining with each repetition; swelling in volume and vigour until the words blurred together in a great roar of sound that rattled the roof tiles.

 _Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Your Majesty!_

Flora had no idea what was going on, except that she was relatively certain she was now partially deaf. She stood on the auctioneer's platform, feeling incongruously as though she were for sale; and stared solemnly out at the cheering crowds.

 _What are you cheering me for?_ she thought, in mild bewilderment. _I didn't make this food. I can't heal your coughs or that old man's broken arm._

Down on the market floor, Fergus nudged Alistair's elbow; a half-laugh emerging from his throat.

"You'd better get up there, Theirin," he murmured, eyebrows wedged in his hairline. "Or my little sister might unwittingly usurp your throne."

Alistair grinned, his face suffused with immeasurable pride. In a swift, effortless gesture he had climbed up onto the auctioneer's platform and put an arm around his best friend's waist, one hand spreading affectionately across her stomach.

" _I adore you,"_ he breathed in Flora's ear, wishing that they were alone.

Flora beamed, delighted, and the sight of the solemn young Cousland _smiling_ for her king was enough to set off a fresh wave of approval from the crowd.

"Alistair," she whispered, grateful for his steadying arm about her waist. The smell of roast pig had been wafting up her nostrils for an hour, and the meaty aroma was enough to curdle her stomach.

"Yes, my love?"

"There's an Orlesian here. He's with Leliana."

"An _Orlesian?"_ Alistair repeated, managing to convey incredulity through his smile. "Who is it?"

"Gosper."

" _Who?!"_

"Gosper De...Deshally. I don't know what he's here for."

* * *

OOC Author Note: OK, so Flora hasn't exactly covered herself in glory so far in this sequel! By chapter 30 in the original story, she'd saved the Circle Tower, healed refugees in Lothering, defended Redcliffe…. all she's done so far, in this story, has been cry, brood and hang around in a monastery!

So I wanted to show her finally able to do something to help, something true to her nature that wasn't taken with the death of the Archdemon. In this case, hosting the feast for the refugees! Her best quality is her kindness, and that didn't go away with her spirits. As greedy as she is,

Lol, she doesn't really understand why people are chanting _Your Majesty_ at her, though. Even the people of Denerim know by this point that Flora is going to be Alistair's Queen, hahaha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	31. A Proposal Of Marriage

Chapter 31: A Proposal Of Marriage

Once they had returned to the Royal Palace, it became quickly apparent why Gaspard De Chalons had arrived two weeks early for Alistair's coronation.

The nobles met formally with the grand _duc_ within the castle's most unashamedly _Fereldan_ audience chamber. There was not a single gilded curlicue or delicate mural to be seen on the windowless stone walls – they were carved with finely worked reliefs of Mabari and horses mid-hunt, the wooden beams overhead painted with old Alamarri patterns. A tapestry of Calenhad loomed above the receiving platform, eight foot high and nearly twelve in length; while a statue of the Rebel Queen dominated the chamber's opposite flank. Candles hung from the ceiling in wrought-iron rings, casting a flickering light onto the faces of those gathered below.

The Valmont soldiers were stationed at one side of the door, while the Theirin Royal Guard eyed them suspiciously from the other. The grand _duc_ stood in the centre of the room, his stance straight-backed and militaristic despite his advancing years.

Alistair was seated alongside his advisers, his chair raised a fraction higher to denote his status. The crown – which he had removed to eat amongst the refugees – was now placed firmly back atop his head. Eamon, Leonas and Fergus sat about him with varying degrees of suspicion writ plain across their faces.

Teagan was leaning against the far wall, head tilted towards the newly invested Arl of Amaranthine. Finian had relayed all that he had learnt about the grand _duc_ during his five years immersed within Orlesian society; and none of it was particularly palatable.

"You're a fortnight early," Alistair stated flatly, leaning forward and disposing with pleasantries. "What's your business within Ferelden?"

 _And with the mother of my child,_ he added grimly to himself.

"And you can take off that mask," Leonas interjected, his voice gruff. "This isn't Halamshiral. We don't _speak through flowers_ here."

Gaspard de Chalons acquiesced without comment, removing the silvered domino. Beneath was the bitter, weathered face of a man who had survived decades of the Orlesian _Great Game,_ only to emerge with second prize.

"A force of habit," he murmured, soft and amused. "No offence intended, my lords. But my business is with the Couslands – the lady is not here, and I am loathe to start without her."

Alistair narrowed his eyes, feeling a small pulse of anger form in the back of his skull. Beside him, he felt the teyrn bristle in his seat.

"My sister has not reached the age of voting majority," Fergus interjected, stiffly. "Any dealings with Florence will go through _me."_

" _Comme vous voulez,"_ replied the grand _duc_ , a faint smile tugging his thin lips at the mention of Ferelden's 'primitive' politics. "I have come to throw my hat into the ring."

"Speak plain and not in guise, man!" Teagan called out irritably from the wall, tiring of the Orlesian's wordplay.

" _Bien sûr._ I wish to sign my name to the list of the lady Florence's suitors."

There was a long and charged silence, during which Alistair felt his blood pressure increase in gradual increments.

"What do you mean: _list of suitors?"_ he half-growled, visibly struggling to keep a grip on civility.

The grand _duc_ raised an eyebrow, taking a gulp from an ornately carved hip flask.

"As far as I'm aware, there are at least a half-dozen noble families within Thedas who have put forward propositions of marriage. The Vaels of Starkhaven are looking for a match for their eldest son. The Pentaghasts of Nevarre have made enquiries. There was even a suit from a Tevinter magister, although I believe they redacted their offer on hearing of the lady's severance from the Fade."

Alistair sat in stunned silence for a moment, mouth slightly parted. Fergus cleared his throat, a scowl ingrained deep within his handsome, prematurely lined face.

"Those proposals all went to me," he stated, bluntly. "I didn't care to pass them on to my sister. She's not leaving Ferelden. Neither the Landsmeet nor the people would countenance it."

There was a murmur of general agreement amongst those present.

"Floss wouldn't survive in Nevarre," Finian whispered conspiratorially in Teagan's ear. "She can barely cope with the _Fereldan_ sun. Anyway, you know this _duc's_ last wife was murdered?"

Alistair interjected then, his face contorted in naked outrage.

"But she's carrying _my child_ ," he retorted, the words harbouring a vein of distinct Theirin threat.

The grand _duc_ gave a shrug, the silvered epaulet on his shoulder catching the torchlight.

"To raise a king's child would be no burden," he replied; and almost said more before changing his mind.

"No, I imagine it'd be quite the strategic asset," retorted Eamon, quick as a whip. "Especially for one in your position, with a claim to the Sunburst Throne."

Alistair, struck dumb at the prospect of his unborn baby becoming a hapless pawn in the Orlesian _Great Game_ , gaped; a rush of angry colour flooding his cheeks. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair with a scrape across the flagstones, a retort emerging as a bellow.

" _Enough!"_

The prospective bride herself had not joined them in the audience chamber due to a sudden and demanding burst of nausea, mostly likely brought on by inhaling the smell of roasted meats for several hours. On return to the Royal Palace, Flora had turned an unappealing shade of green, and been quickly whisked away into a servant's back corridor by Wynne and Leliana.

Zevran sauntered after them, pulling the door closed as Flora huddled miserably over a convenient bucket. She was sick three times in a row, expelling the contents of her stomach in spectacular fashion. Leliana charmed a wide-eyed servant into fetching some water and fruit, while Wynne gripped Flora's hair and patted her back with business-like affection.

"There, there- " the senior enchanter murmured, softly. Long lost memories of being in a similar position rose to the surface of Wynne's mind, like flotsam cast onto the seashore.

"This baby _hates_ me!" Flora croaked, sitting back on the flagstones and wiping at her watering eyes. With the departure of her spirits, she was no longer able to self-soothe the raw lining of her throat.

Wynne stood to retrieve the water and fruit, pausing to exchange a few quiet words with Leliana. Zevran slid down to take her place, reaching out to push a strand of sweaty hair gently away from Flora's forehead.

"Don't talk nonsense, _mi corazón._ How could the baby hate you? It is an impossible thing, _abejorro."_

Flora made a little unhappy gesture with her mouth, hunching her shoulders.

"Everyone told me the sickness would be over by now," she complained, taking the water pouch gratefully from Wynne and gulping down several mouthfuls. "But, _no._ The little toad is not content with poking me in the kidneys all night, it has to punish me for sampling my own feast!"

"You can't call the baby a _little toad!"_ Leliana chided, reproachfully.

The baby also did not appreciate being called a toad. Flora opened her mouth to reply, then went several degrees paler and grabbed for the bucket once again.

Zevran grimaced, reaching to clamp her hair in a restraining fist.

"Get it all up, lovely," he murmured, rubbing his thumb into the base of her neck.

Flora proceeded to do so, clutching the edge of the bucket so hard that her knuckles went white. Eventually, her stomach had nothing left to yield and so went dormant; producing only the occasional ominous rumble. Feeling rather sorry for herself, Flora sat back on the cold tiles and sniffed. It hurt to swallow – the lining of her throat was inflamed from bile – and there was a foul taste in the back of her mouth.

"Finish the water," Wynne instructed, and Flora followed the command, grimacing as her sore throat muscles contracted around the liquid. "You need to get into that audience with the grand _duc_. Have you been sick down your tunic?"

"No, wait- _yes."_

Leliana was commandeered to fetch something clean from the Royal chamber, while Wynne busied herself refilling the water pouch.

Zevran cast an expert eye over the tray of fruit, then made a shrewd choice. He offered the spherical yellow fruit to Flora without comment; as he had hoped, she was distracted from her own self-pity.

"Oh," she croaked, entranced. "It's a _lemon._ I dressed up as one of these for a Satinalia party at the Circle."

"I remember you telling me, _mi florita,"_ the elf crooned, watching Flora work her finger beneath the rind. "Bite - it'll chase the sourness away."

Flora took a large bite, then almost spat it out; the corners of her mouth turning down. She turned a wide, accusatory gaze on Zevran, who couldn't hold back a chortle of laughter.

"I used to eat lemons raw all the time as a child," he told her, fighting to regain a solemn expression as she eyed him malevolently. "Like a mouthful of pure Antivan sunshine."

Flora swallowed, grudgingly admitting to herself that the elf had a point; the stale taste of bile had been thoroughly purged from her mouth.

Leliana appeared with one of Alistair's shirts, her brow furrowed with intense dissatisfaction.

"You have _no clothes,_ Florence! I believed your meagre allowance at Revanloch to be a fraction of your wardrobe, but now I realise the truth – you have _nothing to wear._ This is a situation that will need to be remedied once you return to the city!"

Flora grunted, squirming her way out of the navy tunic and waving her arms for Alistair's garment.

"In Herring, I wore the same 'outfit' _every single day,"_ she retorted, buttoning the linen shirt over her breasts. "And it only got washed when it rained, or if I fell in the sea."

" _Aah!_ The stuff of nightmares, _ma petite."_

Emerging back into the public passages of the palace, Leliana led the way towards the audience chamber she believed was being used to hear the proposition of Gaspard de Challons.

"It's the most _Fereldan_ of the receiving rooms," she explained over her shoulder, guiding them expertly down a corridor lined with dust-covered suits of armour. "Mabari painted on the walls, sculptures of horses; a giant depiction of the Rebel Queen. The perfect chamber to meet with a _grand duc_ of Orlais."

"Did he tell you what he wanted- " Flora began, then cut herself off abruptly as Alistair's angry bellow echoed about the passage, the sound emanating from a nearby set of double doors.

" _Enough!"_

Flora blinked, head swivelling to her three companions in turn. Wynne looked bemused while Zevran seemed more intrigued; yet Leliana did not appear to be taken aback by the king's sudden outburst.

 _What,_ Flora mouthed at the bard, her eyes wide. _Whaaat-_

But Leliana's gaze slid away like a jellyfish, and then the guards were pushing open the doors into the audience chamber and it was too late to ask why Alistair had sounded so angry.

"The lady Cousland," announced the steward dutifully at the entrance.

Flora blinked against the torch-lit brightness, which was in stark contrast to the gloomy corridor. When she managed to focus on the figures in the room, the grand _duc_ was standing – appearing somewhat amused – in the centre of the chamber, while her brothers and the other nobles were seated at the far side. Alistair had already risen to his feet, with lip curled and a flush heating his olive skin.

"Ah, _la dame_ herself," murmured Gaspard, turning and bowing with the consummate finesse of a lifelong courtier. "Shall we ask the lady what she wishes?"

Flora did not reply, her eyes moving from the Orlesian noble across to where Alistair stood, face contorted in anger. The grand _duc_ , deciding to take matters into his own hands, strode across the chamber to face Flora directly.

"This is my offer," he said, bluntly. "Verchiel is in need of a new _duchesse._ You are a Cousland; I a Valmont. It would be an profitable alliance for us both."

Flora had a sudden, peculiar sense of _déjà vu._ For a moment she was standing back in the garden at South Reach, and Arl Leonas was making a similar proposition; so discomfited that he was barely able to look her in the eye.

 _But he was doing it to protect me, because he was a friend of Bryce Cousland, and felt responsible for my safety. Such a marriage would have brought him no advantage; I was still a mage when he proposed._

 _This Orlesian seeks my hand just for his own gain!_

"My cousin Celene has been childless for a decade, and as it stands – I am her only surviving relative," continued Gaspard de Chalons, persuasively. "It would be logical for her to name this babe as heir, if we were married. You possess one of the oldest pedigrees of Ferelden; I am a Valmont."

 _One of the few quality bloodlines,_ his tone implied.

"And you would control a child with a claim to both the Fereldan and Orlesian thrones," pointed out Eamon, his lip curling.

Flora heard a low rumble of anger, sensing that the others were preparing to rally to her defence. Alistair looked as though he had stayed out in the sun for too long – his entire head was a shade of furious crimson.

Yet, the thought of their baby becoming entangled in the complex skeins of Orlesian politics, made the blood boil in her veins like an overlooked cauldron.

 _I kept you safe from the Archdemon, my little toad,_ Flora thought to herself, determinedly. _I can keep you safe from this man's ambition._

"Usually when people are trying to charm me, they praise my hair, or my eyes," she replied, grateful for her flat Herring intonation and the solemn ambiguity of her features. "They don't usually go straight for praising my _blood."_

"Lady Cousland, you know full-well that you're a beautiful girl," replied the grand _duc_ , lightning quick. "Surely, there's no need for me to reaffirm that?"

"A compliment or two might have sweetened the proposition," retorted Flora, already bored of this arrogant noble and his presumptions. "Do your weddings take place in counting-houses, rather than Chantries?"

The _duc_ narrowed his eyes, trying to divine the purpose of Flora's question.

"Based on your proposal, marriage in Orlais seems to be more a _financial transaction,_ than a Maker-blessed match." Flora warmed to her theme, pale irises flickering. "All this talk of _profit._ And… and maybe that's the kind of marriage that noblewomen are meant to enter into. But I'm not just a noblewoman, I'm a _Herring_ girl, and Herring girls are very _particular_ about who we marry. We don't do it for advantage, and we don't do it because we're told that we ought to. Nobody chooses _for_ us."

"You would be celebrated within Val Royeaux," Gaspard continued, in the stilted tones of a man not used to cajoling. "And a lifestyle far beyond what you could imagine awaits you in the Hall of Mirrors at Verchiel. Your every desire would be catered for."

Flora paused, her stare wide and accusatory, feeling the little creature nudge against the base of her spine.

"But, I'm _Fereldan_ ," she countered, quiet and firm. "And this baby is Fereldan. And we aren't going anywhere."

Flora could almost hear Alistair's exhalation of relief from across the room. She wanted to pull an incredulous face at him: _as if she would ever leave!_

"Anyway," she continued hastily, feeling her stomach give an ominous lurch. "I would never even _consider_ a proposal unless it was done in true, traditional Herring style."

The grand _duc_ narrowed his pale, clever Valmont eyes thoughtfully, scrutinising her features as though he hoped to learn something. Yet Flora's face was as solemn and ambiguous as any Orlesian mask; and he could glean nothing from it.

"A shame," he murmured, softly. "Our union might have achieved great things."

Flora, realising that she was about to be sick once again, decided to make a rapid exit.

"Well, I'm sorry, Gosper," she said, not unkindly. "Your rod isn't big enough to catch a fish like me."

Feeling her guts churn, Flora turned on her heel and sailed out of the room; wanting to put as much space between herself and the audience chamber as possible. Finian and Zevran followed in her wake; the elf openly snickering.

 _Oh shit,_ Alistair thought to himself, as Eamon cleared his throat and stood up. _What's a Herring-style proposal again? I'm sure Flo has mentioned it before._

"The lady Cousland has spoken her mind," the arl of Redcliffe murmured, trying not to laugh. "You are permitted to stay within Denerim until the coronation, _grand duc."_

Gaspard scowled, lifting the silver mask and placing it firmly back on his unhappy features.

"That girl is as obstinate as Celene," he muttered to himself, darkly. " _Merci_ for the audience, Your Majesty."

Alistair grunted, frantically searching his memory for any mention that Flora had made of Herring proposals. He rose to his feet, barely sparing a further glance towards the Orlesian duke; head turned towards the corridor where his mistress had headed.

Fergus put up a hand to intercept the king, the teyrn's face caught between reproach and wry amusement. He lowered his voice, ensuring that the grand _duc_ could not hear.

"Alistair, you _are_ going to propose to my sister before the wedding day itself, aren't you? I understand that you wanted to give her time to grieve for her spirits, but… it's less than a fortnight away now."

"You're northern. Do _you_ know what these 'Herring proposal traditions' are?" Alistair retorted, hoping that Flora had been referring to a _regional_ – rather than strictly local – custom.

Unfortunately, Fergus looked blank; raising a shoulder in a shrug.

"Sorry. I gave Oriana a ring and a gold necklace when we were betrothed, but I doubt that's a practice shared by the villagers of Herring."

Alistair grimaced, feeling a bead of nervous sweat break out on his forehead as he straightened.

"Maker's Breath. I'd better go and find her dad tomorrow. I hope he's still in the city!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Haha, I bet you thought it was Alistair finally proposing to Flo…. NOPE!

OOOH, this was a fun chapter though! I love anything to do with politics and proposals, haha. It reminds me of work! But I love my job, lol, so it's understandable. So the news has spread across Ferelden that the new Hero of Ferelden is an unmarried Cousland daughter, which is literally marriage market material! Even the fact that she's pregnant with a king's child isn't necessarily a bad thing – it proves that she's fertile, and the baby could be used as a valuable bargaining chip. Of course Fergus, knowing that Flora isn't going to agree to any of these proposals, doesn't even bother to relate them to her. But Alistair is Not Happy, lol.

Flora did end up telling Alistair what a Herring-style proposal was, all the way back in TLATL lol

Gaspard's wife was murdered in a family power struggle! There was no date for that event on the DA wikia page, so hopefully it's not too far out of canon for him to propose to Flo within this time period.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	32. In The Pursuit Of Wanton Pleasure

Chapter 32: In The Pursuit Of Wanton Pleasure!

In the shadowy servant's corridor Flora sunk down against the wall, looking distinctly green about the gills. Finian was pacing back and forth before her, flapping his hands and offering unhelpful medical advice. His silhouette lurched erratically across the unplastered wall, making Flora feel even more nauseous.

"Quick, put your head between your legs!"

"Alright," said Flora, obediently bowing her face between her knees. "Uergh."

"Does that feel any better?"

"No."

"Perhaps you need someone to put _their_ head between your legs," Zevran volunteered, slyly. _"I volunteer!"_

Finian swatted the elf on the elbow, crouching down beside Flora as she slumped unceremoniously on the flagstones.

"I think the head between the legs might be for dizziness, actually. Do you feel dizzy, Floss?"

Flora shook her head, taking several gulps of musty air while talking her stomach down from the metaphorical ledge.

 _You don't need to do this. There's nothing left to expel. You've already punished me for daring to eat something at my own feast._

To make herself feel better, Flora summoned a mental image of Gaspard's startled face, open-mouthed like a fish laid out on the sand. This had a palliative effect on her nausea, and - to her relief - she felt her stomach settle down once again.

The next moment, candlelight spilled into the corridor as Alistair manoeuvred his way impatiently inside.

"I didn't even know this corridor existed. It's so _dark._ Where are you, Flo?"

"Down here," said Flora, from somewhere near his feet.

Alistair squinted, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom. As he focused on her slumped against the wall, his face crumpled in sympathy.

"Oh, baby," he breathed, crouching down before her on the dusty tiles. The crown slipped forward and he removed it impatiently, setting the golden band on the flagstones at her feet. "Why are you in here? This is a servants' passage _."_

"I thought I was going to be sick," she replied, leaning forward into his embrace. "I didn't want to be sick on Gosper's silky shoes. I'm not sure what diplomatic message that would send. Probably… not a good one."

"And on top of the ' _your rod isn't big enough to catch me'_ comment," Finian murmured in Zevran's ear, archly. "It might start another Orlo-Fereldan war."

Alistair slid his fingers around the back of his best friend's head, holding it against his shoulder.

"What can I do to help, darling?" he murmured, rubbing his hand up and down the length of Flora's narrow back; feeling the hard ridges of her spine. "Anything at all, just say the word."

"Keep doing that," she mumbled into his tunic, pressing her cheek against the fine crimson velvet. "Feels nice."

Alistair dropped a kiss to the top of Flora's head, feeling her yawn into his shoulder as he slid his palm back up to the nape of her neck.

"You're wearing my tunic," he murmured, fingering the collar. "I've missed seeing you in them, Lo. You _lived_ in my shirts when we were journeying."

"Mm," she replied, reaching up to hook her arms around his neck. "Leliana doesn't think I have enough clothes. She kept saying I'd need to get a new _dress_ very soon. She was mysterious."

Alistair grimly resolved that he would go and find Pel – Flora's fisherman-father – the very next morning, and question him about the ominous-sounding _Herring-style proposal._

"Sweetheart, I wish you would stay here tonight," he said, instead. "I can't see any reason for you to stay at Revanloch another week. We have the Divine's letter, the Landsmeet has approved it already. _I_ want you back with me."

Flora considered this longingly, the urge to acquiesce overwhelming.

 _No more damp, draughty, overcrowded chamber._

 _No more Templars watching my every move._

"I think I should stay at the monastery," she said reluctantly, and Alistair's mouth turned down as he heard the rejection in her tone.

"But?"

"You ought to do as you said," Flora continued, letting her finger run down the collar of his tunic. "You said I'd be there for a month. It's only been three weeks. You ought to keep your word, since … since you're so new on the throne. Even about something like this."

Finian let out a soft grunt of confirmation; he could see the logic in his sister's argument.

"She's right, Alistair."

Alistair grimaced, clutching her a fraction more tightly against his chest. Flora wound her fingers in his collar, brushing her thumb over the copper-gold hair curling at the nape of his neck.

"I just miss you," he said, slightly plaintively. "I don't sleep well without you in my arms."

"I miss you too," Flora whispered, tracing the strong band of sinew in his neck down to his throat. His collarbone stood out against the taut, defined bulk of his chest; the velvet garb of a king would never fit him as well as a suit of armour. "I miss being in bed with you. It's been _ages."_

She shot him a _look_ beneath her eyelashes, curling her fingers more persuasively into the velvet collar of his tunic. Alistair's irises darkened, feeling the first tendrils of lust sprouting in his gut. He knew that _look_ all too well; it had led him into empty stables at South Reach and behind trees in the Brecilian Forest, it had tempted him into violating the hallowed space of the Chantry. Those clear water eyes, dark-lashed and limpid, communicated her wanton urges far more eloquently than Flora's Herring-shaped vocabulary. They misted over with desire like a humid summer rain; pupils dark and hot as coals.

"It's been fifty three days," he replied, throatily. "Not that… not that I've been counting."

"Fifty three days since what?" asked Finian cluelessly, averting his eyes as Alistair dropped his mouth to the hollow of Flora's throat "Oh, for Maker's sake- _really?!"_

Alistair raised his head and cast a heavy-lidded glance around the narrow corridor. Intended for servants, it was gloomy and ill-kept, with cobwebs decorating the ceiling beams. More importantly, it was _private._

"Finn, Zev," he instructed, words blurring together with desire. "Find somewhere else to be."

"For the love of Andraste!" Finian, eyes bulging, made a vain attempt at protest. "You can't rut my little sister in a _servant's passage!_ Why not at least take her up to the bedchamber?!"

"No time," Alistair retorted, unbuttoning his breeches with swift, desirous fingers. "I just heard the sixth bell - the Templars will be here soon."

"Let's give the king and his mistress some privacy, _Finían_ ," Zevran purred, smiling very widely to hide the raw edge in his tone. "Come on. Have fun, _amores. I_ cannot promise that I will resist the temptation to _peek."_

Alistair let out a grunt, more than aware of the elf's voyeuristic tendencies. Finian fled up the corridor with a squawk of horror, vanishing into the depths of the labyrinth used by the servants to navigate the palace unseen. Far more nonchalantly, Zevran sauntered in the young arl's wake. Being in masochistic mood, instead of following Finian into the safety of an audience chamber, he slid into a convenient recess half-hidden by shadow. Leaning back against the wall, the elf pricked his ears back towards the gloomy corridor; heart racing uncharacteristically in his chest.

Meanwhile, Alistair was enthralled by the new inches added to his best friend's bust. He slid his hands inside the unbuttoned shirt to cup her naked breasts, gently weighing them against calloused palms.

"Is it selfish that I don't want to share these with the baby?" the king murmured, letting his thumbs brush lightly over her nipples.

"Yes," she replied, reaching down to pull impatiently at the fastening of his belt. "Hurry, hurry- "

Alistair let out an involuntary groan at her unashamed desire; single-minded need transforming his kind, handsome face into something primitive. His mouth dropped to Flora's neck, working the delicate skin with teeth and tongue until she cried out in frustration.

" _Alistaaaair- "_

He growled against the softness of Flora's throat, licking a long stripe down to her collarbone as his fingers began to inch her leggings down around her thighs. As he did so, his wrist inadvertently nudged against the swollen swell of her stomach. A clear ray of affection broke through the lust saturating Alistair's features, quickly accompanied by a matching streak of worry.

"It's not going to hurt the baby, is it? Us doing… _this?"_

"Nooo," mumbled Flora, her hand working busily inside his own breeches. "I don't see how."

"Is it going to hurt _you?"_ Alistair continued, anxiously. "It's been _ages."_

"Dunno. Don't care."

She let out an impatient little grunt, successfully freeing his rigid length from the confines of the leather.

"I don't want to hurt you," he repeated, anxiously. "Maybe I should just- _Maker's Breath!"_

This strangled blasphemy was in response to his best friend repositioning herself – somewhat awkwardly, considering her weighted belly and sore knee – so that she could take him in her mouth. Alistair let his head drop back against the wall, fingers clenching involuntary fistfuls of her hair. Something raw and heated was burning in the pit of his belly; a desire which she was stoking unashamedly with the workings of her tongue. He opened his mouth to speak but a strangled croak emerged, his pelvis thrusting involuntarily against her yielding lips.

"Flora," he managed to mutter at last, her name emerging hoarse and peculiar. "Sweetheart- "

Abandoning coherency, the king let out a moan; reaching with clumsy fingers to slide the shirt from her shoulders. Flora paused to breathe, secretly delighted at the effect of her mouth's purposeful exertions.

 _I thought I might have forgotten how to do this._

 _Well, we did spend enough time practising during that month at South Reach. There wasn't really anything else to do –_

Flora smiled up at Alistair and he flashed her a dazed grin, the cool olive tone of his cheeks warmed by an uncharacteristic flush. As she took him in her mouth once again, Alistair let his hand rest on the crown of her tangled head, gentle and affectionate.

Just then, in sonorous tones from the other side of the door, came the unmistakeable chiding of Chanter Devotia.

"' _And thus with creeping indolence did the sinners while away their hours; spurning the Maker in the pursuit of WANTON PLEASURE!'"_

Flora almost choked, recoiling from him as Alistair let out a strangled curse.

"Oh, for fuck's sake- "

There came a loud, pointed cough from the audience chamber. Flora sat back on her haunches and gazed at Alistair in mild irritation; he stared back at her, eyes narrowed.

"They can't tell us off," he said, slightly uncertainly. "Can they? I'm the _king."_

For a moment they blinked at one another through the gloom of the servant's passage; a stable-boy and a fisher-girl who – through a series of inexplicably strange circumstances - had somehow ended up in the Royal Palace.

There came an experimental rattle at the door knob, and Alistair swore under his breath; reaching down to tuck himself back into his breeches.

" _Fine_. To be continued, darling."

As Flora shrugged her arms into her shirt, Zevran manifested from the shadows and made them both jump.

"Maker's Breath!" hissed Alistair, using the crown to flatten down his rumpled hair. "Why don't you just join in next time? You were close enough!"

"Don't tempt me, _mi amor,"_ purred the elf, buttoning Flora's shirt from the bottom while she started from the top. "I'm only sorry that you were so _rudely_ interrupted."

Flora raked her fingers through her own tangled locks in an attempt to calm them.

"We'll just say that I felt poorly and Alistair was looking after me," she said, hopefully. "Do you think they'd believe us? Do I look sickly?"

"You look as though you've just been bedded, _mi sirenita,"_ replied the elf honestly, casting an eye over her flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

"Didn't even get that far," grumbled Flora, reaching up to adjust the angle of the crown on Alistair's head. "Oh well, let's just get this over with."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol foiled again! I promise they will get it on one of these days, haha. Finian's basically lost forever in the maze of servants' passages now… Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	33. Grey Warden Oghren

Chapter 33: Grey Warden Oghren

Like stern parents collecting a recalcitrant youth from the city guard's custody; Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia escorted Flora from the castle with expressions of mutual disapproval. The Chanter had offered a few choice excepts from her limited source material – mostly focusing on sinners who fell victim to _lusty urges_ – while Gannorn had asked (with a straight face) whether there were no bedchambers fit for purpose within the Royal Palace.

The sun was just setting as they rode along the cliff top, casting lazy tendrils of ochre and apricot across the green expanse of the Amaranthine Ocean. Revanloch monastery hunched like a crow on its low, rocky promontory; dark basalt towers standing out in stark contrast against the pastel twilight.

Flora, who was riding on Chanter Devotia's saddle, found the Templar's quiet, disapproving murmurs oddly soothing. Before they had begun to ascend the low gravelled path that led up to the monastery's main gates, she had fallen asleep; head against the officer's breastplate.

Chanter Devotia had looked down at her silently, the corners of her mouth pulling taut. When the stable boys came scampering out to take their horses, she quietened them with a ferocious _ssh!,_ her pale violet eyes flashing behind her helm. Knight-Captain Gannorn reached up wordlessly to receive the yawning Flora; she let herself be transferred from one officer to another as readily as a sleepy child.

Without exchanging more than a few choice words, the two Templars manoeuvred their snoring charge up to the guest chamber. Once Flora had been deposited onto the bed – with exceptional care, considering the precious cargo she carried – Knight-Captain Gannorn went to draw the curtains while Chanter Devotia prepared the bedroll before the door.

The night drew in, close and unusually humid, the stars lighting one by one like distant lanterns in the heavens. Flora, worn out by the long day, snored contentedly; lost in soft and dreamless sleep. The Templars watched over her in staggered intervals, their purpose not to watch for any hint of magic – it had long become apparent that Flora's Fade connection was severed – but out of sheer curiosity.

When Flora had first arrived at Revanloch, it had been hard for them to reconcile this sulking adolescent with the great string of titles that she bore – _Hero of Ferelden, Warden-Commander, Ender of the Fifth Blight, Dragonslayer._ They had not been impressed by her immaturity or her recklessness; and wondered at her illiteracy and lack of education. They had also found her grief at the loss of her spirits entirely perplexing – why would one _mourn_ the loss of their magehood?

Now, although neither one would dare to admit it, the Templars had become oddly fond of their young charge. They had watched Florence Cousland near-incessantly for the past three weeks; and had found in her many admirable qualities to balance out their unfavourable first impression. She was unfailingly polite to the monastery servants, and had an uncanny knack of remembering their names. She laboured away for hours each day in an effort to improve her poor literacy; stubborn in the face of her own ignorance. Even Knight-Captain Gannorn had to admit to himself that this assignment had been a welcome change from escorting pilgrims across the Anderfels.

In the last days of Justinian, Flora received a most unexpected visitor at the monastery. With help from her Templars, she had dragged the small table into the shade within the inner courtyard. Whilst the bard positioned herself tactically in the only patch of light and warmth within Revanloch; Flora huddled near the apex of two conjoining walls, aware that the summer sun wrought havoc on her pale skin.

"It's not natural for the sky to look like this," she said at last mid-afternoon, abandoning her writing and squinting upwards with a look of distinct suspicion.

Leliana, who had rolled up her Chantry robe sleeves and was draped horizontally atop a long planter, turned her head and frowned.

"What do you mean, _ma petite?"_

Flora jabbed a finger upwards as the bard returned to a sitting position, stretching herself like a cat.

"Look how... _blue_ it is," she said, indignantly. "There's no cloud. In Herring, there was _always_ cloud. I thought the sky was naturally grey until I moved south to the Circle."

Rising elegantly to her feet, Leliana drifted across the courtyard and took a seat at the table beside Flora; pulling over the scrawled sentences to correct them.

"In the south and the east, these skies are quite normal in the summer," the bard reassured, a slight crease forming on her forehead as she tried to decipher Flora's unintelligible text. _"Ma crevette,_ I do not understand what this word is meant to say?"

" _Indubitably."_

Leliana's eyebrows shot into her hairline as she stared at the tangle of consonants.

"So you have attempted to write, ' _I love fish, indubitably'_? Don't run before you can walk, _ma chérie._ Let's concentrate on spelling the basics correctly before we get too _ambitious,_ hm?"

Flora blinked in dismay. "What did I get wrong from the first bit?"

" _L-o-v-e._ Not l-u-v!"

"Oh." The Cousland drooped for a moment and then perked up again, casting her eyes once more towards the sun. "What's Orlais like in summertime?"

Leliana let out a little sigh, leaning back to finger the wilting leaves of a nearby pot-plant.

"Unmatched in beauty," she murmured, softly. "I remember travelling through the countryside alongside Lake Celestine, when the _pasque_ flowers were just beginning to bloom. They sprouted in such abundance that they had overtaken the path, and we had to walk waist-high through lavender and clumps of gentian. The _smell,_ you cannot imagine – even those flowers that lay trodden underfoot had been dried by the sun, so that each step brought forth the most delicious aroma. And the skies overhead were not simply blue, they were _aquamarine."_

"Aqua-what?"

"Aquamarine. There is nothing within Ferelden that can compare."

"Oh," replied Flora, thoughtfully. "Well, it sounds very nice."

"I will have some lavender bushes imported from _Montsimmard, ma petite,_ to be grown in the Royal Palace. The smell is meant to help babies sleep; Orlesian _mamas_ hang clumps of it in their nurseries."

"Thank you!"

" _De rien_ , _mon chaton."_

"Derry-ann," repeated Flora, wistfully. " _Derryann_. I wish I could speak two languages, you're so _clever_."

Leliana smiled, her teeth white against skin rapidly bronzing in the sunlight.

"Perhaps focus on becoming adept with the King's Tongue first, eh, _ma fleur?"_

"From what I've heard in the taverns of Denerim, Florence Cousland is _already_ fluent in the _King's Tongue!"_

The comment was delivered in a thick and immediately recognisable brogue; and Flora's face broke into a beam. Pushing back her chair, she rose to greet the dwarf as he strolled across the cobbles.

"Oghren!"

"Eh, don't get up, lassie!"

Flora obediently sat, leaning forward to peck Oghren's cheek as he bent down expectantly. She was delighted to see him in what seemed to be excellent health and spirits – his eyes were sparkling and unclouded, there was no stench of alcohol about his person. His leathers, although crumpled, seemed to be relatively clean.

"You look well," Flora said, irrationally proud of her dwarven companion.

Oghren grinned, his eyes roaming unashamedly over her figure.

"And _you've_ got quite the beer belly on you, princess. How many months we at now?"

Flora snorted, looking down at the swell of her stomach as it stretched out the navy lambswool of her tunic.

"Six," she said after a moment, slightly vaguely. "I think."

"It _is_ six," called Leliana from across the courtyard; having relocated herself to a sunnier spot. "And you're right, Oghren. It's going to be a big, _strong_ baby when it's born."

Flora immediately scowled as the dwarf cackled, clapping a reassuring hand onto her non-bound knee.

"Good luck! You'll be fine, you're a sturdy little maid. Anyway- "

Oghren took a deep breath, ginger whiskers quivering. Flora shot him a slightly curious look, wondering at the uncharacteristic apprehension on her companion's florid face.

"The reason why I'm here, is that… well. I got somethin' to tell you."

Flora blinked at these portentous words, fiddling with the gold Cousland ring on her little finger.

"Before yeh and _Prince Charming_ came to Orzammar, I spent… a _long_ time not doin' anythin' in particular. Became acquainted with a lot of tavern floors, but tha's about it. Then… well. I joined yeh both on this crazy journey, didn't I? Gave my life a bit of _meanin'."_

The dwarf nodded as though to himself, one thick thumb running absentmindedly across the knotted wooden surface of the table.

"Anyway, now the Blight's over… I don't want to go back to tha' old life, you know? So I- I got an idea. An' don't try and talk me out of it, my mind is made up."

Across the courtyard, the bard's ears pricked and she sat up, curiosity piqued. Flora stared at Oghren with increasing trepidation, feeling a small knot of anxiety form at the bottom of her belly.

"So I thought I might… join the Grey Wardens," the dwarf said, his tone nonchalant but his eyes steady and purposeful. "Keep on fightin' the good fight against the Darkspawn, now that you an' the king have retired. Reckon they'll need a few more soldiers."

The knot of anxiety solidified into a hard lump of fear in Flora's throat, sudden and irrational. A memory ignited in the back of her mind; Daveth choking on a froth of Darkspawn ichor at his own failed Joining.

The canny dwarf spotted the flicker of worry, and sought to offer some jovial reassurance.

"I know there's a risk. But, far as I can see, the alternative is endin' up a bloat-bag of booze on a tavern floor in ten years. And we dwarves _know_ the Darkspawn, we've been fightin' 'em for years."

Flora remembered how Oghren had volunteered to keep vigil over Riordan's body, how he had stood stiff and straight-backed alongside the Orlesian Warden-Commander, head held high. Now, the dwarf looked at her with mild apprehension; trying hard not to show how much he desired her approval.

Swallowing her nerves, Flora smiled back at him, reaching out to rest her fingers on his arm.

"I think that the Wardens will be lucky to have a warrior of your strength and bravery," she replied, earnestly.

Oghren grinned at her, cheeks flushing a deep pink that clashed with the lurid ginger of his moustache.

"I'll give the Darkspawn a thing or two to think about!" he continued, gleefully. "I'll happily introduce 'em to the sharp end of my ax."

"Will you travel to Vigil's Keep to join the Order?" Leliana called, rolling up her sleeves to let her arms catch the sun.

"I wrote to Loghain," replied Oghren, then amended his statement. "Well, I got Wynne to write, askin' what would be best. Turns out the new Warden-Commander is comin' down for Alistair's coronation next week; gonna do some recruitment in the city at the same time."

Flora leaned forward, impulsively reaching her arms around the dwarf's broad frame to embrace him. Oghren patted her gently on the back, a grin spreading behind his thick moustache.

"Your tits have _definitely_ gotten bigger, princess."

Leliana, from across the courtyard, let out a little hiss of disapproval.

"You're as bad as Zevran, dwarf! _Worse,_ actually; because at least he would try and be _poetic_ in his lechery."

The dwarf snickered unrepentantly as Flora withdrew, tapping his fingers against the mottled wood of the tabletop.

" _Speakin'_ of the elf, Flo, has Alistair let him shag you yet? _Ouch,_ nughumper!"

This was in response to Leliana picking up a small pebble from the soil of the planter and flicking it deftly at the back of Oghren's head. The dwarf shot her a scowl, making a less-than-polite gesture with his fingers.

"Anyway, lass, jus' wanted to let you know what the plans were. Glad I've got your 'proval. Means a lot, you know?"

Flora smiled at him wistfully, remembering how she and Alistair had first met the dwarf while he was in the process of being manhandled from the Diamond Quarter, drunk and disorderly.

"Oghren, you're a different man from the one we met in Orzammar," she said earnestly, and the dwarf seemed to swell several inches; his chin lifting a fraction. "Will you stay for dinner?"

"You want me ter… ter _stay?_ Usually people are pleased ter see the back o' me!"

"I _want_ you to stay," Flora repeated, firmly. "I'd like to hear all about what you've been doing over the past few weeks."

The dwarf left just after sunset, passing Alistair and his escort of Royal Guard at the gate. Waylaying the king a moment, Oghren revealed his plans to join the Grey Wardens; glancing hopefully up at the taller man out of the corners of his eyes. After expressing initial surprise, Alistair had grinned and clapped the dwarf on the back, offering sincere congratulations.

When the king turned reflexively towards the guest chambers, Oghren had called out; halfway through heaving himself up into his long-suffering pony.

"She ain't up there, Alistair. She went off ter the Chantry."

"Oh."

Alistair blinked; somewhat surprised. Flora was not particularly religious, and tended to avoid the Chantry if her presence was not required. From what he remembered of monastery routine and ritual, the evening service wouldn't begin for another hour.

All became clear once he had arrived within Revanloch's Chantry, the cool stone interior a welcome sanctuary from the muggy humidity of the evening. The hollow space appeared near-empty at first, a lone Chantry Sister refilling the incense holders with fresh sage.

Then a shifting of movement caught Alistair's eye, and he caught sight of Flora's two Templar guardians; standing still as suits of armour at the entrance to a side chapel. The glow of candlelight emanated from the recessed hollow, and Alistair headed duly towards it.

Flora was sitting cross-legged on the flagstones, her dual arcs of remembrance set out neatly before her. The wax had trickled down the stalks of the candles, stretching out in pale rivulets across the dark basalt tiles; she had clearly been sitting there for some time. An abandoned taper drooped between her fingers, the end still smoking.

Not wanting to disturb her contemplation, Alistair managed to fold his powerful frame unobtrusively down to the flagstones beside her. Flora blinked, as though awakened from some waking dream; peering at him as though he was a stranger. There were damp streaks on her cheeks, eyelashes clumped together with the remnants of stray tears.

The king leaned forward and kissed his mistress on each side of her face in turn, tasting salt against his lips.

"My sweet girl," he murmured and said nothing more, waiting for her to speak in her own time.

"Nobody understands why I'm still sad," Flora mumbled after a moment, without further clarification. Alistair bit back his question, reaching out and smoothing a wispy curl of hair away from her forehead.

"About my spirits being gone," she explained, realising that her tears could theoretically have been for any of the dead commemorated before her. There was a candle to represent each of those who had been lost over the course of their journey; from their ill-fated Warden-Commander Duncan, to a lowly husk of a dwarf named Ruck, cowering in the darkest recesses of the Deep Roads.

"Because they weren't people. But they were _like_ people to me," Flora continued, tearfully. "They were my friends. They _made_ me who I was. They helped so many, they gave up _existing_ to end the Blight, and… and nobody cares. Nobody will remember them, except for me!"

She stared at him, part-tearful and part-indignant. The glimmering tangle of candle-flames was reflected in her pale irises, illuminating the gold fleck left by the Archdemon's soul. Alistair gazed back at her for a long moment, a line creasing his noble brow as he mentally crafted his response.

"Darling, we've _all_ been saved by your spirits at one time or the other. Whether it was from some deadly blow deflected, a fatal injury healed, or a poison cured. We all ought to remember them."

The king nodded, warming to his idea as he enunciated it.

"Let's have a memorial for them tomorrow evening. We'll invite everyone."

Flora blinked at him, damp-eyed and hopeful.

"You… you think they'll come?"

 _For you, they will,_ the king thought to himself as he nodded, firmly.

"Of course, my love. We owe our lives to them."

Alistair reached out and brushed his thumb gently beneath her eyelashes, lifting away the wetness clinging there.

"But no kneeling in vigil for eight hours this time, eh?"

Flora inhaled unsteadily, then lunged forwards, shoving herself ingloriously against the solid bulk of his chest. The king leaned back, gathering his mistress into his arms and kissing the top of her head with sudden, fierce affection.

"You grieve as long as you need to," he murmured into the untidy mass of dark red hair, his fingers sliding down to clasp hard into hers. "My sweet girl."

Alistair's gaze settled on a tall, dripping candle that he somehow _knew_ was meant to represent Duncan. For a moment, he fancied that he saw their old Warden-Commander standing in the hollowed recess of the chapel, his dark Rivaini eyes shifting thoughtfully in the candlelight.

 _Are you looking after your sister-warden as I requested, Alistair? Remember: she's younger than you, and wholly inexperienced in the ways of the world._

 _Actually, Duncan, she mostly ended up looking after me. After all of us._

 _But I swear, I'll take care of her now. For as long as she lives, I'll keep her safe: my sister-warden._

"Don't set yourself on fire," muttered Knight-Captain Gannorn darkly from the chapel entrance, eyeing the ring of burning candles. "Or our Chantry."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I have work events in the evening for tomorrow and Tuesday so I thought I would do another update in case I can't update until Wednesday! One work thing is for the Historical Association, and the other one is for some new book about the Iron Age. I seriously did not become a historian for forced socialising, lol! At least it's free food, hahaha

Anyway, I like this chapter because it has Oghren in it, a character who I slightly neglected in TLATL! I hope to give him a bit more of an interesting role in this one. Plus, it's a nice excuse to bring Loghain down for the coronation, plus some of the new characters from Awakenings. It has a bit of joviality in it, and also a bit of sadness – Flora, realistically, still isn't over the loss of her spirits. But I think having a memorial for them - like they did for the other dead – will help her grieving process. GOOD IDEA ALISTAIR!

In other matters, the coronation/wedding is NEXT WEEK and Flora still knows bugger all, lol. Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	34. An Unexpected Visitor

Chapter 34: An Unexpected Visitor

The following day rained incessantly, the drizzle only abating when the murky sun began to sink into the western horizon. A veil of mist settled over the cliffs; softening Revanloch's harsh basalt edges and restricting vision to a few dozen yards. As the twilight deepened into a rich, lustrous navy; stars emerged like little jewels from the heavens, rays of moonlight scattering the mists to reveal the great dark swathe of the Amaranthine Ocean.

To Flora's relief, Alistair and Leliana had taken charge of organising the impromptu 'memorial' for her spirits. It didn't seem appropriate somehow to hold such a service within the Chantry, in light of their less-than-flattering view of mages. Instead, they decided to hold it atop the Revanloch ramparts, in view of both sea and star-studded sky. In lieu of the customary pyre, the remnants of Flora's staff were brought down from the palace; though Guilluame discreetly kept one fragment behind to use for future display.

Alistair had sent frantic messages about the memorial around the noble district and across to the Circle camp – the mages alone had remained on the Alamarri plains, in an effort to purify the tainted soil so that it could be used for crops once more. As sundown drew near, a whole caravan of people passed beneath Revanloch's crumbling main gate. Many of them did not quite understand _what_ exactly they were attending, but they came out of regard of their young Cousland; who had taken the loss of her spirits very hard.

Leonas Bryland arrived first on horseback, proving that his maimed hand was no deterrent to skilled ridership. Shortly afterwards, the Cousland and Guerrin brothers arrived as part of a small group; talking in low voices to each other as they rode beneath the old stone archway and into Revanloch's large courtyard.

Flora's companions arrived next in a slow trickle; Oghren on his stout little pony, followed shortly by Leliana, who had been perusing robes in the newly restocked Denerim market. Now that the Blight was ended, imports had begun to trickle back through Ferelden's ports; including a fresh shipment of raw silk from Orlais. Sten, who had never trusted Flora's spirits but appreciated their utility, arrived in their wake. The stableboys, awed and intimidated by the Qunari's bulk, scuttled to take his horse while not quite daring to look him in the eye.

Wynne arrived just as the drizzle began to abate, the senior mage murmuring animatedly to Ferelden's First Enchanter. Irving had done his own quiet research into the identity of Flora's spirits; beings of such blatant antiquity and power tended to have legends attached to them. This was now a pointless pursuit – the spirits had been blasted apart by the Archdemon's soul, and would take millennia to reform – but Irving wished to honour their contribution regardless.

Meanwhile, up in the guest chamber, a miserable Flora was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling compulsively at a loose thread in her sleeve. Alistair had half-finished pruning his _facial hair of authority,_ squinting at his reflection in the mirror with shaving-blade in hand.

"Does it look alright, Lo? I'll take it all off if it looks ridiculous."

"You look very handsome," she replied with forced cheer; turning her head to give Alistair a quick and entirely unnecessary once-over. "But you'd look handsome if you were bald-headed and had a moustache like Oghren."

Alistair smiled at Flora over his shoulder, appreciative of her effort to find kind words in the midst of her sadness.

"Thank you, darling, but I'm not _ambitious_ enough to pursue dwarven-style facial hair."

Flora dropped her gaze to her lap, and then blinked as a shadow fell over the floorboards. She looked up to see Zevran already partway across the room, clad in a dark leather tunic with a high collar that rose about his throat. The elf's expression was sombre, and he clutched a bouquet of sunset-hued flowers.

" _Mi florita,"_ he murmured, glancing swiftly behind him before bending down to kiss both of Flora's cheeks in quick succession. _"Lo siento."_

"I see you still hate doors," commented Alistair amiably. Moments later the king cursed as he accidentally nicked his cheek with the shaving-blade, pressing his thumb to the minute wound in annoyance.

Flora smiled wanly up at Zevran, her eyes moving curiously to the bunch of flowers clasped in his hand. They were exotic in appearance, made up of dozens of clustered tiny petals in hues of amber and peach.

"What are these?" she asked curiously, touching one delicate green stem with a finger.

"They are _caléndulas, carina,"_ replied the elf, softly. "The flower of mourning, according to Antivan custom."

Flora felt tears beginning to well in the corners of her eyes, and blinked them back furiously.

"They always warned me never to cry in front of anyone," she mumbled, aware in retrospect that her spirits had subtly been preparing her for the role of _Warden-Commander._ "I think they'll be disappointed in me tonight."

Zevran pressed the flowers into Flora's bitten-nailed hands, patting her knee gently with his own elegant fingers.

" _I_ think such a thing would be impossible," he murmured quietly, withdrawing his hand and glancing behind once again. "You have another visitor, I will see you on the ramparts."

As the elf made a quiet exit, Flora and Alistair peered at one another in confusion. The guest chamber was ostensibly empty, the corridor outside quiet, save for the shifting boots of Flora's Templars against the creaking floorboards. A humid evening breeze filtered in through the ajar window, ruffling the curtains with a gentle whisper of fabric against glass.

"Wha- " started Alistair, then his eyes were drawn to a flutter of movement in the centre of the window frame.

A raven, its feathers glossy and indigo, was perched with claws digging into the wood. Small, clever eyes were focused on the occupants of the room; as though establishing who was present before committing to entrance. Flora rose to her feet, using her palms to propel herself upwards from the mattress, wide-eyed and with her mouth part open.

The raven let itself drift slowly inside, wings spread. Before it made contact with the floorboards, it's outline began to blur and unfold outwards, a dark silhouette that shifted into female form. The feet that landed on the floorboards were those of a woman, bound in strips of leather and with nails darkened by earth.

The Witch of the Wilds stood before them clad in her usual rustic garb, small beads and animal bones woven into strands of ink-black hair. It had been the first time that Alistair had seen the witch since pleading with her to help Flora in the Fade; and the first time that Flora herself had seen Morrigan since the roof of Fort Drakon, with the Archdemon snarling in the far corner.

"Well," Morrigan began, determined to begin the conversation on her own terms. "It's been some time. Don't lie and claim that you missed me- "

Flora scuttled across the room with surprising vigour for someone in her advanced condition. She came to an abrupt halt before Morrigan with face contorted, fists clenched at her sides; simultaneously desperate to embrace her and respectful of the witch's personal space.

Morrigan's carefully blank expression flickered as she gazed downwards. A moment later, the witch sighed and raised a hand.

"If you must. Such _sentiment_ , 'tis enough to make the stomach roll!"

Flora wasted no more time, throwing her arms around the witch's waist and embracing her with a delighted squawk. Alistair responded with slightly more measured enthusiasm; flashing Morrigan a rueful smile over Flora's head.

"We thought you'd gone back to the swamps, Mor."

Morrigan let out a small sniff, letting her hand brush abrupt but affectionate down Flora's back.

"I could call your city a swamp of humanity, but I do not; in the interest of maintaining _civility._ I certainly hope that you do not expect me to address you as Your Majesty!"

"I can say with _absolute certainty_ that I did not expect that," Alistair replied mildly, as Flora continued to cling to the witch's bosom.

"Hmph," said Morrigan, eyeing the top of Flora's dark red head. "I see you have not abandoned your _limpet-like_ qualities. Will it take another Blight for you to release me?"

Yet there was no harshness in her tone; and a modicum of affection could be found within the soft reproach.

Finally Flora withdrew, her eyes bright and appreciative. She beamed up at their most longstanding companion, who had first joined their cause in the Korcari Wilds after an instruction from the inimitable Flemeth.

"I'm so glad to see you," she said, honest and without ornament. "I thought you'd gone. Are you coming to my memorial?"

"Not _your_ memorial, Flo," replied Alistair, a stern note in his tone. "The memorial for your spirits."

Morrigan's dark-painted lip curled and she swung her head from side to side in the negative, with a little accompanying shudder.

"I have spent most of my life avoiding the wrath of Templars. I do not think it wise that I – technically, an _apostate –_ reveal myself within their inner sanctum."

The witch reached down to Flora's stomach with a business-like hand, letting her palm follow the curve of the baby.

"You're carrying high and full," the witch murmured, feeling a twitch of movement beneath her fingers. "In the _animal_ kingdom, this means that the child is male. Perhaps it is the same in the human kingdom also."

Alistair felt something constrict in his throat at Morrigan's words; his stomach clenching within his gut.

"Really," said Flora cluelessly, her fingers settling instinctively on the rounded swell. "What about in the fish kingdom? Oh, fish lay eggs."

Morrigan shot her a mildly incredulous look, and then cleared her throat.

"I came to tell you that I intend to return to the Wilds, to see if they are indeed Blighted. I also go in search of my mother; though I doubt she lingered if our home was in immediate danger. I _do_ plan on – oh, _blast and damnation!"_

This was in response to Alistair sniffing and brushing a hand quickly over his face. Flora turned towards her former brother-warden in alarm, spotting the beginnings of tears in the corners of his hazel eyes.

"Sorry," Alistair muttered, embarrassed. "It's just- "

He made a little gesture towards Flora's stomach, using his sleeve to dab at his face. Flora smiled at him, while Morrigan rolled her eyes in blatant derision.

"And here I thought it was the _woman_ who became unbalanced with the growth of a babe," the witch muttered, reaching to adjust the leather thong circling her neck. "Anyway, I did not wish to leave without… saying farewell."

Flora took a deep, steadying breath. She had been preparing herself for some time for this moment: when one of her companions made their goodbyes.

"Will you be back for the baby?" she asked, hopefully.

Morrigan shot her a quick, darting look from the corner of her gilded eye.

"Why, 'tis up to you," she murmured, in faintly mocking tones. "Would you desire the presence of an apostate such as myself at the bedside of a newborn infant? I might turn it into a _frog."_

"Of course," Flora replied immediately as Alistair narrowed his eyes in a scowl. "I want the baby to meet one of the bravest women I know."

"The _bravest?"_ repeated Morrigan, one eyebrow rising. "How so?"

"Leaving the Wilds must have been like me leaving Herring," Flora explained, earnestly. "But you were in the Wilds for even _longer._ It must have been very strange."

"Let's not forget that her mother all but _forced_ her into it," muttered Alistair quietly, who had not forgiven the witch for her flippant comment about transforming the baby into an amphibian.

"Still," repeated Flora, firmly. "It was brave of you to come with us. Thank you."

Morrigan inclined her head, lifting her chin and taking a step backwards.

"Alistair, it may be possible for me to write to you on the state of the Wilds, and the condition of the land which I pass over," she murmured, not quite meeting his gaze. "Would this perhaps be _useful_ to you, considering your new position?"

Alistair's eyebrows rose, and he looked at the witch with a guarded gratitude.

"Well, yes," he replied, warily. "Eamon is planning some sort of _royal progress_ for after the coronation, but it'll only reach as far as Lothering. It'd be useful to learn the extent of the Blight's damage further south. Thank… thank you, Morrigan."

The Chasind woman inclined her head with a wordless, feline grace, retreating rapidly towards the window as she heard the booted sounds of Templars outside. Flora bit at her lip, resisting the urge to embrace their oldest companion one final time.

The witch clambered up onto the window bench, lithe and graceful as any Theodesian predator; as the door opened, she folded herself into a beating of feathered wings.

Alistair wrinkled his nose at the faint, acrid tang of magic; whereas Flora had been so utterly severed from the Fade that she could not even smell its residue.

Moments later, Knight-Captain Gannorn entered, with the slightly wary expression he adopted whenever coming into a room where the king and his mistress had been left alone. Upon seeing them both fully dressed and at a chaste distance, he opened both of his eyes and cleared his throat.

"The visitors are gathered upon the ramparts, Your Majesty."

Alistair looked down at Flora, just in time to see her flinch. He reached out to anchor his best friend's fingers tightly within his own, bringing her hand to his mouth.

"Ready to say goodbye to your spirits, my love?"

"No," she replied in a small voice, then took a deep breath and channelled her best Herring stoicism. "But, let's go."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaaaah, Alistair getting sentimental about his unborn baby is def my aesthetic, lol. I love Morrigan, I love every part of her acerbic personality – I don't want to soften her spiky edges at all. The orange flowers that Zevran gives Flora are marigolds, which are actually a Mexican flower of mourning, not Spanish! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	35. Farewell To Flora's Spirits

Chapter 35: Farewell to Flora's Spirits

The shroud of dusk settled upon Revanloch, the stars like hanging ethereal lanterns overhead. The moon was so low that it appeared almost to be submerged within the deep green vista of the Amaranthine Ocean. In the distance, the city of Denerim could be seen smouldering away; the light from several hundred braziers creating an ochre haze above the clustered buildings.

Atop the ramparts, Flora's companions both noble and common gathered about an empty iron brazier; a salt-edged breeze ruffling hair and clothing. It was not like the usual Fereldan memorial – there was no priestess present, no effigy of Andraste, none of the recognisable Chantry funereal trappings – and yet this was _not_ a usual memorial. There was no body and no pyre, only a few fragments of charred wood placed carefully on a silver tray.

Leliana, who had taken charge of this strange service, cleared her throat. She had dressed up in her lay-sister robes, her hair neatly pinned behind her ears and her expression very solemn.

"The Maker gathers all souls and spirits to his side," the bard began, her voice carrying clear and melodic across the ramparts. "Yet there are some spirits which forsake their deserved eternal rest to serve a greater purpose. In this case, to assist Ferelden in the defence against the Fifth Blight."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, grateful for both Alistair's hand clamped firmly around her own, and Finian standing close at her elbow.

"The contribution of these spirits – of Valour, and Compassion – cannot be denied," Leliana continued, softly. "First Enchanter?"

Irving stepped forwards, fingers tucked into the sleeves of his robe and lined face wreathed in thought.

"To be a spirit healer is a rare calling," Ferelden's most senior mage mused, contemplative. "It is unusual for spirits to show any interest in the waking world, let alone for them to reach out and make contact with a mortal. I am only sorry, Flora, that I was unaware of your skills whilst you were at the Tower. You would not have been so neglected."

"It's alright," Flora replied, in a small voice. "I didn't stand out at all."

"And yet the spirits chose _you,"_ Irving countered, his shrewd eyes settling on her. "Out of all the mages within Ferelden."

There was silence for a moment, during which a seagull gave a long and mournful cry. Leliana, who had been intending to ask Flora to share her first memories of her spirits, saw the agonised look on the young Cousland's face and rapidly changed her course.

"I don't think there's one amongst us here who haven't benefitted from Flora's spirits in some way," the lay sister said, softly. "Would anybody like to share one of these memories?"

Without pause, Teagan Guerrin raised a hand. All eyes turned to the bann, including Flora's own damp gaze.

"When the dead surged out from the gates of Redcliffe Castle, they didn't split their forces," Teagan murmured, his voice low. "Our defences at the southern barricade would have been overwhelmed in minutes. Then the lass went running off towards the enemy. Her shield went up over the bridge, and it bought us time to bring in reinforcements from the east path. As a result, the village – and our lives - were preserved."

Flora blinked at Teagan as he shot her a quick glance, both of them remembering distinctly that cold and rainy night when the dead had stormed Redcliffe.

 _Light the oil! she had bellowed, slithering over the mud towards the defenders as the barrier disintegrated behind her. Light it, light it, light it! The fire was ignited, and she had brought up her shield; crashing through the flames with sparks licking the hem of her battered woollen coat._

Leonas put up his hand next, the coarse stitches still lodged in the ruins of his maimed fingers. When the arl of South Reach spoke, his voice was rueful and reminiscent.

"An assassin once poisoned my flagon. I saw my life pass before my eyes – my throat burned as though a fire had been stoked in my belly. I couldn't see the great hall or even those sat around me – all had gone dark – and then the lady Cousland came crashing over the table, elegant as always- " here, the general flashed a wry smile sideways at Flora "- and she _drew_ the poison from me, breathed it in as though it were… as though it were perfume. I would have been dead in minutes, if it wasn't for the healing that Florence imparted."

Arl Eamon then told of how his son's life had been saved when Flora had ventured into the Fade; a strange golden light blistering the demon until it had burnt from the inside out. Fergus recanted the terrible moment when the South Reach assassin had severed a chandelier above Finian's head; only for the glass to shatter harmlessly against a gleaming, gilded shield expanding from Flora's outstretched fingers. Zevran, his expression uncharacteristically sombre, told of a girl who had spent all day patrolling about the army camp, and then all evening standing hopefully beneath a _heeling Here too-day! (Free)_ sign in the most dangerous parts of the city.

Wynne had told of a shield being summoned across a tower roof in Fort Drakon; protecting Flora's companions while also preventing them from intervening as she limped alone towards the snarling Archdemon. The senior enchanter's words echoed across the ramparts, and Alistair felt a low curdling of nausea in his stomach; recalling the horrific moment when he had realised what Flora was intending. His grip tightened on her fingers, and he had to suppress the urge to embrace her.

Throughout each recanted memory, Flora had listened avidly as though she were not the central protagonist in each one. She had never taken credit for any of these actions – always deferring praise to her spirits, from whom she derived all her magic. In her hands, she clutched the fragmented remains of her staff; the wood charred and smeared with fingerprints. It was so unassuming in appearance that it could have masqueraded as a broken broom handle, and none would have been the wiser.

Finally, Alistair stepped forwards; the king's expression carefully neutral but his green-flecked eyes stern and determined.'

"I could stand here all night listing each fatal blow that Flo's magic has deflected from me," he said, bluntly. "I would be dead a thousand times over, if not for her spirits. Ferelden is saved, and the Blight _ended_ because of them."

Alistair glanced down at his mistress, the purposeful amber gaze softening.

"They saved your life, and… and the life _within_ you, Lo. I owe them more than I could ever hope to say."

Flora swallowed, feeling her stomach constrict in a single, painful twist of sadness. There came a moment of silence, and she realised that everybody was waiting for her cue; giving her the chance to speak, if she so wished.

 _How can I possibly explain what you meant to me?_ she thought furiously into the silent void, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. _You were part of my own self. How can I describe that? My Silver Knight and Golden Lady._

Not wanting to look at anyone's expectant face, Flora dropped her gaze to the shadowed expanse of the Amaranthine Ocean, opaque as the surface of a mirror. The reflected night sky appeared to lie drowned beneath its placid surface; submerged stars wreathing a sunken pearl of a moon.

"You were there from the beginning to the end," she whispered at last, fingers tightening compulsively around the broken shards of wood. "You were the family that the Templars couldn't take from me."

Flora felt the edge of the wood bite into her white-seared palm, a bead of blood rising where a splinter had dug itself into the flesh. Whereas before she would have pressed her lips to the wound without a second thought; now, Flora gazed down at the tiny cut with horrified fascination, aware of her own new impotence.

 _Come on: this is their memorial. You have to do them proud, do this properly._

Swallowing and forcing herself to look away, Flora cleared her throat and continued, in a small and determined voice.

"In the Circle, I cleaned corridors during the day, but you taught me how to mend in the Fade. When the Archdemon forced its way into my dreams, you made me face it until I could stare it in the eye without flinching. Now, every night… I'm on my own in the darkness. I see nothing, I- I hear nothing. I don't dream of anything. I'm alone, _properly_ alone. For the first time in my life."

Flora took a deep breath, not wanting to look at Alistair as his handsome face creased in distress beside her. She had a sudden vision of her dad, Pel, frowning at such a display of _melodrama_ ; his inherent Herring stoicism thrumming in disapproval.

 _Sorry, papa. Can I blame it on the baby unbalancing me?_

After another steadying gulp of air, she stepped forwards to place the fragments of her staff into the iron brazier. The scattered shards of wood seemed small and insubstantial against the metal belly of the vessel; Flora had to resist the urge to scoop them out and press them protectively to her chest.

 _No,_ she thought fiercely to herself. _No matter what you did with this staff once, it's just kindling now._

Wynne stepped forward, touching the head of her own staff to the fragments of wood. An ochre flame sprung up, catching the dry shards almost immediately. They burned as ordinarily as any other wood, a thin trail of smoke curling upwards towards the twilit heavens.

Flora watched the remains of her staff burn within the makeshift pyre; her heart beating with such rapid ferocity that it almost frightened her. She had to physically stop herself from reaching into the flames and pulling out the smouldering splinters, reminding herself furiously that she no longer had the ability to summon a protective sheath around her hand.

Although she had been able to watch Riordan's body as it was engulfed on the pyre weeks prior, Flora found herself unable to keep her eyes on the shards of wood as they began to burn and blacken. She looked down at her feet, feeling the tears finally spill over her eyelashes; no longer caring if the others saw her cry.

Before the first tears had made their way down past her nose, Flora felt her former brother-wardenreach around her waist, drawing her back beneath the protective crook of his arm. Catching sight of Alistair's expression from the corner of her eye, Flora was startled at the grimness and the guilt fighting for dominance across his handsome features.

 _He didn't realise how alone I felt at night. But how was he supposed to know? I didn't tell him._

Now Flora could feel Alistair rigid and unhappy beside her, his arm clamped tightly about her shoulders. She gave him a reassuring nudge with her elbow, and he shot her an agonised glance in return from the corner of his eye.

Within minutes, the shards had become charred curlicues of carbon, lying in the bottom of the brazier like the leavings of a hearth-fire. Leliana, who had conducted the service for Flora's spirits with the same solemnity as she would have done for any fallen soldier, murmured a Chantry incantation; passing her hand gracefully before her chest.

"Let us take a moment."

There followed a short silence as those gathered on the ramparts paused to reflect; some thinking dutifully on Flora's spirits, others focusing more on the girl who had channelled their mighty will. An owl let out a mournful hoot from somewhere within Revanloch's rafters, the sound echoing about the crumbling walls and shadowed courtyards.

Zevran caught Flora's eye skilfully from the other side of the brazier. She blinked at him and he held up tan, elegant fingers twisted into the shape of a heart. Flora attempted to smile at him, the corner of her mouth curving into a miserable grimace.

At a subtle cue from Leliana, Alistair cleared his throat; keeping a tight grip on his mistress as she slumped miserably at his side.

"Thank you all for coming," he murmured in a quiet undertone, aware that a memorial for departed _spirits_ was somewhat of an odd concept. "I appreciate it."

Leonas Bryland grunted, touching his maimed hand to Alistair's shoulder.

"For the lass," he murmured under his breath, nodding to where Flora was still hunched and unhappy beneath Alistair's protective arm. "Look after her."

Just as the group was on the verge of splintering, a low and steady voice came from the steps leading down into the courtyard.

"I still think about that golden ship sometimes."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I think this will help Flora in her grieving process! I thought it would be a nice thing to do, to have a memorial for her spirits considering they played such a major role in The Lion and the Light. It was nice to revisit some of their contributions from the previous story, though! I was re-reading some of the old chapters, and I think the defence of Redcliffe has got to be one of my favourites.


	36. A Parting Gift From Cullen

Chapter 36: A Parting Gift From Cullen

Those still gathered on the ramparts turned to see the young Templar lieutenant, clad in travelling leathers and with a full pack slung over his shoulder. In the courtyard below, they could hear the chatter of the stable boys as they readied a lone horse for departure.

"I still remember it. The golden ship that your spirits made," Cullen repeated steadily, his tawny eyes fixing themselves on Flora's face. She stared back at him, astonished by the lack of customary shyness in his stare.

"The one from South Reach," she breathed, recalling a clouded spring evening and a fine mist of drizzle. "Connor's ship."

 _We stood on the cobblestones in the courtyard,_ Flora remembered, a lump rising to her throat. _Me, Connor Guerrin, this young Templar. I wanted to show Connor that magic could be a… a beautiful thing to possess, rather than just something to be feared._

"It was meant to be a constellation," Cullen said after a moment, not well versed in astrological lore. "Do you remember going up to the tower roof, with the arl's son?"

Arl Eamon stiffened slightly, his ears pricking with interest. Flora nodded, remembering how she had sent her gleaming simulacrum of the _Peraquialus_ on a slow, glimmering ascent; while Connor had tugged her with _excited-child_ haste up the winding tower steps.

 _We came out on the roof – this Templar behind us, keeping pace – and Connor's face was bright with pleasure and excitement. He wasn't scared of the magic anymore; he was fascinated by it._

"I'll never forget the sight of that golden ship rising into the sky," Cullen said, earnest and – for the span of several heartbeats – unashamed of his own admiration. "It was one of the… one of the most _beautiful_ things I've ever seen. The boy couldn't stop talking about it on the journey to the Circle."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, grateful for Alistair's steadying arm about her waist. Cullen continued, the words emerging in a heated rush as though he were spilling his sins in a Chantry confession box.

"Anyway, I wanted to give you… to give you this."

The young officer turned to his pack and reached down, retrieving a roll of parchment sealed with a wax Chantry emblem. Uncomfortably aware of the eyes of Ferelden's most powerful nobility resting on him, Cullen strode across the ramparts and thrust the roll of parchment into a startled Flora's hand.

"I'd like to request that you don't open it right away," he mumbled, retreating quickly towards his travel pack. "Or, at least – not in front of me."

Alistair narrowed his eyes a fraction as Flora blinked, astonished. She clutched the roll of parchment, wondering at its length and weight.

Finian watched the Templar curiously as he went to retrieve pack, sword and shield; one fine russet brow lifting.

"Are you going somewhere, Lieutenant Rutherford?"

Cullen gave a slight nod in response, clearly anxious to remove himself before Flora could break the seal on the parchment.

"I've been posted to Kirkwall, in the Marches," he replied, quietly. "I'm hoping it'll be less… _eventful_ up there _."_

Without another word, the Templar slung his pack over his shoulder; nearly dropping sword and sigil-marked shield in his haste. Head bowed and gaze set determinedly forwards, Cullen made his way down the steps leading into the lower courtyard.

The moment that the officer's curly blond head disappeared below the ramparts, Finian reached out and snatched the roll of parchment from Flora's hand.

"Wasn't that the Templar who kept mooning over you at South Reach? I bet this is a love letter," he said gleefully, picking at the wax seal as Flora squawked in outrage. "A declaration of undying passion!"

" _Undying passion!?"_ demanded Alistair, nostrils flaring. The king had still not fully recovered from the revelation that Fergus had already turned down a half-dozen proposals for his younger sister's hand. "Let me see!"

"Nonsense," countered Leliana firmly, her eyes focused with predatorial interest on the roll of parchment. "It's far too large for a letter."

Flora, nonplussed, watched her brother break the seal on the wax, unrolling the full dimension of the thin vellum. It was about an arm's length in width, and Finian said nothing as he stared at the parchment's contents.

"What is it?" demanded Leliana, making an impatient gesture. "Show us!"

Wordlessly, Finian turned the parchment so that Flora could see it.

The vellum, made of finest calfskin, was decorated with an illustration scribed in ink-pen. The Templar had replicated near-perfectly the fine-boned structure of Flora's features, her eyes half-closed and her full Cousland mouth part-open. Her hand – accurate down to the bitten fingernails – was raised before her face, oddly graceful. Using the gold ink usually reserved for decorating copies of the Chant, Cullen had illustrated curlicues of light radiating from the outstretched fingertips; coiling effortlessly to the edges of the vellum. Flecks of metallic ink surrounded the portrait like a misting rain, and veins of gold ran through the windswept hair.

Flora had never seen her old abilities depicted in such a way before. In conjunction with her new inability to dream, she had resigned herself to the fact that she would never again see how her magic had _looked_. The Templar's inked drawing had preserved that which Flora had believed would gradually slip into the darker recesses of her memory. Breathless, she reached out to touch the vellum with a fingertip, tracing the metallic outline of the emerging magic.

"How beautiful, _ma petite,"_ Leliana murmured, her eyes moving over various painstaking details. "What a kind parting gift."

Squinting down at the uncanny replication of Flora's face – exact down to the curve of the mouth and delicate hollow of the throat – Arl Leonas' eyes narrowed a fraction, and he nudged Fergus in the ribs.

"I'd wager that's not the first time that the Templar has drawn your sister," he muttered in an undertone. "That's a _practised_ hand."

Fergus nodded, keeping his response similarly low.

"Aye, I was thinking the same thing," he replied, grimly. "Still, he's headed off to Kirkwall. The Marcher wind will blow any inappropriate desires out of his head."

Down in the courtyard, Cullen finished loading up the horse with the last of his possessions. He had gathered scant belongings during his decade at the Chantry, and the horse was not especially weighted. After attaching his shield to the saddle, he reached for his sword, which was propped up against a nearby barrel.

Sliding the long blade carefully into its travel scabbard, Cullen took a deep breath of damp Revanloch evening air. The Templar knew it could be the last time that he would ever stand within the crumbling walls of the old monastery. Yet Cullen felt no sorrow at the prospect – Ferelden held an excess of vexing memories, of both torture and temptation in equal measure. There was a considerable part of the young man which hoped that Kirkwall would prove to be a place that he could call _home;_ where he could both serve the Maker and sleep easy in his bed.

"Lieutenant Rutherford?"

The officer turned around and startled; if he had been holding something in his hands, he would have dropped it. Flora was standing on the cobbles, slightly flush in the face from the exertion of scuttling across the ramparts and down the steps. She stared up at him, wide-eyed and solemn, shifting from foot to foot in an effort to stop herself from lunging forward.

"Thank you for the picture," she said after a moment, impulsively. "Sorry for opening it. My brother is bad at following instructions; not like me."

Cullen dropped his stare to the cobbles, self-consciousness flooding his cheeks with a rush of pink.

"It's… it's fine," he muttered to his boots. "You're welcome."

Despite the veil of dusk settling over Revanloch like a shroud, torchlight illuminated the young man's flushed face. Abandoning caution to the wind, Flora stepped forwards. Relatively confident that Cullen would not reject her – nobody had ever recoiled from one of her earnestly offered embraces – she stretched her arms towards him.

Sure enough, after a moment of fleeting indecision, the Templar accepted her hug; at first rigid, and then relaxing in small increments. He patted her awkwardly and rather forcefully between the shoulder-blades, as though trying to dislodge some stuck food.

"Good luck in Kirkwall," Flora mumbled into his shoulder, before withdrawing in the hope that she had not embarrassed him too extensively. The Templar summoned stoicism to his face to disguise any careless fragment of emergent emotion; nodding tightly as he made to mount the saddle.

Flora stepped back, shielding her eyes against the torchlight as Cullen nudged the horse's flank gently with his knee. With a final, gruff nod in her direction, he turned his mount's head towards Revanloch's main gate.

 _This doesn't feel like a forever-parting,_ Flora wondered, watching his silhouette diminish as he rode away. _I can't explain why._

 _I don't regret anything,_ the young Templar thought defiantly to himself as the horse picked its way over the cobbles.

Once Cullen's horse had disappeared into the shadows, the others joined Flora in the courtyard. The stable boys moved quietly about them, leading their horses out from the stables. By this time, the moon had risen full and plump; a swollen white peach casting a watery hue over Revanloch's damp cobbles.

Flora watched her friends and companions prepare to mount up, talking softly amongst themselves. Eamon was murmuring to Finian about the need to re-open Amaranthine's port for trade; while Wynne and Irving exchanged wry smiles at the suspicious glances they were receiving from the Templar guards. The courtyard quickly became crowded as retainers clad in Guerrin, Cousland, Bryland and Theirin livery emerged from the servants' hall, ready to escort their noble charges back to the city.

Flora stood to one side, watching the preparations to depart. A light, misting drizzle had begun to fall and she tucked the roll of parchment into her tunic to protect it.

Eamon clambered up onto his horse, rubbing at a sore knee with a grimace before sliding his boot into the stirrup. The arl of Redcliffe glanced around for his retainers, one eyebrow rising as he saw Alistair standing motionless on the cobbles. The king's horse was waiting patiently, head held still by a dutiful young stableboy.

"Alistair?"

"I'm not coming back to the palace, uncle," replied Alistair, low and steady.

Flora blinked across at him, clutching the folds of her tunic shut over the roll of parchment.

"I'll be there for the guild meeting tomorrow," the king continued, his gaze not leaving his mistress' face. "But I'm staying with Flo tonight."

Alistair rounded the back of the horse, coming to a halt on the cobblestones just before Flora. Flora wondered at the seriousness of his expression, pressing her cheek reflexively into his palm as he cupped the side of her face. Staring up at him, she saw her own miserable confession from earlier writ plain across his features.

 _Every night, I'm on my own in the darkness. I see nothing, I hear nothing. I don't dream. I'm alone, properly alone._

Flora's best friend gazed back down at her through the misting drizzle, hazel irises bruised with concern. His thumb traced the high bone of her cheek, and the affectionate gesture brought incongruous tears to Flora's own eyes.

"I'm sorry that I sent you away after the Blight ended," he said after a moment, the regret running raw in his voice. "I should have been there with you, Lo. I'm such an idiot."

Flora shook her head silently, a protest rising to her lips. Yet Alistair had already turned away, his eyes boring into her two Templar guards standing unobtrusively to one side.

"Your presence won't be required tonight."

Eyes lighting like candles, Zevran leaned across the space between the saddles and whispered in Finian's ear, his expression gleeful. Finian grimaced and looked as though he wanted to elbow the elf in the ribs; neither requiring nor _desiring_ Zevran to enunciate Alistair's intentions more explicitly.

"That's my _little sister,"_ he retorted indignantly, sole remaining eye wide and accusatory. "I don't need to hear you say it out loud."

* * *

OOC Author Note: So Cullen being good at drawing is ENTIRELY headcanon, lol! Though I think it's not too outlandish, since Templars spend all their time observing and people-watching; I imagine he would be quite good at picking up on facial details. Anyway, I thought this would be a nice way to say farewell to Cullen – though good luck finding peace and quiet in Kirkwall, hahaha… I imagine the image he drew to look a little like a black and white version of my profile picture.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you! Oh, and also in case it's not obvious, smut ahoy in the next chapter, lol.


	37. Together In The Darkness

Chapter 37: Together In The Darkness

As much as Alistair may have desired complete privacy, such was an impossible thing if one was the king of Ferelden. Although Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia had been relegated to their own rooms for the night, a half-dozen Royal Guard had been posted outside the guest chamber.

Still, as the king closed the door firmly in his wake, he was grateful for even a semblance of seclusion. Stopping short of actually turning the key in the lock – he knew from experience that this would cause great protest from the guard – he hoped that the door would sit well enough in its uneven frame to stay closed.

Moonlight spilled across the bedchamber from the opened windows, illuminating soft swathes of dust on the floorboards and disguising the patches of damp on the plastered walls. Flora, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, watched a small spider drop from a ceiling beam; the thin silken thread left in its wake caught the luminescence filtering through the clouded glass.

The sound of boot-steps roused Flora from her reverie, and she looked up as Alistair sat beside her on the mattress. He slid over his hand and she took it reflexively, gazing at the contrasting skin tone of their entwined fingers - alabaster woven through olive. His thumb immediately began to rub around her knuckles in slow, comforting circles; the gesture both intimate and familiar.

"Lola," Alistair said quietly after a moment, a raw note of self-doubt in his voice. "Did I do the wrong thing in sending you here after the Blight? I didn't have to listen to Eamon and the council; I _am_ the king."

Flora thought for a moment, her brow furrowing. Alistair leaned forward, unable to help himself, and pressed a kiss to his solemn sister-warden's cheek. Her skin felt cool against his lips – with the departure of her spirits, Flora had lost the residual heat that loaned her body perpetual warmth.

"No, I think it was _right,"_ she said, slow and careful. "It gave me a chance to understand how I'd… how I'd changed. And it was quiet here. I – I think I needed some quietness, after what happened."

A small part of Alistair's worry was alleviated with this response; though he still kept a tight and anxious grip on her hand.

"It broke my heart what you said earlier, Lo," he muttered, so quiet she could barely hear him. "About being alone at night, surrounded by darkness. It – it felt like I'd been punched in the gut by a Qunari."

Flora looked down, feeling a sudden, sharp sting of sadness. The tears began to well on her eyelashes and Alistair inhaled, immediately distraught on her behalf.

"I'm so sorry, my love."

Flora shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. He reached out to turn her face towards his own, leaning forwards to let their mouths come naturally together. His lips worked hers open, a bold tongue immediately staking its claim. She let out a muffled gasp into his mouth and Alistair responded with a soft grunt of approval.

"But I'm here now," he murmured, letting his mouth drift over Flora's ear. He could feel her shivering as he traced the shell-like curve with the tip of his tongue, savouring each breathy squeak that escaped from her lips. The pale line of her throat was too tempting to resist; Alistair's mouth meandered down her neck in a slow progression of little sucking kisses. Flora squirmed helplessly beneath them, her fingers anchored in the folds of his tunic.

"Alistair," she breathed and he let out a low groan of desire against her skin, tracing the hollow of her collarbone with his tongue.

"I'm here, baby."

As the king made love to Flora's throat with the increasingly enthusiastic workings of his lips, his hand was busily divesting her of her clothing. He unfastened the lacings of her tunic with quickly-remembered fleetness, letting the folds of navy lambs-wool fall open to bare her breasts. Flora went to help him, shrugging her shoulders free of the garment so that it pooled around her waist. Her boots were already discarded halfway across the floor; it took but a moment to wriggle her smallclothes down around her thighs. She leaned back against the cushions, eyes heavy-lidded with desire; he followed her movement and began to kiss his way with clumsy ardour down her body.

"You're so beautiful," he mumbled into her skin, tongue now tracing the underside of her breast. "I can't believe you're _mine._ You exquisite creature."

There was but one thing in Ferelden that could distract a lust-ridden Alistair; and that was Flora's plump stomach, the skin stretched taut over the rounded curve that housed their growing child. He raised his head, gazing in wonder at the mound of flesh rising gently beneath her breasts.

"Maker's Breath," Alistair murmured, feeling his throat thicken with a sudden surge of emotion. "That's so amazing, Lo. Look how _big_ it's getting."

Flora eyed the top of his bronzed head beadily as he planted a gentle mouth on the swollen flesh, kissing it as though the child itself could feel the pressure of his lips. Although she already loved her _little toad_ beyond measure or reason, it had also made her sick that morning and given her indigestion in the afternoon.

"Hm," she said in response, waiting for him to move further south. When he continued to gaze at her belly, transfixed; Flora decided to take matters into her own hands.

Pushing herself up from the cushions, she squirmed her fingers into the waistband of Alistair's loosened breeches; delving them over the hard muscle of his abdomen and down through the nest of tangled hair.

Alistair inhaled unsteadily as she took him in hand, finally distracted from the mound of her stomach.

"Lola," he breathed into her ear, pushing himself hard into her fingers with a shift of his pelvis. "Maker, I've missed you."

Flora smiled against the new king's shoulder, curling an arm around his neck and inhaling the familiar masculine scent of his skin. She could describe the planes and hollows of her best friend's chest from memory, knew intimately the location of each faded scar and old callous.

Abruptly, lust flickering in the depths of his pupils, Alistair shoved his breeches awkwardly down his hips. Reaching out, he placed large hands on Flora's waist and manoeuvred her gently onto his lap. The fire in the hearth had burnt down to embers, just bright enough to ignite the green veins in his tawny irises.

Flora reached out to caress the side of her best friend's face, brought equal in height by her position straddling his naked thighs.

"I _need_ you," she whispered, touching her thumb to his bearded chin. "Please."

Lost for words, Alistair kissed her in response, hard and desirous. As he leaned forwards, his arousal pressed insistently against her abdomen. Lips parting wetly, they both looked down at it and Alistair's brow furrowed in consternation.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, a grimace creasing across his olive brow. "Or be too rough. Will you tell me if it's uncomfortable?"

Flora nodded impatiently, using her strong knee to raise herself several inches above his thighs. Alistair took a deep breath, summoning deep from the reserves of self-control, then took himself in hand and began to work inside her, an inch at a time. She was good and slick, which made it easier; but it had still been almost six weeks since he had last penetrated her. Beads of sweat began to rise to the king's forehead, teeth gritted with the effort required not to hilt himself in one deep thrust. Flora was also grimacing; growing used to the sensation of Alistair's considerable length within her.

Once he was sheathed fully between her legs, she gave an experimental little wriggle. Alistair let a low, helpless groan in response; fingers tightening on her waist.

"Darling," he whispered against her ear, in slightly strangled tones. "Give me a moment, I just almost spent myself."

Flora obediently arrested her momentum, letting Alistair take several deep, steadying gulps of air. Once some fragment of composure had been regained, he gripped Flora by the hips, easing her gently up and down. She matched his movements; letting her pelvis rock in slow synchrony against his own.

"Is – is it alright, Flo?"

Alistair's words blurred as he sunk himself repeatedly inside her, his buttocks clenching with each deep thrust. She let out a squeak of assent as she rode him; increasingly confident as she grew accustomed to her new shape. He groaned, eyelids half-closed with desire as the sounds of their lovemaking expanded to fill the room. The slickness of bodily arousal blended with the cadence of wet flesh meeting and parting; their moans and pants muddying together into a tangle of lust.

Flora's eyes were open, albeit clouded. She was dazedly watching the reflection of her best friend in the mirror; admiring the sweaty muscles of his back as they worked in rippling unison. Then Alistair's lips were at her ear, some coherent words managing to escape between the grunts and groans of pleasure.

" _Not – alone,"_ he gasped, urgent, forceful. "I'm here, baby."

 _At last, at last._

Flora wrapped her arms around his neck, crying out helplessly as she felt her abdomen convulse; waves of energy spreading outwards from her core like a pebble dropped into a rockpool.

This raw whimper was the signal that Alistair had been waiting for; seconds later, he let out a strangled half-snarl of desire and dug his fingers into Flora's shoulders as his own pelvis spasmed violently. The room seemed to darken as his vision contracted; for several moments, he was only aware of his own frantically reverberating heart. Shortly afterwards his sweaty forehead dropped onto Flora's shoulder, the air escaping his lips in a rush. She reached up to slide her arms about his neck, strands of sweaty hair plastered to her cheeks.

Momentarily lost for words, Alistair shifted on the rumpled furs; leaning back against the cushions and bringing Flora with him. She rested her cheek against his chest, feeling him settle his chin on top of her head.

"Well," the king said, somewhat hoarsely. "That was _definitely_ worth the wait."

Flora smiled dazedly into the taut muscle, a thin layer of sweat adhering her cheek to the skin.

"I love you," she whispered, feeling him inhale sharply and grip her a fraction tighter.

"And I adore you," he replied, voice ragged and earnest. "Maker's Breath. You are _magnificent,_ my queen."

Alistair darted an eye towards Flora to see her reaction, yet she was huddled yawning against his chest; well mired in the stupor that followed good lovemaking.

"Ouch, my foot has gone to sleep."

In the passageway, one of the Royal Guardsmen posted at the doorway let out a muffled curse, while his counterpart snickered.

"Ha! A quarter-candle length, jus' as I said. Told you the king wouldn't last a full half, it's the first time he's bedded her in _weeks_. That's five silver you owe me!"

The first guard extracted a handful of coins from his pocket, belligerent and sulky as he handed them over.

"I still got my other wager," he retorted, defiantly. "Twice more tonight."

"Nah, the lady's got a fat Theirin babe in the belly, she'll be tired. Once more in the mornin', that was their custom in the palace."

Unfortunately for the latter guard, the third bell had just rung when the tell-tale noises began once more. It was the deepest, stillest part of the night, and the silence was broken by the moan of a girl filtering out beneath the door. The moans increased in need and tangled together into an incoherent feminine whimper; raw and pleading.

The first guardsman looked triumphant, and the second made to check his glee quickly; ducking down to squint through the keyhole.

"Tongue-wagging doesn't count!" he protested, indignantly. "It has to be a _proper_ rut."

Unfortunately for him, shortly afterwards the unmistakable sound of wet flesh slapping together emerged from the chamber. The throaty grunts of a man joined with the girl's pants, interspersed with the sound of needy kisses. This bout of lovemaking was lengthier than the first; as they learnt how to best accommodate Flora's stomach.

The first guard grinned, making a rude gesture with his fingers at his scowling comrade.

"Ha! Once more, and I get double back, as agreed. _Come on, your Majesty!"_

The morning dawned damp and drizzly, an insipid sun barely bothering to show its face behind an Orlesian mask of cloud. Water ran in rivulets down Revanloch's tiled rooftops, flooding gutters and gathering in pools on the flagstones.

Teagan arrived on the tenth bell to escort Alistair back to the palace in good time for the trade guilds meeting. As the bann ascended the stairs to the guest passageway, he was greeted with one grinning Royal guard and a sulking counterpart.

"My lord," the first guard said, with a diplomatic clearing of the throat. "The king is… _indisposed_ at the moment. He shouldn't be long."

Teagan snorted, leaning against the wall and taking out some correspondence from Rainesfere.

"Good lad," he murmured, dropping his eyes to the sheriff's report.

"The lady Florence is a lovely lass," offered the second guardsman, for want of anything else to say. "King Alistair is a lucky man."

"Aye, she's beautiful," agreed Teagan, amiably. "And… he is."

"Jealous, my lord?" added the first, slyly. He had once been a man of Redcliffe, and was more familiar with the bann than most.

"Ha!" replied the younger Guerrin, forcing a note of humour into his voice. "I doubt I could keep up with a nineteen year old."

A short while later, the heated sounds from the bedchamber abated and Teagan duly tucked his correspondence away, a little warm under the collar himself. He counted to two hundred under his breath, then strode forwards and delivered a sharp rap to the door.

"The Bann of Rainesfere!" chirped out the triumphant guard as Teagan entered the guest chamber, carefully arranging his features into neutrality.

The room was lit by a weak, insipid sunlight; the cries of seagulls echoing from the cliffs outside. Alistair, clad only in unbuttoned breeches, was in the process of opening the window. The bed itself was in a state of disarray, with cushions strewn halfway across the room and furs tangled beyond recognition.

"Morning, uncle," Alistair called jovially over his shoulder, keeping his breeches up around his hips with one hand as he swung the window open.

"Morning, Alistair," Teagan replied, wryly. _"Slept_ well, I trust?"

Alistair was unable to prevent a grin from spreading across his face as he nodded.

"Well enough."

Just then the attention of both men was drawn by a mournful wail from Flora. She was standing in front of the mirror clad in Alistair's shirt, twisting her head from side to side to view her neck.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Alistair demanded, shooting across the room with remarkable speed for a man his height.

Outraged, Flora turned to face him, gesturing at herself.

"I can't _heal_ these anymore!"

Her throat and shoulders were bruised with the aftermath of Alistair's sucking kisses, dark red marks scattered lewdly across the pale skin. Alistair blinked at her for a moment, and then – mistakenly – chuckled.

This was very much the _wrong_ response to make. Flora bent down, scooped up a cushion with her fingertips and launched it at the King of Ferelden's head. It exploded in a puff of feathers and he sneezed, several wads of fluff shooting directly up his nostrils.

"You feasted on me like a… a _moray eel! I'm maimed!"_

When Alistair emerged from the storm of feathers, wiping his eyes, Flora was still glowering at him. Trying not to laugh, he reached out his arms towards her.

"Alright, darling. You can plant one on me, if it'd make you feel better- "

Before he had finished speaking, Flora lunged forwards. Instead of pressing her lips to his neck or bare chest, she fastened her mouth around the end of his nose; firm as a limpet. When she withdrew, there was a distinct purplish bruise left at the very tip.

Alistair stared at himself at the mirror, eyebrows lodged somewhere within his hairline. In the background, Flora now appeared somewhat mollified.

" _Ha!_ Haha."

"I'll have to say I was bending down to pet a dog, and it bit my nose," the king of Ferelden said after a moment, breaking into laughter. "My little she-Mabari."

He shot Flora a look that was both intimate and full of meaning, and she immediately blushed; memories from the previous night rising to the surface of her mind.

Teagan cleared his throat, sensing the atmosphere in the room heighten.

"Come on, lad," he said, not unkindly. "There's a hall full of guildsmen and ministers waiting for you."

* * *

OOC Author Note: SMUUUUUUUUUUT! I think I have been pretty restrained so far in this story on those grounds, lol. Still, I wanted to draw a little bit of a parallel with when Floristair shag for the first time in TLATL – on that occasion, Flora initiated it to comfort Alistair as he comes to accept the reality of becoming king. Now, Alistair is initiating it to comfort Flora after the loss of her spirits! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!

also great job on the love bite to the nose, Flo, lol


	38. A Charade In The City

Chapter 38: A Charade In The City

On the twenty-ninth day of Justinian, the people of Denerim began preparations for their new king's birthday. Although they were saving much of the best ale for the coronation in five days time, Alistair Theirin turning _one-and-twenty_ was still an excuse for revelry. Merchants intended to close up shop early, taverns would stay open until late; in the wake of the grimmest year in Ferelden's memory, its people did not require much cause to celebrate.

Before the sun had fully risen over Revanloch's steeply tilted roof, Leliana found herself being shaken awake. The bard groaned, opening one eye to gaze into Flora's alarmed face.

"What's wrong, _ma petite?_ Ugh, it's barely _dawn!"_

Flora rolled awkwardly over into the bard's half of the bed, the mattress dipping down with their conjoined weight. She gripped Leliana's shoulder, curling her fingers anxiously into the pink silk of the Orlesian nightgown.

"Leliana, it's Alistair's birthday tomorrow," Flora whispered. "He's going to be _twoty-one."_

From his position by the door, Knight-Captain Gannorn snorted quietly under his breath.

"Flor - _ence,_ we have been over this – how many times?"protested the bard, exasperated. "It's not two-ty, it's _twenty._ You aren't 'one-ty' nine, are you?"

"It would make more sense if I was," Flora replied, thinking of _sixty, seventy, eighty._ A moment later she continued, impatiently. _"Anyway._ Don't people give each other… _presents_ on their birthday?"

Such a concept was utterly foreign to Flora; in Herring, one's birthday was barely mentioned, let alone celebrated. The _giving of gifts_ was unheard of.

Leliana nodded, stretching against the cushions with a yawn.

"Yes, it is customary to do so. On my twentieth birthday, one of my suitors gave me a hollow nightingale carved from jade. When one breathed into its wing-tip, a beautiful high-pitched note sounded from its beak."

"I _need_ to get Alistair something," Flora breathed, horrified. "I can't be the only person to not give him a gift. Not a bird that you blow into, though."

Leliana bit back a laugh, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of Flora's hair behind her ear.

" _Ma fleur,_ you need not get him anything. Your love is more than enough, I suspect."

"No," Flora protested, looking about her as though a merchant might miraculously manifest in the corner of the room. "I need to go to the big market, in the city. There's lots of stalls there."

She slithered awkwardly down the end of the bed, her knee giving a twinge of protest at such unorthodox movement. Leliana sat up against the cushions, her brow creasing.

"Flora, you _know_ the effect your presence has on the people. You can't just wander about the city anonymous, like you used to. There'll be a crowd five-deep."

Flora chewed on her lip, thinking hard. A seagull gave a piercing cry from outside, and its mate responded in equally high-pitched timbre.

"Then I won't go as _Lady Cousland,"_ she said at last, triumphantly. "I'll tie my hair back, and wear a hat. And a big coat."

"In _summer?"_

"Yes! And I'll go by myself, since everyone is used to me being escorted by guards and Templars – why are you _laughing?"_

Flora stopped mid-sentence, gazing in perplexion down at Leliana. The bard was cackling, one elegant hand beating out the rhythm of her chortles on the cushions.

"What's so _funny?"_

"The thought of you being allowed to wander the streets _alone_ ," retorted Leliana, wiping a tear from her pale eyelashes. "Such a circumstance is less likely than the Veil itself dissolving."

Flora fell into a sulky silence, and the bard relented a fraction.

"Alright," she murmured, sliding elegantly out from the blankets. "We will bundle you up beyond recognition, and I will escort you myself. Find all the clothing you can, _ma crevette;_ I am going to send a quick raven to the city."

An hour later, Flora and Leliana were riding along the cliff-top path towards Denerim; the sea breeze ruffling the bard's short braids around her ears as she gripped the reins. They had not told the Knight-Commander where they were going – Leliana rightly assumed that the man would go apoplectic with fear at the lady Cousland making an unaccompanied journey under his purview – and, after much persuasion, they had left behind Flora's Templar guards.

"Don't fall off," Leliana directed sternly over her shoulder, feeling Flora shift around on the saddle behind her. "If any harm comes to you, Alistair will have my head on a pike alongside Thomas Howe's."

"Ooh, he would never," replied Flora automatically, keeping one arm wrapped around Leliana's taut stomach as she adjusted the buttons at her neck. "My head feels all sweaty. My entire _body_ is sweaty."

This was the unavoidable consequence of having her hair bundled up beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and her body covered with a lumpen and unflattering wool jacket. Flora actually didn't mind the coat – the coarse fabric reminded her of Herring – but she would not have chosen to wear it during high summer, in normal circumstances. However, her distinctive oxblood hair and the swell of her belly – the two features that identified her mostly strongly as Lady Cousland – had been somewhat disguised.

The horse slowed its pace as they embarked on the steep gravel descent that led down to the estuary. The muddied expanse of the Alamarri plains stretched out to the west, vast and desolate. The walled city itself lay over the mouth of the estuary, the tributaries repurposed into canals.

"What are you _doing?"_ Leliana asked, as Flora fidgeted and murmured quietly to herself, the brim of her hat bumping into the bard's neck.

"Sorting out what I've got to barter with," Flora replied, gripping Leliana's belt with one hand as she delved into her pocket with the other. "I don't have any money, hm. I _do_ have a nice shiny rock. And some sea-shells."

Leliana snorted, guiding the horse carefully around a pothole.

"I'll give you the coin for anything you desire," the bard replied, trying not to laugh. "One of your brothers can repay me later."

Flora beamed at Leliana's shoulder-blades, watching the tightly-hewn muscle move beneath the thin fabric of the lay-sister's tunic.

"Mercy!"

" _Merci."_

Once they had reached the western gate, Flora found that her heart was beating exceptionally – and irrationally - fast. As always, there were guards stationed beneath the iron portcullis, checking all those who wished to enter Denerim for smuggled goods. Fortunately, a long caravan of Marcher traders was passing through just ahead of them; the guards were so preoccupied with searching the contents of each cart that they waved Leliana past without a second glance.

After they had passed into the city itself, Flora's attention was immediately captured by the newly embroidered banners hanging from each archway and balcony. They depicted a Theirin lion, rearing upwards, with the curving arc of a Cousland laurel wound about its flank and caught in its outstretched paw.

"Are they to mark Alistair and I's contribution to ending the Fifth Blight?" Flora whispered in Leliana's ear.

Leliana paused, then gave a soft and ambiguous grunt in response; not wanting to lie outright. The bard turned the horse towards a nearby stables, using her knee to guide it skilfully away from the crowd of chattering Marcher merchants.

"We'll leave the horse here and go on foot," she said, sharp eyes alighting on a figure leaning unobtrusively against the wall. "Ah, _parfait."_

The horse came to a halt near a water trough, and Leliana leaned forward to unclip the reins. Flora eyed the drop to the cobbles, wondering if she dared risk attempt the descent unaided – then a familiar voice came drifting from somewhere below; half-laughing and half-chiding.

"Don't even _think_ about it, _mi florita_."

A pair of sinewy arms reached up, and Flora let herself slither down obediently into them, beaming up at Zevran as far as her outlandish headgear would allow. Zevran - who had just been hit in the nose by the hat's wide brim - let out a little snicker.

" _Mi sirenita,"_ he murmured, stepping backwards and surveying her. "You look like a sausage, all bundled up. Is this our bard's best attempt at subterfuge _?_ I thought you had been trained in the courts and _salons_ of Orlais, Leliana."

"I had limited means at my disposal!" Leliana retorted, flashing the elf an evil glance as she led the horse into the stables.

Zevran snickered, flicking the wide brim of Flora's hat with elegant, tattooed fingers. _"Mi florita."_

"You can't call me _Flora,"_ Flora told him sternly, her voice dropping on the last word. "When I'm in this _cunning disguise."_

The elf, whose eyebrows had shot upwards at the application of the word _cunning_ , tried not to laugh.

"What should we call you then, _nena?"_

"Fred," said Flora vaguely after a moment, selecting a solid sounding northern name at random. "It starts with the same letter, doesn't it? _F? Fuh?"_

"Fred!" announced the elf, a grin curling the black marks scythed in ink across his cheeks. "My sweet little _Federico._ Hey, you have not yet given us the kiss of greeting. Don't cheat me, now!"

"Good luck getting under this hat," replied Flora, and the elf's dark eyes lit up like ignited coals.

"That is a challenge I _readily_ accept, _carina."_

Zevran ducked his head beneath the wide, floppy brim and planted a kiss against Flora's cheek, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. She smiled vaguely at him, turning her head in the direction of the market square. In the background, Leliana embarked upon negotiations for the cost of renting a horse-stall, batting her eyelashes at the young stable-hand. Not to be outdone, Zevran soon chimed in, and the dual charm offensive resulted in a bargain price.

Bard and elf turned around in triumph, only to realise in slight horror that their charge had wandered off into the crowds heading towards the markets. Leliana hissed a most un-Chantry-sister like string of curses under her breath, shooting an accusatory glower at Zevran.

"The one time you _don't_ have your eyes glued to her…!"

"Relax," murmured the elf in response, swinging his sharp gaze across the crowd of traders, travellers and townsfolk. "She's just there, by the Chanter's board."

Flora had paused in the middle of the street; gazing around at the buildings and bridges absentmindedly as she tried to remember the fastest route to the market square. The sun had emerged from behind a thin screen of clouds, and she felt several beads of sweat rise to her forehead beneath the felt hat. The city was larger and noisier than the Herring native remembered; the sheer quantity of people bustling along the streets was a tad intimidating.

A trader with a handcart barked impatiently for Flora to _move!_ from somewhere behind her left shoulder. She stepped hastily to one side; not quite far enough, as it transpired. The handle of the cart knocked into Flora's hip, hard enough to make her flinch.

"Ow!"

"Idiot boy, get out the _way!"_

The next moment, the trader's hand-cart came to an abrupt halt, the handles dropping to the mud as the trader drew in a shocked breath. Zevran had manifested in the road just ahead, his face contorted into a death's head smile without a shred of humour. Without moving his unblinking stare from the trader's face, the elf drew back the flap of his leathers to show several inches of gleaming, newly sharpened steel. With the colour draining rapidly from his face, the travelling merchant picked up the cart – fumbling the handles several times – and scuttled off into the midst of the crowds.

Flora, oblivious to the elf's voiceless threat, had turned to face an indignant Leliana. The bard drew her to one side, towards the wall of a boarded-up blacksmith's.

"Flor- _Fred –_ I swear, if you run off _one more time,_ we're going straight back to Revanloch!"

"Oh no!"

" _Ah, oui!"_ The bard relented a fraction, seeing the look of alarm on Flora's face beneath the wide-brimmed hat. "Are you alright, _ma petite?_ The cart didn't knock you in the stomach?"

"No," replied Flora, as Zevran sidled towards them and slid his arm about her waist. "Just my hip. Which way is the market?"

They made their way over a crowded bridge towards the market square, following the main flow of the crowds. A mere five weeks after the end of the Blight, commerce had flourished once more within Ferelden's capital; mercantile companies putting out tentative roots to replace those routes that had been destroyed by war. Trade ships from other nations were dropping anchor in the estuary once more, importing exotic spices from Antiva and scent from Rivain.

Zevran and Leliana walked at either side of Flora, outwardly nonchalant but alert to the movements of every passer-by. A street urchin had eyed the deep pockets of Flora's coat with interest, fingers twitching; only to flee in terror as Leliana bared her teeth at him in primeval warning.

They had almost reached the great bridge that spanned Denerim's main canal – a placid tongue of the estuary wide enough for six barges to float parallel - when the sound of metallic bootsteps echoed from the streets ahead. This was accompanied by the yells of guards, their shouts echoing between the tall waterside warehouses.

" _Make way for the king! Make way for King Alistair of Ferelden!"_

Flora's initial, instinctive reaction of delight was quickly tempered. She shot a frantic glance towards Leliana, who looked equally alarmed at the prospect of Alistair discovering his pregnant mistress wandering the city streets with only two guardians.

"Quick," the bard hissed after a moment, as the sound of horses' hooves drew closer. "Back here."

The three of them ducked into the arched porch of a tavern, trusting in the sudden surge forward of the eager crowd to hide them. Leliana and Zevran had mastered the art of blending into the environment; the elf reached out to tug the brim of Flora's hat low over her face.

No more than a minute later, two columns of Royal Guard came marching over the bridge, pikes raised to form a protective barrier. The crowds obediently flattened themselves against the sides of the buildings, chattering excitedly to one another as they stood on their toes to gain a first glimpse of the king.

Flora, trapped in the tavern doorway with Leliana at her side and Zevran at her front, could barely see anything. Although she knew that the blood-connection between herself and Alistair had been severed with the purging of the taint, she still found herself cringing back against the doorway; irrationally worried about being spotted.

The excited babble reached a crescendo, cheers breaking out as the king's retinue approached. Fergus came first, gripping the reins in a leisurely hand and conversing with Teagan, who was riding at his side. A handful of Cousland retainers followed close in the teyrn's wake, their navy and olive Highever livery standing out distinctly against the crimson of the Guards' tunics.

The cheers escalated in volume as Alistair came into view, clad in tan, fur-edged leathers. The gold band rested on his temples, his head was held high, and he looked both authoritative and wholly at ease. Flora felt a sudden surge of pride in her best friend; she knew that Alistair was not yet entirely comfortable in his new status, yet he was simultaneously determined to make a good job of it.

The king raised his hand to acknowledge the cheers, leaning over to murmur in Eamon's ear. The sharp eyed Leliana noticed something strapped to Alistair's saddle, and she nudged Zevran pointedly.

"I see it," murmured the elf, whose eyesight was sharper still.

Flora, too, had been immediately drawn to this deeply familiar object, her eyes widening.

"It's a _fishing pole!"_ she exclaimed excitedly, unable to keep her voice muted. "At last, after all my nagging, Alistair is _finally_ embracing the delights of the rod!"

"I _wish_ Alistair would embrace the _delights of the rod,"_ replied the elf with a lewd cackle.

"You know, he's never been fishing?" Flora continued, oblivious to Zevran's crude remark. "Better late than never!"

" _Ssh!"_ hissed Leliana, shooting both of them a glower over her shoulder. "Keep your voices _down!"_

Sure enough, Flora's distinctive northern accent had cut through the excited babble of the crowd like a fish-gut knife. Atop his bay mare, Alistair paused mid-conversation, breaking off a reply to Eamon to glance around, perplexed.

Flora immediately shrank back into the doorway, trusting in the gloomy archway and wide-brimmed hat to mask her face. After a moment more, the king resumed his conversation with the arl; and the royal retinue gradually made their way further down the street and out of sight.

"Are you ready to go, _ma petite?"_ Leliana asked at last, resting her fingers on Flora's elbow. "I thought for a moment that you were going to launch yourself towards Alistair's horse, waving your arms."

"Nooo ! Can you imagine! Let's go to the market."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Flora is not the sharpest blade in the armoury – Alistair has definitely taught her how to count beyond twenty (two-ty one, _really?)_ and she sees the entwined Cousland-Theirin banners and doesn't realise that they are for her own upcoming wedding. Which is… in five days time, hahaha. But never fear, Alistair has bought a fishing rod – which is the first step in the traditional Herring-style proposal he was so worried about, lol… which involves the catching of a fish!

I always like a chapter involving a DISGUISE! Although it's not so much a disguise, as Flora wearing about eight layers worth of clothing and a big hat, haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	39. The Ring Test

Chapter 39: The Ring Test

Once the king's procession had passed, Flora, Zevran and Leliana made their way over the main bridge, past the fish-sellers and canal-side merchants, towards Denerim's market square. This was a large and sprawling space in the eastern part of the city, lined on all four sides with taverns, smiths and other assorted shopfronts. There was a diminutive Chantry – a fraction of the size of the Grand Chantry in the Square of the Bride – and a guard post located nearby.

A tangle of stalls were clustered without any semblance of order about the auctioneer's platform in the centre. Goods from all corners of Thedas were displayed for sale; raw silk in a rainbow spectrum of hues from Orlais; pungent baskets of spice from Antiva; as well as Surface dwarves showing off their admirable metalworking skills. One ginger-bearded smith was sending up showers of sparks as he hammered away in a demonstration of his craft; while a nearby cheese-maker sweated and hoped that his produce wouldn't melt in the forge heat. There were butchers gathered into a far corner, swatting flies away from swathes of dangling meat. A group of bowyers huddled nearby, irritated at being assigned a spot near the offal-filled gutters. An elven herbalist sat proudly atop a raised cart, amidst a plethora of oddly coloured glass vials. During the Blight, the market had only ever been half-full and limited to mostly Fereldan crafts, due to the drying-up of trade routes. Now it had swelled to almost full capacity, bustling and noisy; traders bellowing their wares over the hiss of the forge and snorting of animals.

Flora came to an abrupt halt at the western entrance, wide-eyed and shocked at the sheer _scale_ of the market. Although she had seen such quantities of people before – her gathered armies – they had been ordered in strictly regimented rows. This – on the other hand - seemed naught but a chaotic _mass_ of people; loud, unruly and intimidating.

She glanced to her companions for a measure of reassurance. Leliana was eyeing the spectrum of raw silk hanging from the Orlesian dressmaker's stand, while Zevran was leaning towards the Antivan spice-stall as though physically drawn towards it. Flora looked down at her feet, berating furiously herself for her own nerves.

 _You killed a dragon. Why are you scared of a crowd?_

Finally, Zevran noticed Flora's hesitation and reached out, sliding his fingers through her arm.

"It is as if the whole world was compressed into a single space _, no?_ " he said, kindly. "Let us start at the outside and work our way inwards."

They began at the blacksmiths' quarter, avoiding the sparks flying from the collision of hammer against anvil as a dwarven smith sweated over his forge. Flora mulled over getting Alistair a piece of armour – a helm, or a breastplate – but then decided against it; not knowing the actual _measurements_ of a body she could describe as well as her own. Leliana lingered behind at the armourer's stand, testing a wickedly curved blade against the flat of her finger. The weapon met with her approval and she handed over a small pouch of coin, sliding the dagger up her sleeve unobtrusively.

"Come here, _Federico._ I want to show you something."

Zevran wound his fingers in Flora's own and pulled her across to a certain stall which the native Fereldans seemed to be avoiding. As they neared, Flora could understand why – the scent emanating from the wares was so overwhelming that it made her eyes water. It was not an _unpleasant_ smell exactly, but _strong._

The elf ventured towards the stall, which was manned by a slender, dark haired merchant with fox-like features and a single golden nose-ring. The two men exchanged a few words in Antivan, before Zevran grinned and beckoned Flora forwards.

Baskets of ground spice were laid out in enticing array, in warm hues that ranged from bright ochre to brick red. Flora sniffed, mopping at her streaming eyes, as Zevran exulted the wondrous properties of the goods before her.

"Here, _carina,_ we have the secret to what all Fereldan meals sorely lack – _flavour._ We have cinnamon, saffron, star anise, caraway, cardamom…"

"Arl Eamon had some cin- _cinnamon_ in his kitchen," Flora said, remembering a stew that she and Morrigan had once made, many months ago in the servants' quarters of Redcliffe Castle.

The elf wrinkled his nose, giving a little toss of the head.

"Well, his cook surely never _used_ it."

Zevran then leaned forwards, dipping the end of his little finger into the mound of ochre spice.

" _Nena,_ stick your tongue out," he instructed, and Flora obediently did as requested.

The elf touched his fingertip to the end of her tongue, and she pulled a face, the corners of her mouth twisting.

"That's _cardamom, Federico._ How does it taste?"

"Strange," replied Flora unhelpfully after a moment, and the elf's dark eyes rolled like marbles.

" _Strange?_ Here, try this one."

He scooped up a small pile of yellow spice on the end of another finger, holding it out expectantly. Flora ducked her head forward and tasted the powdery substance, her face immediately contorting in a grimace.

"What's _that?"_ she demanded, wide-eyed. "It tastes like grass."

The elf wiped his fingers on his tunic, shaking his head from side to side regretfully.

"It is _saffron, carina,_ and it is worth its weight in gold! Quite literally, in fact."

Flora gazed dubiously down at the baskets of pungent seasoning, her brow creasing.

"I don't think I'm going to get Alistair any spices," she said after a moment, then immediately regretted referring to the king so explicitly.

Sure enough, the Antivan trader's ears had pricked at the mention of Alistair by name, his shrewd gaze attempting to slide beneath the brim of Flora's wide and obscuring hat.

"Come on, _ma petite."_

Leliana manifested behind them, reaching to interweave her arm though Flora's elbow. Flora, who was now sweating both from heat and horror at her own foolish transgression, allowed the bard to lead her away. Zevran leaned forward to exchange a few words with the trader, the mellifluous rhythm of the Antivan tongue blending into the low background babble of the marketplace.

"I'm such an _idiot_ ," Flora bemoaned as Leliana led her towards a nearby row of stalls. "Why did I call Alistair, _Alistair?_ I should have given him a false name. He could have been… Adam. Or Aron. Anything other than _Alistair!"_

"Stop saying _Alistair_!" hissed back Leliana, noticing several more civilians turn their heads curiously towards them. "Honestly, _ma petite,_ I recommend that you never consider the path of the _bard."_

 _Not that you could ever hope to become one, with that singing voice,_ Leliana thought grimly, but did not add.

After they had made another rotation of the market, Flora had still not found anything which she deemed to be acceptable. The sun had risen to midday; she was growing hotter, sweatier and more frustrated by the minute. Her weak knee was throbbing, the strapping dangling loose around the injured joint. Leliana and Zevran, conscious of the increasing temperatures, had plied Flora with frequent offerings from their water pouches; seeing her flushed and frustrated face beneath the hat.

"I can't find anything," she wailed as they paused beside a stall selling exotic fowl in cages. "I thought I would be able to get Alis – _him -_ the perfect present, but there's _nothing_ here!"

"Perhaps we should admit defeat and return to the monastery?" Leliana suggested hopefully, feeling beads of sweat rise to her own forehead. "We could arrive back in time for afternoon prayers if we leave now."

The corners of Flora's mouth turned down in dismay, and she dropped her gaze to her feet. Zevran glanced over his shoulder to ensure that nobody was paying a little _too_ much attention; then hastened forward to reassure their young Cousland. Sliding a hand between the buttons of Flora's coat, he let his fingers rest on the protruding curve of her stomach.

" _Federico,"_ the elf murmured, wry and rueful. "You are already giving him the greatest gift of all. You could present Alistair with nothing more for the rest of his life, and he would still name you as his greatest benefactor."

"But baby isn't coming for three months," retorted Flora, belligerent and crimson in the face. "It'd be a very _late_ birthday present. And I can't wrap it up and put a bow on it. Actually, I could probably put a bow on it. But still, it's _too late!_ His birthday is tomorrow!"

After making another increasingly agitated circuit of the stalls, Flora selected a hunk of wax-paper wrapped Fereldan cheddar, accompanied by a pair of thick knitted woollen socks in an alarming shade of orange. Flora was not particularly enamoured with either present, but she was becoming tired and overheated after spending so much time on her feet, in direct sunlight.

"Arl Eamon will probably be getting Alistair a… a _minor island_ or something," she complained, feeling sweat running down the back of her neck as the merchant wrapped the socks in a thin skein of fabric. "I don't know how to do _presents._ I'm not good at it."

"Don't worry yourself," chided Zevran, lifting his water pouch to her lips and tilting it gently. "Take another sip, _nena._ You ought to get into some shade."

Flora obligingly took a gulp, water dribbling down the side of her mouth as she yawned mid-swallow _._

Just then, there came a minor commotion as a caravan of Surface dwarves passed close by, travel-worn and yet surprisingly jovial. They blocked the road to such an extent that Flora, Zevran and Leliana were forced to retreat; taking refuge by a silk merchant's stall. Flora glanced to one side, her attention caught by a flash of familiar forest green.

 _I recognise that livery,_ she thought to herself, spotting a portcullis badge sewn onto a doublet. _That's South Reach livery._

 _Oh no!_

At that same moment, a piercing young female voice rang out near them; high and petulant.

"Papa, I need _three different colours_ of silk for my gown."

"Why in the seven hells do you need _three colours?"_

"Because I _need_ to have slashed sleeves and an underskirt in contrasting shades," retorted the voice, insistently. "Otherwise I won't be able to show my face at the coronation!"

"You'll be lucky to even _attend_ the coronation, the way you're complaining, lass," came the blunt response. "Any more talk of _slashed sleeves_ and I'll send you off to your aunt in Ostwick."

" _Papa-aaa!"_

"Retreat," hissed Leliana in Flora's ear, gripping her tightly by the elbow. "Let's go."

But they were still trapped by the column of dwarves, pinned next to the silk merchant's stall. Flora risked a glance over her shoulder, and looked directly into the dark eyes of the curious Habren Bryland. The young _arlina_ blinked in shock, recognising Flora's flushed face beneath the wide brim of the hat.

"Lady Florence!" Habren exclaimed, loud and indiscreet. "What are you _doing_ here? Where are your _guards?!"_

Flora gaped, lost for words. Leonas Bryland's head swung around, rapid as a Mabari smelling raw meat. The general's bearded face gave a single contortion of shock as he set eyes on Leliana, Zevran and the diminutive bundled-up figure between them.

"Florence?" he said, greying eyebrows shooting up into a receding hairline. "What are you doing here?"

His gaze swung around, expecting to see a contingent of Templars positioned in the immediate proximity. When they failed to manifest, he let out an astonished bark of disbelief.

"Maker's Breath, are there just the _three_ of you?"

"Being with Zevran and Leliana is like being with a whole troop of soldiers," retorted Flora, obstinately. _"Better."_

Rumours of Flora's identity had begun to spread outwards, like ripples expanding in a pond. Whispers darted between stalls, curious heads swivelling in the direction of the silk merchant.

Leonas noted both the increasing attention, and Flora's flushed, weary face, in a single instant. Reaching out, he took her elbow in a firm, parental gesture, steering her rapidly into the doorway of a nearby tavern. A battered sign swung overhead, depicting a large rat with a malevolent expression; the legend _The Gnawed Noble_ scribed below.

"Come on, I've got a room here."

Flora, thoroughly overheated and exhausted, let the arl guide her into the tavern. The downstairs was lofty and high-ceilinged, with a gabled roof and ironwork candelabras. It being just past midday, only a handful of patrons sat drinking at the long tables; a barmaid yawned as she scrubbed limply at a stain on the woodwork.

Avoiding the curious stares of the other drinkers, the general nudged Flora in the direction of a narrow stair; tucked unobtrusively in the corner. Staying close on her heels, Leonas glanced over his shoulder to ensure that nobody unwanted had made pursuit. Fortunately, only Leliana, Zevran and a wide-eyed Habren were following in their wake; along with several retainers clad in South Reach livery.

The upper floor of the tavern consisted of two corridors branching in the cardinal directions, with numerous doorways spaced at intervals. Leonas steered the yawning Cousland towards the far end of the corridor, whilst simultaneously removing a key from his sleeve.

The key granted entrance to a reasonably sized room, with exposed rafters and carved oak décor. A four-poster bed, sparsely hung with undyed wool curtains, rested squatly in the centre of the chamber. The shutters had been pulled back over the windows to let in several rays of watery sunlight, and a single stained tapestry of a wounded Mabari decorated the southern wall.

"Here," the arl said firmly, guiding a shuffling Flora towards the bed. "Rest for a while; I'll have something to drink sent up."

"Thank you," mumbled Flora, sitting on the edge of the lumpen mattress and yawning widely as Zevran and Leliana entered.

The arl gave a low grunt in response, steering his gaping daughter firmly out of the room. Before exiting himself, he paused to exchange a few quiet words with Leliana and Zevran.

Once the door had settled back into its frame, the bard went to draw the shutters closed over the windows. Zevran advanced towards the bed, perching neatly on the mattress beside Flora.

" _Mi sirenita,_ how are you going to cope with the heat when we visit Antiva City?" he crooned, removing the hat and peering at Flora's flushed and sweaty face. "You are as red as _un poco tomate."_

Flora yawned once more in response, unsure whether she was overheating due to the summer warmth, or her own fluctuating temperature. The baby seemed to have seized control from within; taking command of various functions of her body.

"At least I match my hair," she mumbled, the words blurring together as they drifted from her mouth. The elf smiled at Flora, reaching out to divest her of the many coverings bundled about her body.

" _Ah,_ how many layers has Leliana wrapped you in?" he exclaimed after a moment, having unbuttoned a coat and removed two thick tunics. "No wonder you were sweating like the proverbial _whore in a Chantry."_

"I had to disguise her shape," the bard retorted from the doorway, taking delivery of some watered-down ale from a blinking servant. "A redhead with a swollen belly is bound to draw more attention."

Flora reached up her arms as Zevran pulled the final tunic over her head. Now barefoot in breast-band and smalls, she slumped back against the cushions; dragging a palm over her sweaty face. Zevran manfully managed to restrain himself from making a gleeful comment on the swollen bust that now- for the first time in Flora's life - required a supporting garment. Instead, he bowed his head and kissed Flora on the top of her bare foot, running his thumb affectionately over her toes.

"Take a few sips, _ma crevette,"_ instructed Leliana, crossing to the bed and holding a flagon of watered-down ale to Flora's lips. Flora obediently swallowed, grimacing as the liquid spilled in a pale golden rivulet down her chin.

"Have you got Alistair's cheese?" she asked, anxiously. "And the socks?"

" _Oui,"_ replied Leliana softly, lifting the tray and carrying back it over to the dresser. "Do not fret."

Flora leaned back against the cushions, a frown creasing her smooth brow neatly in two. Her knee was throbbing painfully, and the little creature in her belly was nudging against her kidneys.

"I can't believe I need _naps_ now," she said, mildly disgusted with herself. _"Sleeping_ in the middle of the day! Nobody- nobody had better tell anyone from Herring about this, or… or my reputation will be ru - _rui"_

Flora trailed off in the middle of her sentence, losing her train of thought as sleep rose like a dark tide to claim her waking mind. She turned her cheek into the cushions, each individual eyelash suddenly a leaden weight. The noises of the market faded into the background as she drifted into a quiet and dreamless sleep, fingers curled into the blankets.

An immeasurable amount of time later, Flora awoke with the uncanny sensation that somebody was watching her. She could almost _feel_ their curious gaze prickling against her skin, soft and intrusive. Opening her eyes in the strange half-light of the shuttered room, she turned her head to the side to see Habren Bryland sitting beside the bed.

The arl's daughter must have taken more after her deceased mother in appearance. She had a slender, pointed face and thick, light brown hair bundled into an uncomfortable – but fashionable – style about her ears. The piercing, inquisitive stare, however, was clearly inherited from Leonas; and it was this that was turned on Flora now. Leliana and Zevran were conversing quietly in the corridor, their voices filtering through the wood.

The young arlina was gazing surreptitiously at Flora's skin, her eyes travelling over the pale sunburst scars spread across Flora's hip, shoulder and thigh.

"Are those from the battle with the dragon?" Habren asked, realising that she had been spotted and deciding to brazen it out.

Flora nodded, turning over her hand to show a similar white marking on the flat of her palm. Habren inhaled curiously, fingers twitching at her side.

"Can I – can I touch it?"

Letting her head sink back against the pillows Flora gave a small grunt of assent; used to such inspection. The girl used her fingertip to trace the outline of the sunburst on Flora's thigh, her face transfused with fascination.

As Habren did so the little creature awoke within Flora, nudging a shoulder into her. She let her hand drift down to the mound of her stomach, wondering what exactly it was doing within the warm, cramped darkness of her belly.

"Did it hurt?"

Flora blinked, reluctantly tearing her thoughts from the baby.

"Did _what_ hurt? Oh," she realised, letting her fingers move to the scar on her hip. "No. It didn't _hurt_ , not exactly. I don't remember much about the dragon."

Now the young noblewoman's eyes had drifted to the uncovered mound of Flora's stomach. Fascinated, Habren reached up to press a finger against the warm, taut skin.

"One of my handmaids caught with child once," she said, eventually. "She wasn't married, either. My father didn't get rid of her, but he _did_ send her to work in the kitchens."

Flora – who was from a village where people only got married on the rare occasion that a Chantry priestess passed through – suppressed a snort.

"Oh, well," she replied mildly, for want of anything else to say. "I don't think anyone is going to send me to work in the kitchens. I'd eat all the food."

Habren was silent a moment, lost in thought.

"So you've lain with the king?"

"He wasn't the king when we first… lain - _laid_ together," Flora replied, wondering if she had used the correct grammar. "But, yes."

Habren nodded slowly, vaguely familiar with Alistair's unusual journey to the throne from overhearing snippets of her father's conversations.

"You're not that much older than me," the arlina continued, her brow furrowing. "Didn't you worry about your _reputation_ , lying with someone who you weren't married to?"

Flora wanted to laugh, but didn't; aware of how acutely _different_ she was to this girl who was so similar in age.

"Well," she replied instead, diplomatically. "We thought we were going to _die,_ so… no."

For a moment she shivered, recalling the thin undercurrent of desperation that had run through their lovemaking during the Blight.

 _We'd pitch our tent next to land laid waste by the Darkspawn; then spend all night writhing together on the bedroll, as though we could bring some life back to the tainted soil with our efforts._

"Did it _hurt?"_ Habren asked, with the curiosity of the permanently sheltered. "When you… laid together?"

"The first time, it did," Flora replied, honestly. "And the second. Then… not so much."

Habren turned wide eyes on her, dark eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

"You _kept doing it?_ How many times?"

"Um," said Flora, vague. "Quite… a few more times."

"More than _five times?"_

"Mm, I think so."

Habren looked mildly scandalised, and Flora shot her a slightly wary look. In Herring, it was not an unusual thing for young people to pair off with each other; with thoughts of marriage far from their minds. Still, she reasoned to herself, perhaps there were different expectations for girls from noble families.

Leonas' daughter looked about to question Flora in more intensive detail, then her attention was caught by a faint flicker of movement from the taut, lumpen belly. The girl's dark Bryland eyes widened in fascination, and she abruptly changed her course of questioning.

"I wonder if the baby is a boy or a girl? Do you have any gut feeling?"

Flora thought for a moment, concentrating on the little creature lodged within her. Truthfully, she had thought of the child as _it_ for such a long time, that it was startling to even envision the child as possessing gender.

"No," she replied, vaguely. "I have no idea. It could be _anything."_

Habren shot her a surreptitious glance, her eyes igniting like coals as she lowered her voice.

"There _is_ a way," she whispered, portentously. "I overheard my old maid talking about it. A test you can do to determine the baby's sex. Do you have a ring?"

Flora slid the gold Cousland band from her little finger, as Habren pulled out a loose thread from the blanket, snapping it loose. The arlina then tied the thread in a knot around the ring, letting it dangle over Flora's stomach.

It hung still for several moments, and both girls eyed it; Habren excited and Flora dubious.

"I don't understand - " the latter started, and then Leonas' daughter let out an excited squeak, making a gesture.

" _Look!"_

The ring had begun to swing gently from side to side, swaying like a pendulum at the end of the thread. Flora gazed at it, transfixed.

"What does that mean?"

"A boy," replied Habren, confidently. "Back and forth means a boy, circles means a girl."

" _Superstition!_ It's just the draught."

Leliana had entered the room, stealthy as a shadow; Zevran close at her heels.

"It's _not,"_ insisted the arl's daughter, her features infused with stubbornness. "It's an accurate test."

The bard made a little dismissive noise through her nostrils, crossing the room to crouch beside the bed.

"How are you feeling now, _ma petite?_ A little less hot and bothered, I hope."

Flora nodded, smiling up at her companions as she pushed the blankets away from her legs.

"Mm, a lot better. I had a good nap."

"Glad to hear it, _mi sirenita,"_ added Zevran softly, his dark eyes settling on her face like birds coming to rest. "And, contrary to our Chantry devotee, _I_ believe that the old superstitions have some truth in them."

Just then, there came a slight commotion at the door. Arl Leonas had entered, seen Flora clad in her smallclothes; and collided with the doorframe in his haste to retreat.

"Arl Leonas," called Flora earnestly after him, clutching the blanket to her thighs. "Come back, come back – I don't mind. Honestly, Finian told me that pretty much _everyone_ saw me naked when I was unconscious after the battle!"

Stifling an embarrassed cough, the arl ducked back inside the room; keeping his eyes firmly averted to the ceiling.

"Florence, I'll see you safely back to the monastery," Leonas stated, in a tone that brokered no dissent. "It's sunset, and Alistair will be making his own way to Revanloch soon. He'll worry himself sick if he finds you gone."

Zevran cleared his throat, lightly. The elf had wandered over to the window and was peering out, one golden eyebrow firmly raised.

"That might be trickier than anticipated," he murmured, wryly. "It seems as though your disguise was not quite as effective as we hoped, _Federico._ There's a sizeable crowd gathered outside."

Leliana let out a muffled curse under her breath; nostrils flaring.

"Well, none of us have any horses nearby. It seems we must _beat_ our way through these nosy citizens!"

Slightly alarmingly, the lay sister seemed rather excited at this prospect. Flora eyed her beadily from the bed, while the arl hastened to intervene.

"No need for that – there's another exit," Leonas interrupted, abruptly. "This tavern's got a reputation as a hideaway for nobles to rendezvous with their… partners. Hence, the need for discretion. And back passages."

Zevran let out a low cackle, reaching down to retrieve one of Flora's discarded shirts from the floorboards.

"Perhaps we will not need to bundle you up _quite_ so like a sausage this time, _eh, carina?"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: The ring test is a Medieval superstition from England – I don't know if it's in other countries as well? It's just anold wives' tale… but there is some truth in the old tales ;) I wanted to have a bit of a contrast here between Flora and Habren Bryland (I love taking super minor NPCs and expanding their roles!) – since they're both within a few years of each other in age. Yet Flora is acutely aware of how different she is from Habren – both because of her unusual upbringing in Herring, and because of what she's been through.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	40. The King's Birthday

Chapter 40: The King's Birthday

With the assistance of Leonas, they managed to make their escape from the city without attracting too much attention. Hastening along the cliff-top path towards the seaside monastery, Flora and her companions were able to reach Revanloch a half candle before the king's retinue passed beneath the main gate. By this point, Flora was so coated with sweat that she felt a little like an eel; skin slick and hair stuck to her forehead.

Alistair had arrived in the guest chamber a short time later, breathless from taking the steps two at a time. He burst into the room, a beam already spreading across his face; only to find Flora submerged in the bathtub, wet hair plastered over her breasts, blinking up at him with limpid eyes. She smiled up at him, delighted, then reached out a dripping hand.

"Alistaaair!"

The king gazed at his mistress for all of three seconds, before dismissing both Templars with a terse instruction. Kicking the door shut, one hand was already working at the buttons of his breeches as he strode across the room towards her.

Some time later, the blankets lay on the floor in a damp tangle, the cushions knocked halfway across the room. Alistair leaned back against the window, seated on the low bench with his best friend straddling his thighs. Ropes of damp hair hung loose around Flora's face; a fur from the bed was wrapped around her bare shoulders, and her own arms were wound around Alistair's neck. He beamed at her dazedly, still wreathed in post-coital languor.

"My darling girl."

"Alistair," replied Flora, who was not in the habit of using pet names.

Alistair gazed at her for a moment, wondering how exactly to phrase his next words.

"Lola, it's my birthday tomorrow," he said at last, softly. "I'll be- "

"Twenty one," she said, inwardly proud of herself for not saying _twoty._ "I know. I got you a present in the market."

 _Oh, that was meant to be a secret! You lobster brain._

Alistair shot Flora a suspicious look, but decided not to pursue the matter. Instead, he continued on the path he had set himself, taking a deep breath.

"I just wanted to say… how much the people value you, Flora. You know they call you the _Flower of Ferelden?"_

Flora looked nonplussed, unsure how this corresponded to Alistair turning a year older. Still, she let him continue; a faint line creasing itself through her brow.

"Yes, I know," she replied, adjusting her position on his lap. The king inhaled unsteadily, reaching out to trace the line of her jaw with his thumb.

"Anyway, I wanted you to know how… how important you are, Lo. Even though you're not the Warden anymore; you're still the _Hero of Ferelden._ The people look to you and they see – well _._ They see beauty, and they see new life, and they see… _hope."_

Increasingly confused, Flora tilted her face into Alistair's hand; rubbing her cheek against his palm.

"That's good," she replied amiably, reaching up to slide her fingers between his. Kissing his knuckles, she clasped their conjoined hands to her breast. "I want them to be hopeful. The Blight is over, and Ferelden needs to recover, and get strong again. In case anyone takes advantage."

 _Duc_ Gaspard's supercilious face flashed into Flora's mind and she scowled, shifting against Alistair's thighs as the fur slithered down onto the floorboards.

" _Exactly!_ Exactly, Flo," the king replied, feverishly. "Ferelden's borders need to be reinforced, the Royal Army rebuilt- "

He cut himself off abruptly, smiling.

"But enough of that. Tomorrow is about _you,_ my love."

"About _me?"_ she replied, bemused. "But it's _your_ birthday. Mine is the day after."

Alistair made no reply, but ducked his head to press a long and lingering kiss against her mouth.

The morning of Alistair's birthday, Flora awoke even earlier than her customary dawn rising-time. The guest chamber was still muted in shades of grey, the last fading stars visible through the parted curtains. Yawning, Flora reached out to pull the blanket up to Leliana's shoulders; passing an affectionate hand over the bard's sleep-rumpled head.

Aware that she would not be able to get back to sleep, Flora was about to clamber out of bed when she felt a ferocious little kick from within her belly.

"Ow," she said out loud, astonished at the vigour of her little creature. "Good morning to you, too."

Alert to the slightest sound of distress, Knight-Captain Gannorn immediately raised his head.

"Is all well, my lady?"

Flora nodded, patting her stomach in an effort to calm the baby down.

"Mm," she whispered, conscious of her sleeping companion. "It just kicked me right in the kidney."

The Knight-Captain relaxed a fraction, only too aware of the consequences if anything ill-fated should happen to the king's expectant mistress under his watch. Flora smiled at him, then clambered ungracefully out of bed.

Wandering barefoot across the floorboards, she lowered herself to the window bench and drew the curtains fully open, peering out at the gradually lightening sky. The ghosts of stars were still visible, though veiled in dawn cloud. Below, the Amaranthine ocean was as still as a millpond, mirroring the heavens with crystalline accuracy. In the distance, a thin sliver of sun was just cresting the horizon; bright as a fire-opal.

Flora tucked her feet beneath her to keep them warm – dawn on a Fereldan summer morning was still chilly – and watched the sun rise upwards with slow languidity. The ocean was far more placid and genteel than her wild, tempestuous Waking Sea, yet it was still beautiful enough to take her breath away. Starved for any glimpse of saltwater for the four years she had been in the Circle; Flora was not about to complain.

"Happy _twenty-one_ birthday, brother-warden," she said to herself as the sun broke free of the sea; sailing upwards with renewed vitality.

"Twenty-first," corrected the Templar quietly from behind her.

"Twenty- _first,"_ repeated Flora, brow creasing.

The Knight-Captain soon came to regret his correction of Flora's numeracy. The young Cousland proceeded to spend the next hour practising her counting out loud, a painful and laborious process which invariably ended up in a tangle of mistakes somewhere between _threety_ and _fourthty-first._

Leliana woke as the bell sounded for the breaking of fast, her stretch accompanied by a small, distinctly Orlesian squeak. Opening her eyes, she swept the chamber in a single, appraising glance. Flora was sitting cross-legged on the window bench, reciting what appeared to be a string of painfully inaccurate numbers. The Templar was standing close by the door (as though desperate to escape), and a vein was twitching on his forehead.

"Six-and-four one, six-and-four-two, six-and-fifty-tenth, _eight million-_ "

"Andraste's Mercy," breathed the bard as she rose to her feet, astounded at such a blatant lack of understanding. "What nonsense is this, _ma crevette?"_

"It's not nonsense," retorted Flora, secretly delighted that Leliana had awoken in time for breakfast. "I'm educating myself."

"I wouldn't call that _education,"_ Leliana murmured in response, peering at her reflection in the dresser mirror. "I'd call it a… _numerical massacre._ And I _saw_ that, you little minx!"

This was in response to Flora pulling one of her least attractive faces in Leliana's direction.

Flora cackled, leaning back against the window and resting a hand on her stomach, warm and firm beneath the striped pajama shirt. She watched Leliana wash her face in the basin; the bard adding several drops of lavender oil into the water before splashing it over her face.

"It's Alistair's birthday today."

" _Oui_ , _ma petite._ He won't be down until this evening – poor thing is trapped in a council meeting all day. Fancy that, on your _birthday!_ One's birthday should be celebrated, not _punished."_

Flora couldn't even remember what had happened on her last birthday, but was reasonably certain it involved getting expelled from class and cleaning corridors – the usual pattern of her Circle day.

"Alistair is twenty one now," she said, half to herself, as Leliana requested a bathtub and busied herself with towels. "It's the last day of Justinian – _last day of red-fin snapper season –_ so he's now a year older."

" _Oui,"_ confirmed the bard, now riffling through the dresser.

"So, if he's twenty one, and I'm still nineteen, does that mean that he's now _two_ years older than me?"

"What?! No! Your mathematics is truly terrible, _ma petite."_

This debate continued even after a filled bath was brought up; Leliana bathing first to take the heated edge off the water.

"One, two," Flora counted stubbornly, perched on a stool beside the bathtub. "There's _two years_ between nineteen and twenty one."

"But you're twenty tomorrow," countered the bard, massaging a soapy lather into her hair. "My grown-up girl. Pass me the pomegranate oil – the red one."

Flora duly passed over the crimson glass vial, wrinkling her nose as Leliana uncapped the pungent scent.

"I wonder what Alistair's doing now?" she breathed, trailing a wistful hand in the water. "I wish he could come sooner than this evening. I want to give him his present."

Leliana smiled to herself, passing slender fingers one final time through her hair before rising to her feet; water streaming in rivulets down her finely-hewn body.

"It means we've got plenty of time to get you ready," the Orlesian replied, slightly evasively. "There'll be a lot of eyes on you later."

Flora wondered briefly if the fumes of pomegranate oil had addled the bard's brain – it was _Alistair's_ birthday, not her own.

"All eyes should be on _you,_ " she said instead, gazing up and down Leliana's figure with naked envy as she unbuttoned her pajama shirt. "Your body is like a… a statue. I could _chop fish_ on your stomach."

Leliana, who was duly proud of the well-hewn muscle that had taken years to hone, smiled and gave an Orlesian shrug.

Once bathed and dried, Leliana – much to her own surprise - managed to cajole Flora into wearing a sundress. This laudable feat was accomplished after the bard had pointed out how much _cooler_ the white linen dress would be than Flora's usual breeches: it was only knee-length, Flora could wear her usual boots, and it was sleeveless. After a small amount of persuasion Flora acquiesced; Leliana gleefully tightened the laces at the bodice while the young Cousland gazed distractedly out of the window.

"Should I put the presents _in_ something?" Flora asked distractedly, rubbing the heel of her hand over her stomach as Leliana went to retrieve the hairbrush. "I've never given anyone a birthday present before. Should I _wrap_ them in cloth? What do they do in Orlais?"

"I once received a mirror as a birthday gift from an admirer," the bard replied, drawing the band loose from Flora's hair and spreading it loose over her shoulders. "It came in a case made from turquoise enamel, embedded with flecks of gold and shards of glass in the pattern of a rose."

Flora looked dubiously around the Revanloch guest chamber, grimacing as the brush worked through her tangled mass of hair.

"I'm not sure where I could get one of those at short notice," she replied, solemnly. "And it sounds like quite a _fancy_ box for cheese and socks."

Leliana laughed, placing the brush to one side and reaching for a silken hair-ribbon.

"I don't think you ought to worry about wrapping your present," she murmured, tying a bow at the nape of Flora's neck. "I think that Alistair will appreciate it very much, with trappings or without. There we go, _ma petite._ Very sweet. Almost _virginal,_ actually."

Flora eyed her reflection in the mirror, warily.

"I'm not sure how virginal I look with this belly," she replied, smoothing fingers in an absentminded circle over the rounded swell. "Thank you for helping me. I owe you more than I can say."

"You're welcome, _ma petite."_

Leliana's voice wobbled in a deeply uncharacteristic fashion partway through her reply.

Flora, who was trying to drape Alistair's socks in a decorative manner over the cheese, turned rapidly in astonishment. To her alarm, tears shone in the corners of Leliana's eyes; the bard's pink-painted lips trembling.

"Leliana?"

Having never seen their smooth Orlesian bard so nakedly tearful; Flora scuttled immediately to her, anchoring Leliana about the waist and drawing her down to sit on the bed.

"Leliana," she breathed once again, reaching into the bard's pocket to retrieve a silk handkerchief. "What's wrong? What's _wrong?_ Tell me!"

Flora dabbed the silk handkerchief beneath Leliana's watering eyes, her own gaze threaded with alarm.

"Has someone done something to upset you? Tell me who it is! I'll go and _beat them up."_

Leliana smiled, shaking her head and sniffing the remainder of her tears back; patting cool fingers against her flushed cheeks to calm them.

"I'll batter them with driftwood, I'll take a fishing rod, and shove it- "

" _Non, non-_ I am not upset, _ma crevette._ No need for any Herring-style retribution, though I do appreciate the offer."

Flora blinked, mildly confused; the handkerchief still clutched between her fingers. The bard let out a little laugh, briskly wiping her eyes and taking a deep inhalation of air.

"Then _why_ were you crying?" demanded Flora, brow furrowed with indignation.

"Oh – it is nothing," Leliana replied evasively; her duck-egg blue eyes sparkling. "It's just been… an honour to serve you, _ma fleur._ And it will _continue_ to be an honour, and a privilege. Ferelden is very lucky."

Flora eyed her dubiously, oblivious to the bard's oblique reference.

 _She is Orlesian, though. They do have some strange habits and customs._

Shaking her head, the king's mistress leaned forward and kissed Leliana rather bemusedly on the cheek; deciding not to press her any further.

The morning drew on, languid and lazy. The closing of Justinian had resulted in a typically Fereldan summer day, the sun low and the sky clouded; resulting in a thick, soupy humidity. Flora had waited for several hours on the window bench, peering across at the cliff-top path despite Leliana's warning that the council meeting was sure to last for several hours yet.

The lunch-gong rang; they ended up dining in the main hall with the rest of the Templar initiates. Flora had grown so accustomed to their curious stares that she now barely noticed them. A source of more interest was the obvious disquiet of the Knight-Commander and the Grand Mother of the Chantry; who were seated at her side but could not sit still. They whispered to each other throughout the meal, darting eyes at the Cousland as she ate her stew.

Flora tore a hunk of rye bread apart with her fingers, uncomfortably aware of their surreptitious glances.

"Why do they keep looking at me and _whispering?_ " she hissed from the corner of her mouth towards Leliana, dipping the bread into the vegetable pottage. "They're going to make me spill soup over myself! White is a very _stressful_ colour to eat in."

"Lady Cousland?"

It was the chief Templar, clearing his throat while avoiding looking her directly in the eye. Flora turned her head and stared at him, her brows drawing together.

"Yes?"

"Just so you know – the Chantry will be kept empty for you and King Alistair to meet later. I'll ensure that the recruits are kept away – nobody will disturb you. You'll have as much privacy as is… as is needed for the deed to be done."

Flora blinked at him, nodded wordlessly; then immediately put her mouth to Leliana's ear.

"The Templar is giving me and Alistair permission to _do it_ in the Chantry later!" she whispered, incredulous. "Do you think he has sunstroke?"

Leliana dropped her spoon into her soup, letting out a squawk of indignation.

"That is most definitely _not_ what he meant, Florence Cousland, you perverted little troll!"

"Ha! _Hahaha."_

They returned back to the chamber, where Flora perched herself once more on the window bench. The sun edged itself lower towards the western horizon; she heaved herself up high on the cushions and squinted along the cliff-top path. It was deserted, save for a group of merchants travelling in a small caravan. She bit at her lip, glancing once more at the forlorn little pile of socks and cheese on the bench beside her.

The heat was growing muggier, the air thick and soup, Flora sensed both her energy and spirits wilting. Strands of hair were falling out of the silk ribbon, she could feel herself sweating into the white linen sundress, and the baby was shifting irritably in her stomach.

"Do you… do you think he's coming?" Flora asked at last, directing the plaintive question over her shoulder towards Leliana. "Maybe they're having a party."

The bard – who had been reading a new and controversial biography of Andraste's life – immediately placed the tome on the blankets and sought to reassure the hormonal young Cousland.

"Nonsense, _ma petite._ He'll be here, I promise you. Come and lie down, you look exhausted."

Leliana patted the mattress beside her; Flora obediently clambered off the bench and went to join the bard on the bed. Curling up onto her side, she rested her cheek against the cushion and yawned; hot and irritable.

"Close your eyes, just for a moment," cajoled Leliana softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Flora's ear. "Just for a _few minutes."_

Within moments, Flora was dead to the world; snoring face-down in the cushions with her swollen torso twisted awkwardly to one side. Leliana picked up the troublesome biography once again, her brow creasing with a mixture of disapproval and reluctant fascination.

The next thing that Flora knew, a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder; a familiar Orlesian whisper directed into her ear.

" _Ma crevette:_ I see the royal party approaching. Alistair is here."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Alistair's not here yet because it's taken him literally six hours to catch the fucking fish for Flora's precious Herring-style proposal! Lol. Oh well, the moment is almost here! Flora is completely oblivious (as usual), both to Leliana's sentimentality, and the Templar Commander offering some privacy for Alistair to propose in. HE IS NOT GIVING YOU PERMISSION FOR #CHANTRYSHAG, FLORA.

I've had quite a few new commissions done over the past couple weeks (one is the new story image!), and they're all posted on thelionandthelightartwork dot tumblr dot com.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	41. Alistair Presents Flora With A Fish

Chapter 41: Alistair Presents Flora With A Fish

"Alistair is here."

Leliana's words hooked into Flora's mind, pulling her from a soft, dreamless darkness. Delighted at the arrival of her best friend, the youngest Cousland swung her legs from the bed and clambered gracelessly upright. Sensing that half of her hair had joyfully escaped the silken bow, she briefly debated pausing to adjust it before abandoning the notion and heading straight for the door.

"Florence!" called the bard, in mild alarm. "You have forgotten your boots. _And Alistair's present!"_

Flora shot back inside the guest chamber to retrieve the cheese and socks; clearly not willing to spare the time to also retrieve her footwear. Leliana, with a little sigh escaping her throat, stooped to pick up the boots before following Flora out into the passageway.

The sun was just beginning to lower itself into the horizon as the Royal party approached the crumbling main gate. Revanloch was swarming with people; the sunset heralded the end of the day's training, and initiates filled the corridors with chatter as they headed towards the mess hall. Chantry sisters issued stern reprimands from classroom doorways; reminding the adolescent Templars _not to run in the passageways!_ and _keep quiet in the Maker's House!_

Flora wove her way impatiently around the excitable initiates as they wandered in clumps down the corridors. Fortunately, they tended to scatter before her; as a result of the Knight-Commander promising fifty extra hours of chores to any recruit who dared to waylay the _Hero of Ferelden._

She made her way into the main wing of Revanloch, now knowing the route through the musty labyrinth by heart. Passing the imposing doors of the Chantry – not yet open for evening prayers – she ducked her way into the kitchen garden; through which lay a short cut to the main courtyard.

Chatter and sounds of general consumption drifted out from the windows of the mess hall overhead. Struck by a sudden compulsion, Flora was unable to stop herself from halting in the middle of the small allotment; plunging a hand into the dirt and pulling free a half-formed raw potato. Biting into the dirt-covered vegetable, she continued determinedly on her way.

The torches were being lit as Flora emerged into the main courtyard, slightly out of breath from her exertions. The braziers flared into life one after the other atop the ramparts; illuminating the enclosed space with soft ochre light. Reflected flames moved across the faces of those already gathered on the cobblestones; of which there were almost two dozen.

Flora stopped abruptly in the entranceway, brow creasing in sheer confusion. A collection of Ferelden's most powerful nobility were clustered expectantly at both sides of the gate; she could see Arl Bryland, both Guerrin brothers, her _own_ brothers and a handful of other minor banns she vaguely recognised from the Landsmeet.

Scattered amongst the nobles were her companions – Wynne was clutching her staff, Oghren was grinning from ear to ear; even Sten stood to one side, sporting a faint scowl. Zevran was leaning against the crumbling gatepost, his features carefully arranged into a rather fixed-looking smile.

Flora's gaze was drawn next to a stocky, grey-bearded figure standing near Fergus, and her heart gave a palpable throb.

"Pa," she whispered, now utterly bewildered. " _Papa._ What are you doing here?"

Her foster-father issued a typical Herring grunt, jerking his chin wordlessly towards the centre of the courtyard. Hearing Leliana and her Templar guardians emerging from the doorway behind her, Flora followed her dad's gesture.

Alistair was standing at his horse's side, retrieving something wrapped in brown paper from the saddlebag. He was clad in the full rustic garb of a native Fereldan king – fur-trimmed leather, the spiked gold band firmly atop his ahead – and yet, despite these trappings of authority, Flora thought that she could see his hands shaking as he stepped back from the horse.

Her best friend turned towards her and she blinked, astonished at the strange, fervent _mien_ cast across his features. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes fever bright and flashing like a storm at sea as they focused on her. A tangle of emotions fought each other across his face; a mixture of apprehension, determination and nausea all seeking dominance.

Flora eyed him dubiously, clutching the half-eaten potato in one hand and clasping his birthday gift to her chest. For some reason, she felt her own heart escalate to a giddy patter; thundering against her ribcage like an untamed horse on the gallop.

"I can't wait," Alistair threw desperately over his shoulder towards Eamon. "I _can't._ I just need to do it now, I'm going to just ask her – "

He strode across the cobblestones, those in his way parting like hay yielding to a harvester's scythe.

Flora, now thoroughly bemused, watched Alistair come to an abrupt halt several yards before her. The brown paper package was clamped beneath his arm; and she could see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, despite the increasing coolness of the evening. Out of the corner, Flora could see Finian grinning like a madman, whispering excitedly to a smiling Fergus.

"Flora," Alistair croaked, his voice oddly raw and constricted. "I stand before you, not as a king, but as any other man."

He reached up as though in a dream, lifting the crown from his head and letting it drop to the cobbles with a dull, metallic clang. Flora blinked at him in sheer astonishment, half-wondering what to do with the potato in her hand.

"A man who loves you more than… than the fish love water," Alistair continued desperately, the pre-planned words coming out in a tangled rush. "More _deeply_ than the Amaranthine Ocean."

Flora continued to gaze at him, suddenly grateful for her face's natural solemnity. Alistair pressed determinedly onwards, face blazing with a conviction far brighter than the braziers on the ramparts overhead.

"You're my best friend, my sister-warden, the kindest and bravest person I know. And each time I see you, it takes my _breath_ away how beautiful you are."

Flora felt the little creature give an impatient kick, and she dropped a distracted hand to rub over her belly. Alistair followed the movement of her fingers, a distinct tremor running beneath his words.

"Lo, I think I've been in love with you since Lothering," he said, odd and unsteady. "And I've… I've wanted to ask you _this_ since we were at South Reach."

Flora swallowed, her heart crashing so hard against her ribs that she worried for their integrity. His face now set in grim purpose, Alistair retrieved the paper-wrapped object from beneath his arm, pulling loose the twine with trembling, impatient fingers.

Once the wrapping had fallen loose, the king knelt on the cobbles before Flora; holding up a mid-sized salmon in his outstretched hands. He lifted his hazel eyes earnestly to hers, the green flecks standing out like shards of bottle-glass in the torchlight.

"Flora of Herring _and_ Highever," he blurted, the words emerging raw, impassioned. "You're my best friend, my lover – the mother of my child. I…. I _need_ you as my wife. Will you marry me?"

There was silence for a long moment, during which the only noise came from the open beaks of seagulls as they circled Revanloch's crumbling towers. Flora peered down at her former brother-warden as he knelt before her, head bowed and the fish held up like an offering.

Carefully – with more finesse than Alistair had let loose the crown – she placed his gift on the ground; then reached out and took the fish from his trembling hands. This soon joined the socks and cheese in a strange little pile on the cobbles.

This being done, Flora reached out and touched the top of Alistair's head, feeling the outline of his skull through the rumpled golden hair. He looked up at her, face suffused with anxiety and hope. She smiled down at him, wondering why he appeared so nervous - for in what possible circumstances would she have said _no?_

 _Our bond was forged in the breath of an Archdemon and hardened in the wake of Ostagar. We are bound brother- and sister-warden forever; tainted blood or no._

"Alistair," she replied kindly, speaking for the first time since she had stepped outside. "You're _already_ my partner in all things. But we can make it _official_ if you like- "

Before Flora had finished her sentence, Alistair was on his feet, lifting her up bodily. Flora put her arms around his neck, smiling at the sheer joy and relief in his grip. She was vaguely aware of cheering in the background, knew that her friends, brothers and companions were shouting and stamping their approval, could hear Leliana sniffing wetly from somewhere behind her; yet all she cared about at that moment was her best friend and his glowing, ecstatic face.

"That's a _yes?"_ Alistair sought to confirm, desperately. "It's a _yes,_ Flora?"

She nodded, and a little choked sound of relief escaped his throat; letting her down gently onto the cobbles but keeping his arms clamped around her waist.

"You… you know it's a throne I'm offering, as well as a ring, " Alistair mumbled, eyes flickering sideways to the crown discarded on the cobbles. "I'm sorry that marrying me means becoming queen, Lo. I know you never wanted it."

Flora shrugged; the embodiment of Herring stoicism.

"A leader with a fancy hat. Lots of people looking at you. It's just like being Warden-Commander, really," she replied, with a northerner's practicality. "I did that well enough; I can do this too."

Alistair had not released Flora from the circle of his arms, but now he drew her closer still, letting his mouth collide with relief and desire against her own. She put her arms about his neck, parting her lips to accept the ardour of his untainted kiss; tasting the relief sharp on his tongue.

When they parted, Eamon was standing incongruously close; smiling and purposeful.

"Maker's Blessings on you both," he said, just about remembering to offer congratulations before getting down to business. "So, Florence, we want you married _ideally_ as soon as possible."

Flora nodded, trying not to get distracted by Finian grinning and waving in the background.

"Alright," she replied, with a shrug. "When?"

Alistair swallowed, shooting his uncle a slightly anxious glance. Eamon pressed forwards, taking a deep breath.

"At the coronation in three days time," he proposed, determinedly. "Combine the ceremony with a wedding."

"But if that's too soon, Lo, it doesn't matter," the king added, hastily. "Whenever you feel ready."

Flora gave a little shrug, admiring the efficiency of it.

"Three days is fine," she replied, mildly. "Just tell me where to stand and what to say."

Alistair embraced her once more, gripping Flora about the waist and pressing his face to the top of her head. She could feel dampness against her hair, and realised that tears of joy and relief were leaking from his eyes. Around them, there was excited chatter and relieved grins – nobody had expected Flora to turn Alistair down, but it was still reassuring to hear her enunciate her acceptance out loud.

"This is what I'd hoped for, since South Reach," the king whispered once again, the words emerging constricted. "And ever since the Blight ended, it's all I've thought of. I _need_ you with me, Flo. As my wife, my _queen –_ as my best friend in all Thedas."

Flora smiled against his leather tunic, her gaze falling on the socks and cheese lying abandoned on the cobblestones.

"Happy birthday," she said, squirming from Alistair's restraining arms to gaze up at him. "I've got a present for you."

"Oh!" Alistair said, remembering that the proposal was not yet complete. "I've got something for you, too."

"But it's not my birthday yet," protested Flora, watching Finian stride forward with something clenched in his palm.

Her brother passed the object to Alistair, who turned to Flora with a face now bright as sunrise.

"Give me your hand, Lo."

Flora held out her hand, palm upright; expecting to receive something to hold. Instead, Alistair reached out and turned her fingers so that her knuckles were facing upwards. With a thumb, he traced the slender line of her fourth finger; voice thickening with emotion.

"Do you remember what I told you about this finger in South Reach?"

"The Tevinter legend," she replied, dutifully. "About the vein going straight to the heart."

Alistair nodded, taking a deep and steadying breath. His own hand visibly trembled as he slid something cool and heavy onto her fourth finger. Flora looked down in surprise, her brow furrowing.

What once had been merely her own unprepossessing digit – short and bitten-nailed – now sported a slender band of gold beneath the lowest knuckle. Delicate filigree held a single ivory pearl in place; catching the torchlight like a small lantern.

"It's from the Royal treasury," Alistair explained throatily, not yet willing to release her hand. "It's got some fancy name- "

" _Mairyn's Star,"_ offered an eavesdropping Finian, desperate to worm his way into the proposal so that he could gleefully recant his involvement in the taverns later.

" – but it's from the ocean," the king continued, earnestly. "Some fisherman must have brought it up in his net. I thought it would remind you of Herring."

"I suggested the Kal-Ashok emerald at first," Eamon murmured to Leonas, who gave a small snort. "Or the diamond privateered from the Orlesians. The lad wouldn't have any of it. He knows his own mind."

Flora stood on her toes - feeling her bound knee give a twitch of effort – and pressed her lips to Alistair's own in gratitude.

"Thank you," she said, feeling her cheeks flush. "I got you a gift, too. It's not exactly _jewellery._ I'm… not very good at birthdays."

Bending down with a grunt, Flora scooped up the assorted items; presenting them to Alistair with her chin raised.

"Happy _twenty-one_ birthday."

Alistair's eyes gleamed with a sudden dampness as he looked down at the Fereldan cheddar and Mabari-patterned knitted socks. He took them as though in a dream, reaching out with his free hand to stroke Flora's cheek with his thumb.

"My beautiful betrothed," he said, thickly. "My queen."

Flora beamed up at him, the solemn Cousland mask dissolving as her lips curved upwards; eyes bright with equally matched ardour. Alistair wrapped his arm about her shoulders, keeping a tight grip on her as they turned to face their friends and companions.

"'Bout time you made an honest woman out of her!" Oghren guffawed through his ginger moustache, eyes sparkling merrily. "Congratulations."

Wynne was doing her best to wipe her damp eyes in her sleeve, swallowing briskly.

"I refuse to do what is expected of a sentimental old woman and bawl," she said sternly, though there was a distinct tremor in her voice. "I'm sure there'll be weeping enough at the wedding."

Flora smiled at the senior enchanter, pale gaze drifting towards where Zevran was standing a short distance to the side. His mouth was open as though he were laughing at a humorous comment made by Finian to the assembled company; yet there was quite clearly no sound emerging from his lips. Instead, there was a rictus stiffness to the elf's face, and a dull opacity clouded the usually dancing pupils.

She stared at him anxiously for a moment; then Eamon was speaking to her, drawing her attention away.

"Do you want a carriage to return to Denerim? Or will you ride with Alistair?"

Flora blinked, turning back to where the Arl of Redcliffe was standing. The stars were emerging one at a time overhead, like small, glinting shells catching the sunlight from the bottom of some murky rock-pool. Night was drawing in without pause; the moon hung overhead, vast and impossibly low.

"Return to Denerim?" she asked, confused. "What do you mean?"

Fergus stepped forwards, smiling down at his younger sister with affection creasing his prematurely aged forehead.

"Floss, the month you were to spend at Revanloch is over. We're taking you back to the palace."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol I just looked it up – and the chapter where Alistair and Flora first kissed was Ch. 40 from The Lion and the Light, published on 3rd April 2016! Now, a million words later, they're finally betrothed, haha

Alistair wasn't originally intending to blurt his proposal out in public, but he saw Flora and couldn't help himself, haha. He definitely rehearsed the bit about loving her like a fish loves the water, deep as the Amaranthine Ocean, though! He needn't have stressed out about the proposal – Flora just accepts it, lol – as she does becoming queen. This has been such a year of elevations for her - Warden, Cousland, Warden-Commander – that she takes the throne in her stride. The reason why Alistair didn't arrive until evening was because it took him literally six hours to catch a fish - in the end, Royal Guard had to scoop them up in massive nets and throw them at the king's fishing rod until one hooked on, hahaha.

Anyway! I hope this satisfies the very patient people who have been waiting for this for a while, hehehe. Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	42. Farewell To Revanloch Monastery

Chapter 42: Farewell to Revanloch Monastery

Flora's mouth fell open, and she turned first to Alistair, and then to her two Templar guards; a silent question in her eyes.

"Aye," Knight-Captain Gannorn confirmed, gruffly. "It's been thirty days. You're free to leave."

Alistair beamed reflexively, delighted.

Flora - who had never had a very solid grasp on the Theodesian calendar compared with the fishing seasons – blinked, her brow furrowing.

"I didn't realise," she breathed, astonished. "Oh, my things are all over the place. I need some time to pack."

"I'll go and gather up your possessions ," Leliana interrupted, blowing her nose damply. "I know where everything is. But I'll need some help with the _duc's_ giant golden _fish_. Hideous thing that it is!"

Finian gallantly volunteered to assist her, disappearing within the damp bowels of Revanloch in the bard's wake.

There followed a flurry of movement; shapes and silhouettes shifting in the torchlight as the gathered group prepared to depart. Stable boys came scampering excitedly forward, leading their equine charges across the cobbles; the Templar Knight-Commander conversed in low tones with Eamon about the Grand Cleric's presidence over the wedding. Flora's companions – save for one – conversed amongst themselves on the manner of Alistair's proposal. According to Wynne, it had taken the king six stressful hours to finally catch a fish at the end of his rod – in the end, Royal Guard had to hurl baskets of live, pre-caught fish into the water around Alistair's bobbing line.

An evening breeze had sprung up, whistling through the gaps in Revanloch's tiled roof and tugging at the faded Chantry banners hanging from the ramparts. Alistair – who had been tacking up his own horse – immediately went in search of a blanket for his new betrothed; aware that even the slightest breath of air was amplified on the cliff-top path.

Flora, meanwhile, had been surrounded by a crowd talking excitedly about the upcoming coronation and wedding – but to _each other,_ rather than to her. She did not mind this in the slightest, standing at her silent Herring-father's elbow as he shifted on the cobbles. True to form, Pel had said little more than three words to Flora since passing beneath Revanloch's crumbling archway. She could tell that he was deeply uncomfortable in the company of the nobles; lined brow furrowed and mouth drawn taut behind the tangled grey beard.

For a moment, Flora wondered if there was anything she could do to ease his discomfort. She was skilled at persuasion, if the occasion demanded it – but even she could not see a way to reconcile her Herring father with her Highever status. Instead of speaking, she reached out – still getting used to the new weight of her be-ringed hand – and squeezed his elbow, tight and wordless.

Pel let out a grunt of disapproval at such tacit emotion, yet his eyes flickered over his adopted daughter with a fleeting glint of affection. Flora smiled up at him, and then her attention was caught once more by the Antivan elf; standing just beyond the reach of the torchlight.

Taking advantage of everyone's distraction, she sidled barefoot across the cobblestones and came to a halt besides Zevran. He was gazing through an iron grill set into the wall, which framed a view of the still, deep green Amaranthine Ocean. The wave-less surface reflected the effervescent miasma of the heavens as well as any mirror; the stars swathed in gaseous cloud and the moon a swollen counterpart of the pearl resting on Flora's finger.

With the extraordinary perception of one trained in subterfuge; Zevran had identified Flora by the sound of her approach alone, able to pick out the subtle differences in timbre between her strong and weak footfalls.

" _Your Majesty,"_ he murmured and made a lacklustre effort to smile; an unseeing stare fixed on the rusting iron grate.

Flora eyed the elf for a moment, considering the peculiar tone of his response. She had a vague notion as to the cause of his distress, and felt a twist of unhappiness in her gut due to her inability to rectify it.

Zevran angled himself to face her, forcing a shred of humour into his voice as he drew his fingers together above her head in an emulation of a crown.

"You know, _carina,"_ he said, meditative. "That _circle_ of gold will trap you just as effectively as any mage tower."

"Yes," she replied, with a shrug. "I know."

His dark eyes flared, fixing themselves onto hers like limpets.

"Is that really what you want, my Rialto lily? To be a… _prisoner_ of the throne? You have never desired status, _amor._ And this will be the end of freedom for you. The end of _choice._ "

"Arl Eamon is right," Flora replied, quietly. "For some reason – I don't understand why – the people look at me and see…. _hope._ And since I'm not a Warden anymore, and my spirits are… are _gone,_ it's the only way I can serve Ferelden."

Zevran fell quiet and pensive, his eyes moving from the pearl of betrothal on her finger to its lunar counterpart overhead. The breeze ruffled his hair, catching the fine platinum strands and tugging them upwards.

" _I_ made Alistair king at the Landsmeet," she continued, in little more than a whisper. "When I showed them my army – giving them no choice but to support me - I as good as put the crown on his head myself. It's only right I should serve this sentence at his side."

The elf took a deep inhalation of cool Fereldan air, forcing a strand of lightness back into his response.

" _Ah,_ but you'll be breaking your promise to me then, _carina!_ You won't be able to visit Antiva now. Or, if you _do,_ you'll be visiting merchant princes and aristocrats; sipping _anís_ on the loftiest of sea-view terraces. Not visiting an elf who dwells in the back-alleys behind the leatherworkers. You will only see the sunny side of the city."

Flora snorted, shooting him a little pointed glance.

"I'll go where I want," she retorted, with a flash of northern defiance. "I'll go to the… shadows and the back alleys."

" _Sí,_ as long as it is with a troop of Royal Guard, _eh, mi florita?_ The most _interesting_ denizens of Antiva will scatter like autumn leaves when they hear the sound of plated boots."

"Then I'll disguise myself as _Federico_ to visit you! Or," she said, recalling their subterfuge to allow her undetected access to Denerim. "I'll become a whore again. A worker of the Pearl."

The elf smiled at Flora, appreciating her efforts to cheer him up.

"You're too sweet to pass yourself off as an Antivan whore, _carina."_

"Well, I don't know," she replied, dropping her voice solemnly and putting a finger to her once-curative lips. "I've put my mouth on a _lot_ of men over the years."

Zevran let out a sudden, genuine chortle at Flora's very mild bawdiness. He was proud of her attempt to make a joke about her own peculiar manner of healing; the absence of which was still a raw wound. He put his arm about her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek, affectionate and _mostly_ familial.

When it came time for Flora to officially leave Revanloch's custody, she found herself oddly emotional. The cloisters, although claustrophobic, had also shielded her from the initial post-Blight chaos; from the trauma of seeing injured and dying that she could no longer heal and from the smoke of the pyres that had burned for a week. She had left the monastery on only two occasions – for her feast, and to purchase Alistair's present – and had found herself content to dwell within its walls for the remainder of the time. Beneath Revanloch's leaking rooftiles, she had also found time to become more attuned to the _little creature_ whose existence she had mostly ignored during the latter days of the Blight; and she had also been granted space, silence and privacy to grieve for her departed spirits.

Now Flora was aware that she was leaving privacy behind and immersing herself in Fereldan politics - a tangled web that she would most likely only be free of at her own death. It was an intimidating prospect, but Flora had faced intimidating prospects before; and she was a _northerner,_ who knew that hard grit lay at the centre of every pearl.

With the others all mounted and ready to depart – save for Alistair, who waited patiently on the cobbles with the horse's reins in his hand – Flora went to thank her two Templar guardians in turn.

Knight-Captain Gannorn had grunted in response to her gratitude, the faintest flush appearing behind the neatly cropped silver hair on his cheeks.

"It was no chore, my lady," he muttered, eyes firmly fixed on the crumbling brickwork of the archway. "More interesting than escorting pilgrims across the Rivaini deserts."

Flora smiled at him, then turned to Chanter Devotia, summoning the words that Leliana had taught her earlier in the day. They emerged in an untrained rush, without proper elocution and eloquence; but with a genuine sincerity.

"' _The host of Shartan, the clans of Alamarri, a thousand freemen. Held aloft blade and spear and to the Maker gave thanks.'_ THANKS," she repeated, with especial emphasis on the final word in the hope that her meaning was conveyed clearly.

For the first time in a month, the corner of the Chanter's mouth turned upwards; the steely violet stare flickering as she gazed down at the earnest young Cousland; who herself was a descendent of Ferelden's ancient Alamarri.

"' _As I stumble forth in shadow, I am not alone. And nothing that He has wrought shall be truly lost._ Nothing."

Just as Flora had done, Chanter Devotia hardened her voice meaningfully on the last word; catching Flora's eye and nodding slightly.

 _Nothing shall be truly lost. Not even spirits blasted apart by a demon's soul._

Flora felt the all too familiar sensation of dampness prickling on her lashes, and took a quick inhalation of cold night air to suppress the surge of emotion. Turning to the Knight-Commander of the Fereldan Order, she bowed her head in gratitude; shivering slightly as a chilly breeze cut through the thin linen dress.

"Thank you for allowing me to stay here," she said, politely. "It wasn't half as horrible as I thought it was going to be."

Atop his horse, Finian snorted quietly; while Fergus let out a grunt of despair.

"The Maker's House is always open to those seeking solitude and sanctuary," replied the Knight-Commander, coughing slightly. "Although with you gone, our recruits might finally be able to concentrate on their lessons again."

Flora, not sure how to respond to this, smiled vaguely. Far above their heads, a bat swooped out of Revanloch's bell tower, making a leisurely circuit about the courtyard before dropping out of sight. The stiff breeze was soon accompanied by a fine, misting drizzle; the salt-tang of the sea strong in the air.

This was the final straw for Alistair, who decided that the goodbyes and gratitude had gone on long enough. With the blanket slung over his shoulder like a Tevinter-style cape, he strode across the cobbles and draped an arm protectively across Flora's bare shoulders.

"Darling, it's _freezing_ and you're practically naked. Come on, let's go home. Where in the Fade are your _boots?!"_

Footwear was retrieved, the king's horse led over, and Alistair lifted his mistress onto the saddle as though she was made of Orlesian glass. Moments later, he had clambered up to sit behind Flora; clamping one arm protectively around her waist while calling impatiently for the blanket. She clutched the rough woollen fabric to her chin; leaning back against Alistair's chest as he gripped the reins in a single, experienced hand.

The procession began with the retainers and Royal Guard on foot, their torches cutting a brilliant swathe through the darkness. They were followed by the nobles and Flora's companions, conversation dwindling as the tenth-hour bell rung faint in Revanloch's dwindling tower.

Flora twisted her head to catch one final glimpse of the monastery as the horses made their way along the clifftop path; plodding stoically through the drizzle. Despite the coolness of the night, a combination of the blanket and Alistair's proximity kept out the chill.

"Alistair," she whispered, hoping that her words weren't being immediately snatched away by the wind.

"Yes, my love?" he replied, through a mouthful of birthday-gift cheese.

"You said: 'let's go home'. Do you think of the palace as _home,_ then?"

Alistair was quiet a moment, his eyes drawn to the city of Denerim sprawled across the mouth of the estuary. It blazed away in defiance of the shadows; lit by a thousand braziers smouldering away on ramparts and bridges. The castle was perched on the highest point of the city, rising above the other districts like a watchful captain of the guard.

"I'm… starting to," he replied, eventually. "I know it sounds odd. But it already feels more familiar than the Templar monastery I was raised in, and I spent a decade there."

Flora twisted around in the saddle, and Alistair reflexively tightened his grip as he felt her shift against him. The purpose of such movement was revealed soon after; her lips landed slightly off-centre of his mouth. He pressed a returning kiss to the back of Flora's head as she settled back into her normal position.

"My queen," he said quietly and this time Flora did not chide or correct him, but laid her palm gently across his riding glove. The pearl on her fourth finger glinted in the moonlight, undulled by rain or veneer of night.

"I used to think that I could never feel at home anywhere other than Herring," she replied after a moment, tucking several loose strands of hair back into the silken bow. "I thought of nothing else when I was in the Circle. I was _so_ homesick, I felt sometimes I would go mad if I didn't see the sea. That's why I climbed up on the tower roof so often."

Alistair waited with baited breath, keeping a firm hand on the reins as they began the gradual slope down into the city. Several scouts had ridden ahead to alert the guards; the portcullis was being slowly winched upwards over the western gate. It had been Eamon's idea to bring Flora back to Denerim under cover of night, when they could be guaranteed some measure of privacy.

"But recently I've been so confused, because I've stopped missing Herring _quite_ so much," Flora continued thoughtfully, grateful for the reassuring firmness of Alistair's chest against her head. "I didn't understand why for a long time, and then… I did."

She fell quiet for several minutes, letting Alistair steer the horse down the sloping gravelled path towards the gate. To her relief, the Alamarri plains were lost in a mass of shadow to one side; looking upon them brought back too many raw memories for Flora's liking. Alistair did not press her to continue, exchanging a few murmured comments with Eamon as he drew up alongside them.

Once the arl had spurred his horse forward, Flora resumed her chain of thought; voice soft and contemplative. The drizzle had plastered her hair to her cheeks, an oddly comforting sensation for the native northerner.

"It's because I'm happiest and safest when I'm with _you,"_ she said at last, abandoning any attempt at effusive explanation. "So my home is wherever you are."

Alistair gripped her even more tightly on the saddle, inhaling unsteadily against her hair in place of a coherent response. Lost for words, he pressed his lips fiercely to the back of her head.

"I'll never be parted from you again," he said at last, voice emerging thickly from his throat. "The only good thing about the Blight was that, during it, I could always stretch out my hand and touch you. Now I'm going to keep you within arms' reach, _forever_."

Flora smiled to herself and then yawned, deeply. She let her head loll back against her soon-to-be husband's shoulder, trusting in the anchor of his arm to keep her astride the saddle. Within minutes, she had fallen asleep; lulled by the horse's gentle gait and the rhythm of Alistair's breathing.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Of course Flora has no desire to be queen for the sake of a crown and a title! She did her duty as Warden-Commander during the Blight, but now that she can't do that – or heal – she views being queen as a way she can continue to serve the people of Ferelden. She's vaguely aware (mostly through Eamon's hints) that the people see her and her swollen belly as a figure of hope; and although she's not quite sure what that _means,_ she's willing to try her best at it – just like Alistair is already doing.

Poor Zevran, though! I liked his comment about the _circle of gold_ on her head trapping her just like a mage circle, lol.

I trawled through so many pages of the Chant on the DA wikia to find those quotes for Chanter Devotia ... seriously, I'd rather go through entries of the Domesday Book lol

In the last chapter, Alistair was effusive about how much he loved Flora – in his typical open, raw and impassioned way. As a northerner, Flora doesn't tend to spill over with verbal affection – especially not in _public!_ (no true Herring-ite would) – so I wanted to show in this chapter how much Alistair means to her. Throughout the story, it's been emphasised how much Flora adores, values and misses Herring – so the fact that she now sees _Alistair_ as her new home (even if that means the Royal palace) is a huge deal!

Wow I sound so uneloquent in these OOC author notes, lol. I actually sound like a proper moron – interspersing every sentence with lol and haha… I think my brain just switches off whenever I get to the end of editing a chapter (lol).

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	43. Alistair's Second Gift

Chapter 43: Alistair's Second Gift

It felt as though Flora had only let her eyes close for a moment; yet when she blinked and roused herself, they were on the final approach up to the Royal Palace. The night-time drizzle had finally abated, the veil of cloud drawing back to create a star-studded backdrop for the sprawling, fortress-like Theirin seat. The castle ramparts and towers sat squatly silhouetted against the heavens, no less intimidating for being half-cloaked in shadow. Many of the trees from the Royal hunting grounds had been unceremoniously chopped down to fortify the camp on the Alamarri plains; great swathes of woodland lay studded with forlorn tree-stumps.

The hooves of the horses crunched softly against the gravel as they came to a halt on the palace forecourt. Flora yawned, peering around at their diminished company. Several of her companions had clearly gone their separate ways in the city below – Leonas too must have retired to the Bryland manor in the noble district. She noticed with a twinge of sadness that her Herring-father had also taken himself off, without word or ceremony.

 _I'm surprised he's even stayed in the city this long. He must be returning to Herring soon, it's almost bream season._

Flora found herself irrationally terrified by the idea of her adoptive father leaving for the northern coast. Her heartbeat surged like a startled horse, and she found herself instinctively shifting closer to Alistair on the saddle, her fingers anchoring themselves to his sleeve.

"Darling," he said quietly, realising that she had woken. "We're here."

Swallowing the bitter taste of anxiety, Flora peered up at the imposing eastern face of the palace. The basalt rock was bathed in firelight from a dozen standing braziers, and she could see the silhouettes of guards posted at intervals along the ramparts overhead. Stable boys and the Royal Steward were already there to meet them, standing in formal array outside the main doors.

Those still remaining in the party dismounted onto the gravel, their horses swiftly led away by dutiful retainers. Alistair reached up for a yawning Flora, reluctant to release her even when she was safely on the ground.

"Your Majesty, Lady Cousland," Guillaume murmured, stepping forward and sweeping into a smooth, practised bow. "Congratulations on your betrothal. And welcome back to the palace, my lady; on behalf of the household. We are glad to have you here with us."

Flora gave a sleepy smile in response as Alistair beamed from beside her.

"Is the fire lit in our chamber?" the king asked as they made their way into the entrance hall. "And extra furs on the bed? It's a cold night, I won't have her catching a chill."

"Aye, your majesty. It is all as you requested."

Flora roused herself, gazing at the hall that she had not seen for a month even as one hand extended reflexively to touch the stone Mabari's paw. The fireplaces that lined each wall were lit; smouldering softly into the shadow and emitting scented cedar-smoke. The thick teal velvet carpeting – designed to impress those first making entrance into the palace – had been freshly cleaned, dust and dog-hair swept away, worn patches re-threaded.

Yet her eye was drawn to the long banners overhead, hanging from each rafter in an endless parade of brightly embroidered silk. Interspersed with the usual Theirin and Ferelden pennants hung several new designs – the olive Highever wreath stood stark and proud against its navy backdrop. At the forefront hung the pattern that Flora had noticed when venturing to the Denerim markets – the Theirin lion, with the Cousland laurel wrapped intimately around its paw and flank.

"Oh!" she breathed, in sudden realisation. "Alistair, are they for _us?_ For the wedding?"

Alistair, who had paused to exchange a few words with Eamon, gave a little – slightly self-conscious – nod. More than one pair of eyes swung towards Flora to see how she would react to this blatant sign that preparations for her marriage had been going on for some time – long before Alistair's actual proposal.

As it transpired, Flora was entirely unbothered by this revelation – becoming Alistair's wife was just a Chantry-acknowledged formalisation of their existing bond; and she was used to pomp and ceremony from her brief tenure as Warden-Commander.

"Well, I like it," she said amiably, stifling another yawn. "It's a clever design."

 _Though better with a fish incorporated in it somewhere,_ she thought privately to herself. _Or some seaweed._

Alistair, vastly relieved, strode back to Flora's side; noticing that his lover was unsteady on her feet with tiredness.

"Come on, sweetheart. I know we aren't _officially_ man and wife yet, but I'm going to carry you over the threshold regardless."

Flora allowed herself to be hoisted up into the familiar berth of the king's arms, anchoring herself around his neck and yawning once again.

"Not officially," she murmured, sliding her finger along the fur collar of his tunic. "But it feels like we've been man and wife forever."

 _I slept in your arms for months before we ever did anything more explicit. We lay tangled together on the bedroll like a decades-married couple before we'd even shared a kiss. It was a defiance of sorts, against both our grief over Ostagar and the terrible knowledge that we were fighting the Fifth Blight alone._

Alistair pressed affectionate lips to the top of Flora's head, tasting the salty residue from the sea-mist on her hair.

"My _wife,"_ he repeated, and it was clear that he placed far greater significance on the Chantry's blessing of their relationship. "Maker, I wasn't particularly looking forward to the coronation, but now I wish it were _tomorrow."_

Flora yawned once more in response, letting her head droop against his shoulder.

The journey up to the Royal passageway – which housed the king's quarters, as well as those of the Couslands – passed in a series of intermittent images as Flora dozed on and off in Alistair's arms. From half-closed eyes, she caught a glimpse of certain familiar features; the distinct landmarks she had once used to navigate her way about the palace.

The first was the stained glass depiction of the great king Calenhad, progenitor of the Theirin line. Alistair's oldest ancestor had united the diverse tribes of the Alamarri and thusly won himself a place in Fereldan legend. In the past Flora had spent countless minutes standing open-mouthed before the cunningly designed window, wondering how they made glass gleam in such a vivid spectrum of shades.

Then it was along a wide corridor lined with suits of armour, up a curling stone staircase; then across a minstrel's gallery that ran above a great hall. It was crammed full of extra tables and chairs, in readiness to house three hundred additional mouths in two days' time.

At the top of another wide, shallow flight of steps, a vast and moth-eaten tapestry showed an unfortunate _halla_ being set upon by a pack of delighted, bloody-jawed Mabari. This marked the beginning of the Royal corridor, a wide passage lined with busts of previous kings and queens. Guardsmen were placed at intervals between these carved visages; stiff as suits of armour and clutching pikes in their hands.

Flora awoke just as Alistair came to a halt outside the vast, ornately carved wooden doors that led into the Royal bedchamber. Alistair had stopped to receive a wry reminder from Eamon; one of the few who had accompanied them up from the entrance hall.

"Now, son," the arl said quietly, keeping his voice lowered out of courtesy for the Cousland brothers. "The lady Florence is not _going_ anywhere. Do try and be on time for the council tomorrow morning."

"In other words, there'll be all the nights in the world to spend together," murmured Zevran under his breath; the elf loitering in the shadows near Finian.

Alistair gave a vague and oblivious nod, only half-listening. His fingers were working through the rope-like, dark red strands of Flora's hair; exploring its rain-dampened texture.

"What time does it start?" mumbled Flora, who had punctuality drilled into her during her tenure at the Circle.

"Nine bells," replied Eamon, pale green Guerrin eyes fixing themselves on her. "Will you do your utmost to see that he's there, child?"

Flora nodded, stifling another yawn against Alistair's tunic.

"Mm."

Fergus stepped forward to say goodnight; sporting a face vividly stricken with conflict. On the one hand, his little sister was soon going to become _Queen of Ferelden._ Never before had Ferelden's two most prominent families been so closely allied – it was a great political coup. In some tangential way, it also fulfilled Bryce Cousland's desire to betroth his pretty daughter to a son of Maric – albeit not the one the old teyrn had intended.

However, a more immediate and pressing concern for the new teyrn was Flora's resumed residency in the adjacent bedchamber. His younger sister tended to be somewhat _vocal_ – to put it mildly – during her nightly exertions with Alistair, and Fergus had no intention of being traumatised. Stonemasons had already started the process of reinforcing the party wall between the Theirin and Cousland quarters; until then, the teyrn of Highever was well-stocked with earplugs.

Both Cousland brothers bid their sister goodnight, Zevran blowing a subtle kiss in the background. To Fergus' relief, Flora appeared far too tired for any nocturnal activities; arms wound around Alistair's neck and her eyes half closing.

The Royal Guard dutifully opened the double doors for their king, stepping back with a smart _left-right_ shift of their pikes as he carried his yawning mistress into the bedchamber.

As the sounds from the corridor were muted by the closure of the doors, Alistair pressed a kiss to Flora's ear; the words emerging soft and shyly hopeful.

"This is my birthday gift to you, sweet girl," he murmured, unable to stop a proud beam from spreading across his face.

Flora opened her eyes, perplexed.

"I thought _this_ was your birthday gift to me," she mumbled, letting her sleepy fingers droop back to reveal the filigree-clad pearl known as _Mairyn's Star._

"Well, then. This is my _second_ gift," Alistair replied, lowering Flora gently to the ground so that she could take in the surroundings. "Look about you."

The king's bedchamber was lit by the great hearth on the far wall; wider than most fireplaces and thus able to bathe the majority of the room in soft, ochre light. It had always been surprisingly austere for a royal bedchamber – no Theirin had particularly valued fussy ornamentation, and Alistair was no exception. Instead of gilt or lavish embellishment, the walls were clad in thick plaster and coated in murals of native beasts; dark exposed beams running the length of the ceiling. Skilfully-hewn statues of Fereldan heroes stood instead of paintings; and a large, somewhat faded tapestry depicting Calenhad's loyal pack of Mabari hung on the south wall. Animal furs were strewn both over the flagstones and atop the master bed, tangled amidst blankets embroidered in Alamarri clan patterns.

All this was familiar to Flora, who had resided with Alistair in the Royal bedchamber for nearly two months prior to the final battle. Yet the more she gazed around, the more she noticed the subtle differences in décor that Alistair had made.

Murals of loll-tongued Mabari and proud Ferelden Forder horses already decorated various walls, but Flora noticed a new design daubed above the great hearth. A line of dancing fish, their bodies curled in artistically pleasing symmetry, had been picked out in fresh paint on the plaster. Several blankets strewn across the over-large bed had been embroidered with patterns native to the northern coast – some from Highever and others from the rural localities – but each one known to her. Scattered across the dark oak top of the dresser were a number of sea-shells, washed and varnished to a sheen.

Flora's attention was drawn finally to the window, besides which she had spent many hours sitting and gazing at the city spread over the estuary below. The stonemasons reinforcing the joining wall between Cousland and Theirin quarters had also paid a visit here. The window had been widened and deepened, so that it was possible to lie in the great fur-strewn bed and gaze directly out at a swathe of the pea-green Amaranthine Ocean.

"You told me once that you liked to watch the storms over the sea at night," Alistair murmured softly in Flora's ear. "Now we can do that together."

Flora stared wordlessly at him, for she had mentioned that only fleetingly, _wistfully,_ over six months prior. Alistair flashed her a little grin, trying to disguise how proud he was of this second gift.

"See, you're not the only one with a good memory! I remember things too. Well, sometimes."

Flora gazed once more around the bedchamber, her wide and astonished eyes taking in the painted fish murals, the familiar stitching on the blankets, the shells and the sea-view window.

"I – I know this life isn't what you ever wanted," Alistair murmured, soft and rueful. "Maker's Breath, I wish I were a man who could take you back to Herring and live a simple life in a two-room cottage. But… but I hope this at least will help a little. Make you feel more comfortable, at least."

Unable to retrieve any coherent words, Flora reached up her arms towards her former brother-warden. He went to embrace her; drawing her against his chest with mingled protectiveness and affection. With Flora's face buried in the leather of his tunic, it wasn't until Alistair saw the shaking of her shoulders that he realised she was crying.

"My love," he said, leaning back just far enough to see her water-stained cheeks. _"_ Those are _happy_ tears, right?"

Flora nodded, staring up at him with eyes like winter skies over the Waking Sea; grey, damp and clouded. She reached up to touch the side of Alistair's face, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the residue of the evening's rain in the short beard covering his chin. Alistair said nothing more, his face bright with affection but his eyes trained on her with the still, unblinking focus of a Mabari spotting a lone _halla._

Anchoring his fingers wordlessly in her own, Flora shuffled backwards across the flagstones, leading her best friend to the fur-strewn royal bed. He followed her as though in a dream, docile as a child but with an intensity in his expression that belied the gentleness.

Loosing his hand, Flora lowered herself down amidst the blankets, letting her fingers curl into the familiar patterns of the fabric.

"Alistair."

Shaking her head back so that the thick, dark red ropes of hair fell away from her shoulders, she let him see how the white linen of the dress had become translucent in the rain; the pink of her nipple showing through the wet fabric as it clung to the curve of her breast.

"Make me your wife _,"_ Flora whispered, peering up at him through damp eyelashes as she gestured to the bed. _"_ Now, _here._ Before the Chantry does."

" _Yes,"_ the king breathed, stepping forwards and reaching to unbutton his breeches.

* * *

OOC Author Note: I think that Alistair – with his Templar/monastery background – is a lot more concerned with the Chantry formalising their union. Whereas Flora, from a small-village, is less concerned with the official side of it. Which is actually pretty accurate – in Medieval times, a canon law marriage was just where a couple stated that they were man and wife (i.e. with no witness but God) – there was no need for a priest to confirm it! Obviously, in the cases of nobility (with property and money) they would have a proper formal ceremony; but peasants didn't tend to be fussed about weddings, lol.

I thought that Alistair adding some Herring-themed décor to the royal bedchamber would be a cute idea! As well as widening the window so she can see the sea from in bed.

Going to Snowdonia for work for a long weekend – send the Welsh girl off to Wales for the Welsh history research, lol. Will update again on Sunday!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	44. Full Hearts And Heartache

Chapter 44: Full Hearts And Heartache

The light from the great hearth emanated in soft waves across the Royal bedchamber, illuminating the fish painted above the hearth and the embroidered blankets spread across the bed. Sprawled amidst their familiar northern patterns, Flora smiled up at the king of Ferelden from beneath her eyelashes; a naked invitation in her pale grey stare.

Without hesitation Alistair bore her backwards amidst the furs, careful to keep his bulk propped up on strong arms. His mouth went straight to Flora's throat, a desirous tongue tracing the line of her neck, from her ear down to her collarbone. She arched herself reflexively into him, shoulder-blades pressing into the mattress as she hooked a bare leg around his waist.

Alistair let out a helpless groan against her skin, lips closing around her earlobe. His fingers wandered over the thin, rain-dampened fabric covering her breast; one calloused thumb coaxing the nipple to stiffness with measured little circles.

"How much do you like this dress, baby?" he murmured thickly into Flora's ear, the words coagulated with lust.

"I hate it," she whispered back honestly, watching the corner of her best friend's mouth twist upwards in a crude, purposeful grin.

Alistair reached out, clutching a handful of the flimsy bodice in a strong fist. With a single yank downwards, the fabric tore like cheap parchment; opening the dress from neck to nape. The king let the torn material fall apart, leaning back to survey his mistress as she rested languid on the furs before him, entirely unbothered by her own nakedness.

"No smallclothes, Lo?" he asked her throatily, unfastening the final fiddly button on his breeches.

"Why would I wear smalls on your _birthday?"_ Flora asked sweetly, the innocence of her query belied by the intimacy in her gaze.

"Ha! That's my girl."

Alistair let out an unsteady laugh, eyes moving over her exposed body as he pulled unashamedly at himself for several long moments. Flora smiled up at him, curling a strand of hair absent-mindedly about her finger as she let her leather-bound knee drop to the side.

Soon after she felt a calloused palm settle on her other knee, parting her thighs with gentle insistence. Flora opened her eyes just in time to see Alistair taking up a kneeling position on the fur-covered flagstones; spitting crudely on his fingers and wetting his lips in preparation.

"Alistair," she breathed in a small voice, reaching down to brush her fingers across his golden hair as he lowered his head almost reverently between her legs.

For the next half-candle female gasps and whimpers would drift out from beneath the king's door. These were interspersed with pleas, growing more desperate and incoherent as time passed. In the adjacent Cousland chambers, a traumatised and bug-eyed Fergus was busy melting candle wax to stuff into his ears.

As the bell rang for the change in watch, the king of Ferelden brought his mistress to a shuddering, whimpering climax for the fifth time in a row. By now Flora had lost her ability to speak lucidly, sprawled back in the blankets with her arms flung above her head and a thoroughly dazed expression. She was so disorientated, brain dulled and body overstimulated, that she barely registered the additional pressure between her legs. Moments later, she realised that he had sheathed himself fully; sinking down to the root.

Her body responded faster than her lust-addled brain, arching upwards as Alistair rutted slow and deep into her; gripping her thighs with each controlled thrust. As he rapidly neared his own climax, restraint slipped away and he took his best friend like a Mabari in heat; taut hips snapping rhythmically back and forth. The king let out a helpless shout as he spent himself, sinking to the root. Moments later, Alistair collapsed onto the bed beside her, wide-eyed and temporarily stunned.

Flora, who always recovered more quickly, reached out and touched his cheek gently. She could feel the heat radiating from his flushed face, like a cooking pot taken fresh from the fire.

"Alistair," she whispered, and he let out a strangled, half-grunt in response; stupefied as a fish left to gasp on the sand.

Flora eyed the king appreciatively for a moment, peering beneath her eyelashes at the sweat-slick, solidly hewn muscle of his body; the usual olive tones made richer by the summer heat.

"I'll get you something to drink," she offered eventually, ignoring his feeble moan of protest as he flailed an arm towards her. "No, no- it's fine. Stay there."

With a slight degree of unsteadiness, she clambered to her feet and wrapped one of the furs about her like an Alamarri tribal princess; shuffling towards the door with it trailing across the floorboards. Nudging the door open – naturally, the king's chamber was never locked – Flora stuck her head out into the corridor.

The Royal Guard standing at either side of the entrance appeared slightly bemused – they were used to passing their pike sharply from hand to hand when an important personage entered an area; but what was the protocol for when only _part_ of them entered?

Before they knew it, Flora had stepped out into the corridor, clutching the fur closed with a single hand to her chest. Taken off-guard, the soldiers performed a rather ragged version of their salute; while the night steward scuttled at rapid speed down the corridor towards her.

"My lady! How can I assist you?"

"Please could we have something to drink?"

The night steward gave a quick nod and bow, setting off in the opposite direction at a pace that was not _quite_ a run – but was not far from it.

Flora was about to retreat back inside the Royal bedchamber when the Cousland retainers posted outside the adjacent door made to open it, alerted by some movement from within.

Two shadowed figures made their exit, conversing quietly in the corridor. The moonlight cut a swathe of illumination through the gloom; casting Zevran's hair in a silvery hue as he leaned his head towards Finian.

Finian made to respond, and then saw Flora standing in the passageway nearby, clutching the fur up to her chest.

"Floss!" the newly invested arl of Amaranthine exclaimed, then lowered his voice hastily. "Are you alright? What do you need?"

"I'm fine," replied Flora, smiling at her brother and the elf in turn as they came towards her. "I'm getting Alistair a drink. He's gasping like a fish on the sand."

"Things sounded _more_ than fine, from what I could hear," purred Zevran, flashing Flora a quick wink. "You little minx. _Te veo mañana."_

The artificial lightness of the elf's tone did not fool Finian. Both Couslands watched Zevran saunter off down the corridor, melding into the shadows with the subtleness that heralded his part-Dalish ancestry.

"Thanks to _this_ , you and I don't look that alike any more," murmured Finian wryly, making a gesture towards the black leather patch over his eye and the scar carved through the flesh of his cheek. "And the elf's eyesight is better than a game-hawk. There's no excuse for mixing we Cousland siblings up."

Flora blinked at her brother, shifting from foot to foot on the cold flagstones. Finian flashed her a rueful smile, reaching out to flatten the errant strands of hair atop her head.

"Zevran has several nicknames for me – _none_ that I'm willing to share with my baby sister," he added sternly, seeing her mouth begin to form a question. "But the endearment he uttered at the _ultimate moment_ – ' _mi florita' –_ is definitely _not_ one of them."

Flora looked down at her bare toes, shoulders slumping. Suddenly and incongruously, she felt tears gathering on her eyelashes; threatening to spill over.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered, a distinct wobble to her voice. "Zevran is my friend; one of my _most dear_ friends. I want nothing but for him to be happy, and yet _I'm_ the reason why he's sad. I don't know what to _do!"_

There came a loud snore drifting out from the chamber behind her: Alistair had fallen asleep.

Finian took one look at his younger sister, whose lip was now trembling dangerously; then reached out to take her hand.

"Come on, tadpole."

Flora let him steer her into the Cousland quarters; which for three centuries had stood alongside those of the Theirins as a mark of prestige and regard. They had been neglected during Loghain's brief tenure as regent – mildew had spread on the walls and plaster had crumbled and cracked – but the renovations were now almost complete. Like the king's own chamber, the décor was rustic and yet finely made, the furniture carved by expert hand and the furnishings woven from the softest lambswool. The heraldry of Highever was fresh-painted above the hearth, and accents of navy and olive were subtle but pervasive.

Fergus' snores rang out from the adjacent bedchamber as Finian led the sniffing Flora across to one of the armchairs before the fire. She was so preoccupied with blinking back her own tears that she barely paid attention to the wooden panelling part-installed on the wall between Cousland quarters and Royal bedchamber.

"Keep a tight grip on that fur, Floss," Finian instructed sternly as he went in search for a more reliable covering. "I don't fancy the _double_ trauma of seeing a naked woman, who also happens to be my little sister."

"Sorry," Flora mumbled, hoisting the fur up around her bare shoulders.

Finian found a crimson velvet dressing robe, bringing it to Flora and averting his remaining eye with a little _huff_ as she shrugged her arms into it.

"Decent?"

"Mm."

"Good. Otherwise, that'd _definitely_ lose me the sight in my sole working eye."

Finian grinned at her, the Orlesian-instilled charm in no way diminished by the leather patch or the scar distorting one side of his handsome Cousland face. Flora smiled wanly back at him, leaning back into the cushiony depths of the armchair.

He leaned forward to follow her motion, retrieving a lace-edged handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbing it beneath her eyes.

"Come on now, Floss," Finian chided, fixing her with a beady grey stare. "Don't you know it's illegal to cry on your birthday in Denerim?"

Flora gazed at him with such alarm that the young arl laughed and went to reassure her, patting her thigh gently through the crimson velvet.

"I'm only _jesting._ Ah, but what are we going to do about our elven friend, hm? You know he'd be _aghast_ if he knew that you were shedding tears over him."

Flora nodded, pleading the expensive fabric in folds over her strapped-up knee.

"I know," she replied, the words emerging quiet and sad. "But I feel so bad about it. I don't want him to be sad when he sees me and Alistair together."

 _Or, hears us,_ Flora then thought guiltily, eyeing the half-finished soundproofing as she twisted _Mairyn's Star_ around her finger.

"He's _so_ important to me," she continued, miserable. "He's always been kind to me. He's saved my life more times than I can count. His sense of humour got me and Alistair through the Blight!"

Finian nodded quietly, letting his sister ramble on freely as he poured himself a glass of Antivan wine from a nearby decanter.

"You know that Zevran is in love with you?" he asked eventually, and then cursed as the stopper dropped from his hand and rolled beneath the armchair. "Despite all his instincts _screaming_ at him to suppress such feeling."

Flora leaned down, anchoring herself in place with a hand, and managed to scoop up the cork. Handing it back to him, she gave a glum little nod.

"I know," she mumbled. "Even though I've told him that he would get bored of me quickly. I'm not exciting or witty enough."

"Hm," replied Finian, unconvinced. "Well, Alistair doesn't seem too bothered by it. I suppose he's well-used to men falling at your feet."

Flora had never heard this particular saying before, and shot him a slightly appalled look.

"I'd _never_ trip men over," she insisted, indignant. "That's a mean thing to do. Especially now I can't heal them!"

Finian suppressed his laughter in the face of his sister's outrage, reaching out an elegant-fingered hand to pat her knee.

"Alistair _trusts_ him," Flora corrected, solemnly. "He's just as grateful to Zevran as I am."

There was a long silence, during which the sudden crack of a log in the hearth made them both jump.

"Sweeting, take the advice of your elder and wiser brother," Finian said eventually, with the airy sageness of one a full _five years_ her senior. "Zevran is a grown man. He's older than me, and – in both years and life experience – _far_ older than you. Let him handle his own feelings. He's strong as steel, and twice as hardened. And he certainly doesn't want you to shed tears for him, petal."

Flora nodded earnestly, wanting desperately to believe in the wisdom of her brother's words. Her pale grey gaze fixed itself on his single remaining eye, which housed a near-mirror of her own limpid iris – save for the golden fleck left by the Archdemon's soul. Finian seemed sincere enough, and she relaxed a fraction; wiping her nose on the sleeve of the expensive dressing-robe.

She spent another hour in her brother's company, huddled up before the hearth while eating stale bread rolls left over from dinner. They played a game of Wicked Grace – Finian challenged himself to play as incompetently as possible, and still managed to defeat his sister by a wide margin.

During the game he dropped several gleeful hints as to the _nature_ of the birthday gift he had procured for her, until Flora was both intrigued and confused. Her requests for clarification went unsatisfied, even when she threatened him with a cushion.

When the bell rang for the change in night watch, Flora took her leave from the Cousland chamber. She gathered the fur into her arms, yawning widely as Finian accompanied her to the door.

"Please," he murmured, escorting Flora the few metres down the corridor to the Royal quarters. "Give me a good head start before you resume _activities_ with Alistair. Enough time to return to my bedchamber and barricade my ears with three dozen cushions."

Flora laughed, muffling the sound with her sleeve. Her lanky brother – almost as tall as Alistair, though half the width - grinned back down at her, then pressed a kiss to Flora's forehead.

"Night, Flossie. Happy birthday."

The Royal bedchamber was now cloaked in shadow, the candles making little headway against the rich obscurity of a moonless Fereldan night. The bed though was still bathed in light from the dying hearth; a burnt autumnal glow illuminating Flora's soon-to-be husband as he sprawled naked across the blankets. His muscled limbs stretched nearly the full length of the bed, his head tilted back and the crease of authority across his brow smoothed over in sleep.

Noticing a tray with a full pitcher placed unobtrusively nearby, Flora let the fur drop onto the flagstones. After pouring out a tankard, she crept across to the bed and lowered herself carefully beside him; placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Alistair," she whispered, tapping her fingers against the hard muscle and sinew.

Alistair grunted, turning his head in Flora's direction and reaching for her even before his eyes had fully opened.

"Darling."

She offered him the tankard as he yawned, rubbing a palm across his stubbled cheek.

"Here's your drink."

The king pushed himself upright, still slightly bleary-eyed. With a little grunt of thanks, he took the tankard and drained the lukewarm ale in several long gulps. Flora watched him, fascinated by the languid flex of his neck as he swallowed.

Abandoning the tankard, Alistair's attention returned to Flora. As his vision grew accustomed to the darkness, his gaze dropped to the plump, milk-white pearl sitting on her ring finger. The king blinked, hard, several times; and now it was his turn to fall victim to a sudden surge of emotion.

"Lo, this _is_ real, and not the Fade?" he sought to confirm, searching her face in the shadow.

"It's real," replied Flora, who now would only pass through the Veil on the event of her death. "I can't go to the Fade anymore. Why?"

"Because this feels so unreal," Alistair replied throatily, a thread of unsteadiness running through the words. "I've dreamed of making you my wife for so long. I- I never dared to hope that it might become reality."

Flora smiled down at him, then grimaced as the little creature dug an elbow into her kidney, dropping a hand to her belly. Alistair leaned over, moving aside the thick fabric of the dressing robe to bare the full mound of her stomach. He pressed his lips tenderly against the skin, kissing a lopsided arc over the ripe flesh.

"Lie with me, baby," he ordered huskily, and then proceeded to do exactly that, drawing Flora back against his chest and curling his own larger torso around her own. Burying his face in her cloud of dark red hair, one hand wandered over Flora's swollen breasts and belly; in a way that was far too gentle and reverent to be lecherous.

"Sweetheart," he mumbled, then went quiet; a muffled snore emerging moments later. Flora drew his dozing limbs tighter around herself, like some bulky and organic harness, and prepared to pass these last few hours before dawn in the usual dreamless void.

* * *

OOC Author Note: It took twice as long to edit this chapter because I've been immersed in Welsh for the past three days, pretty much! I'm actually English as a second language, despite having to use it a lot (and write in it a lot!) in my day job, haha. I really only started using English when I went to university in Canada… Anyway, Wales was beautiful as always, and I'M SO HOMESICK RIGHT NOW. Arrerghh London is so grey and depressing –

ANYWAY! I took some pictures of Snowdonia when I went on a hike between rummaging through coal mine archive records (fun), I think it looks SO LIKE the Ferelden Hinterlands! I uploaded them on my tumblr, thelionandthelight dot tumblr dot com.

Thank you! Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	45. Meetings And Marriage Rituals

Chapter 45: Meetings And Marriage Rituals

Flora awoke on the morning of her twentieth birthday with heated breath against her skin and a dozen kisses being plastered across her cheeks, nose, forehead and mouth. She opened her eyes in slight alarm, only to see Alistair's face hovering inches above her own. His hair was transformed to spun gold by the morning sunlight streaming through the parted curtains; coppery stubble emphasising the hard angle of his jaw.

"Happy birthday," he breathed, beaming down at her with naked adoration. "My beautiful girl."

"Twenty-birthday," mumbled Flora blearily, wondering if they had overslept. _"Twenteenth? Twentorth?"_

Alistair did not correct her, but instead ducked his head down to kiss her mouth once more; lifting their fingers still entwined from sleep. Flora smiled up at him, stretching stiff limbs out as far as they would reach.

"What hour is it?" she asked, yawning.

"They rang the eighth bell some time ago," replied Alistair, then yelped as Flora disentangled herself from the blankets and launched herself to her feet with surprising agility considering her condition. "What? What? Is there a _spider_ in the bed? _Maker's Breath!"_

The king began to root through the blankets and furs in consternation, looking for the cause of Flora's rapid exit from his arms.

"No," Flora replied, pulling the dressing robe tight across her chest and scuttling across to the door. "It's your council meeting soon, remember? _It begins at nine bells!"_

Four years spent within a Circle – where meal-times and classroom hours were strictly adhered to for fear of a Templar's discipline – had hardened Flora's natural desire to be in good time - if not _early!_ \- for everything.

Alistair watched, half-amused and half-bemused, as she begged a steward for some bathwater to be brought up to their chamber.

"My love," he said, clambering naked from the bed at a far more leisurely pace. "I'm the _king._ I can't be _late,_ because they can't start without me."

Flora shot him a stern look over her shoulder, trying - and failing - not to get distracted by his finely-hewn body.

"They asked me to make sure that you were there on time," she told him sternly; forcing her eyes to stay fixed above his neck.

Alistair grinned, advancing towards her with lusty purpose bright on his face.

"Well, I might relocate the meeting," he murmured, knowing full-well that she was trying not to look at him. "To the _bed_. And restrict it to only myself and my… closest adviser."

"Arl Eamon?"

Alistair's eyes bulged at Flora's innocent query, and an incredulous bark of laughter escaped his throat.

" _No,_ darling. _You!_ Obviously."

Despite all of Alistair's protestations; the king and his betrothed were washed, dressed and waiting outside the council chamber doorway before the bell had even struck the ninth hour. The two Royal Guardsmen at the door were frozen in perpetual salute as the couple hovered indecisively at the entrance.

"We're _early,"_ Alistair said, suppressing a wry snort. "Everybody else is probably still breaking their fast."

Flora shifted from foot to foot, opening her mouth to explain how _important_ it was to be punctual, and then she heard the sound of footsteps and muted conversation; the tangling together of high-born accents from north, east and south-west Ferelden.

"Floss!" exclaimed a familiar voice, excited and aristocratic. "Come here, you little old lady."

Flora turned to receive Finian's enthusiastic embrace, smiling up at him as he reached down to ruffle her hair.

"Though still not yet quite old enough to vote in the Landsmeet," her oldest brother added wryly as he came to join them, a proud beam writ across his face.

The other members of Alistair's council gathered about them, each one offering their congratulations. Eamon, resplendent in a Redcliffe-scarlet tunic that looked new, smiled down at Flora with quiet relief that she had not kept Alistair preoccupied for all hours in the bedchamber. Leonas grunted gruffly in place of a greeting, pressing an object wrapped in brown paper into Flora's palm. Teagan leaned forward and kissed her rather abruptly on the cheek

"Happy birthday, petal."

Flora received their congratulations with mild disbelief. She was used to receiving attention, but not for something as unremarkable as _ageing –_ which she had played no part in accomplishing, and thus deserved no congratulations _for_. Still, she smiled at each one in turn, bowing her head gratefully as her fingers clamped themselves around the hard object that Leonas had given her.

"Let's get this underway," Eamon said at last, canting his head towards the council chamber. "Florence doesn't want to spend her whole birthday trapped in meetings, I imagine."

Flora blinked, her pale grey gaze moving from Alistair to Eamon, and then to the room beyond the open doors.

Sunlight streamed down from several high windows, illuminating the polished surface of a vast wooden table, two dozen chairs placed around its perimeter. Statues of great Fereldan legends were stationed like sentries at the boundaries of the room. A lofty Calenhad sporting a kilt and broadsword stood watch over the southern face of the room. An armoured woman - Alistair's grandmother, Moira – had a Mabari asleep at her feet as she glowered unseeingly forward.

Yet the statue which drew Flora's eye was the tall figure guarding the elevated pair of seats at the head of the table. The stone was brighter and less weathered by age; looking at the man's handsome, bearded features, Flora felt a spark of recollection ignite in the deepest depths of her recently-uncovered memory.

 _A man's voice, deep and amused, rang in the small girl's ear as he sat her on his knee, one hand smoothing down her childish curls._

 _She'll be a beauty when she's older, Bryce._

 _So you think she'll do for Cailan, in a few years' time?_

 _Aye, she'll do very well. Comely little creature._

In addition to her memories of Maric from his visit to Highever, Flora could see the startling similarities in feature between the old king and his younger son. Alistair had the classic Theirin build – tall and broad, more at ease in armour than finery – and the strong Marician jawline, obvious even beneath the close-cropped beard.

"You'll sit with me, Lo," Alistair murmured in her ear as they entered, his palm spread over the small of her back. "I'll do my best to make it brief. Sorry, love."

There were twin notes of anxiety and apology in his tone, and Flora darted a quick look at him. She realised that Alistair was _nervous_ – that this was her first proper foray into the life that he had grudgingly accepted. _I'm sorry, Flo,_ he had said last night in the Royal bedchamber, an involuntary grimace distorting his handsome features. _I know this isn't what you'd have chosen for yourself._

It was _not_ what Flora would have chosen for herself; but she had as good as placed the crown on Alistair's head by bringing her army to the Landsmeet vote and forcing their hand.

 _It's only sitting on a chair and listening,_ she thought, determinedly. _I can sit on a chair all day if needs be; I learnt patience at the Circle._

Flora lifted her chin, letting Alistair guide her to the slightly raised step at the far end of the table, where a pair of ornately carved chairs stood side by side. The elevation was less than a foot in height, yet he still gripped Flora's elbow as a precaution as she stepped up.

The rest of the council took their places at the various seats, waiting to sit until their king had taken the initiative. Alistair glanced sideways at Flora, standing patiently at his side. Despite the fact that this was her first official appearance at the king's council; a formal introduction into what would become a recurring feature of her life as queen; she did not appear apprehensive in the slightest.

Instead, she bore the usual solemn expression, her pale eyes thoughtful as they meandered across the faces of those assembled at the table. There was a natural imperiousness to her features – the full, curving mouth and high-angled cheekbones were reminiscent of her Alamarri heritage; and this proved immeasurably useful in the circumstances. The king felt a sudden surge of pride in his former sister-warden, who – like himself – had been raised in such humility, and had now been elevated to such prominence.

"I convene this meeting of the King's Council on the prime day of Solace, 9:31 Dragon," began Eamon, for the benefit of the scribes. "First item of business – we have an addition to our number. Florence – daughter of the late Teyrn Bryce Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, Ender of the Fifth Blight, betrothed of the king…"

Flora barely paid heed to the string of titles ascribed to her, noticing how Alistair had taken out notepad and ink-pen in order to make his own record of proceedings.

"Welcome, Florence."

The other members of the council gave a hail of greeting, Fergus' face suffused with gratification as he gazed up at his sister. Alistair reached for Flora's hand beneath the table, giving it a surreptitious squeeze.

The next item on the agenda was the conversion of pasture land to tillage, in preparation for a winter that would surely tax the long-suffering people of Ferelden. With such large swathes of land destroyed by the Blight, much arable soil was now unsuitable for growing crops. The harvest was sure to be poor, and unless precautionary measures were taken, there would be a severe subsistence crisis in the autumn.

For the following few hours, various problems and solutions were offered and discussed extensively. Fergus raised the issue that some land was not suitable for the plough. Leonas added that the cloth trade was a vital source of income between Ferelden and the Marches; and that the sabotage of their own animal stock would do irreparable damage to the economy.

Alistair paused in his scribbling to glance sideways at his betrothed. Flora was listening avidly to the discussion, her brow furrowed slightly and her mouth part-open. He had been apprehensive that she would find the proceedings tedious; clearly, he needn't have worried.

Although Flora was not able to contribute to the discussion, she understood well enough what they were about. There had been winters in Herring when there been nothing to eat for weeks but a thin broth made from seaweed; when the loose skin hung from her dad's cheeks with nothing to fill it, and her own childish ribs protruded against the flesh. The thought of the people of Ferelden starving in their thousands – when they had suffered so horrifically over the past year – was such an appalling notion that she leaned forward to listen, ignoring the growling of her stomach.

Alistair, however, had heard the rumbling from his lover's belly and narrowed his eyes. All at once, he realised that Flora was sitting on a deeply uncomfortable wooden seat, and that she had had nothing to eat or drink since awakening. Despite the opened windows, the room was rapidly beginning to overheat, beams of sunlight glancing off the gleaming wooden surface of the table.

"Let's take a recess," the king said abruptly, cutting across the Bann of Calon. "We'll resume the meeting at the change of watch."

There came a general murmur of relief; members of the council rapidly dispersing to refresh themselves or meet with their retainers. Alistair rose to his feet, bending down to press a kiss to Flora's cheek.

"Darling, I'm going to sort out some food for you," he murmured, affectionate fingers cupping the back of her head. "I could hear your stomach grumbling louder than a Mabari."

Flora nodded, leaning back against the wooden chair in an effort to find a position that relieved her aching back. There came a soft rustle of paper from her lap and she looked down, seeing the small, wrapped item that Leonas had handed her earlier. Shooting the Arl of South Reach a curious glance – he was still seated, ignoring a hovering steward while busily scribing a letter – Flora unfolded the parchment, feeling something hard and metallic underneath.

The paper fell away to reveal a small silver token, shaped like a wolf's head. The features were worn away in places, but the snarl of the beast's jaw was still clearly visible in the worked metal. Flora ran her finger over the etched row of teeth, brow furrowing. For the second time that morning, a faint flicker of memory resonated at the back of her mind – unlike the first, she was unable to retrieve it.

"It's the emblem of the _Sea Wolf."_

Flora looked up at the general's familiar, gruff tones. Leonas had put the letter down and was gazing at her, dark eyes oddly reminiscent.

"Thirty five years ago, your mother – Eleanor Mac Eanraig – won this title after sinking her eighth Orlesian warship. Hundreds of these silver emblems were made and handed out as tokens of her victory."

Flora stared at him, fascination writ naked on her features. Leonas, who had known both Bryce and Eleanor for decades, let out a little cough, letting his gaze drop to the table.

"Anyway. I found this one in a desk; thought you might like it. You know, they used to call your mother, the _Queen of the Waking Sea?"_

Flora had _not_ known this, and this thin skein connecting her to a mother whom she barely remembered was just as precious a gift as the silver emblem itself. Sliding the token into her tunic pocket, she clambered to her feet and stepped down from the elevated platform, following the border of the table to reach Leonas' seat.

Leonas half-rose from the chair, letting out a small grunt as she embraced him, curling her slender arms about his neck. Despite his abrasive exterior, the arl had raised single-handedly a daughter close to Flora's age, and was at ease with such a display of affection. He passed a quick, paternal hand over the top of her head; suddenly wishing very much that his old friend was alive to see how his youngest child had turned out.

Shortly afterwards, Alistair returned with two tray-bearing servants in tow, one bearing flagons and the other weighed down with buttered bread and hunks of salty cheese. King and mistress sat back down on their elevated seats, sharing the contents of the tray and whispering to each other.

"You're not bored, are you?" he asked her, anxiously. "I'm sorry that we're doing this on your _birthday_."

Flora swallowed an impressively girthy chunk of cheese, shooting him a look of affront in response.

"I'm not at all bored," she replied, sternly. "This is important. I don't want anyone to starve in the autumn!"

Alistair smiled at her, the weight of the golden band atop his head no longer quite so cumbersome.

Once the session had resumed, a general consensus was reached – additional grain needed to be imported from the Marches to form an emergency reserve.

"We can't afford to match the price paid by Orlais," Fergus pointed out, bluntly. "The Marcher merchants already overcharge our ships with this blasted Blight-tax."

"There's a trade guild meeting in several days' time," Teagan interjected, after a murmured whisper from a hovering Rainesfere secretary. "The Marcher merchants are sure to be there."

"Uncle, would you try and talk some sense into them?" Alistair asked, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his thumb into his temples. "At least, get them to abandon the quarantine of Fereldan ships in their ports. As if Darkspawn could smuggle themselves away in the hold – Maker's Breath, it's ridiculous."

Teagan nodded, making a brief note on the parchment.

"I'll do my best, Alistair. They'll be sick of seeing my face, though - I've been at three of their meetings already this month."

"Florence could accompany you," spoke up the elder Guerrin, suddenly. "Her word on the Darkspawn might prove to be more reassuring, considering her history as a Warden."

 _And she's the Hero of Ferelden,_ the arl's argument continued, unspoken. _Her presence alone will sway them._

"Plus, who could say _no_ to a face like that?" Finian added cheerfully; gesturing towards where Flora was sitting, solemn and listening closely.

" _Exactly,"_ murmured Eamon, and there was no jest in his own response. "I doubt they'll refuse her anything. Florence, would you be amenable to this?"

Flora nodded, grateful to be able to help even in a minor way.

Alistair had been listening to the exchange in silence; a crease of anxiety folding its way across his Marician brow.

"And she'll be with you the whole time, Teagan?" the king sought to clarify, painfully aware that his new commitments meant that he would not be able to accompany his new queen _every_ time that she left the safety of the palace.

"Aye, lad," the bann replied, quietly. "No harm will come to her when she's with me, you can be sure of it."

Flora frowned at the reminder that she was now reliant on others for protection; thinking wistfully back to a time when _she_ had been responsible for shielding everyone else.

The next hour was spent discussing various minor issues – the repair of the southern city wall, the Chantry's efforts to rehouse the refugees still remaining in Denerim's ports, recruitment into the Royal Army. Alistair's upcoming progress was mentioned briefly, but any further discussion would be postponed until after the coronation.

Alistair stayed alert throughout proceedings, alternating between scribbling his notes and asking questions. Flora said nothing during the wall and progress discussion, piping up only to ask if the refugees were being well-treated by the Chantry. Leonas replied that many of them were forming what they themselves dubbed as 'restoration committees'; their eventual purpose to return to their shattered communities and attempt to rebuild them. He, as Arl of South Reach, was participating in discussions for the revival of his own seat, as well as the rebuilding of Lothering. Each noble present would be responsible for ensuring that the townsfolk in their own _demesne_ would not starve through winter.

The bell had just rung for the mid-afternoon change in watch, when Eamon finally brought forward the final item on the agenda. Everybody in the council chamber was beginning to look distinctly overheated – tunic sleeves had been rolled up, copious amounts of watered-down ale drunk, and the great oak doors had been propped open to encourage the circulation of air.

Flora – who was used to sitting in stuffy Circle classrooms for hours on end – was coping reasonably well. Alistair had exchanged seats with his expectant mistress, so that the long shadow of Maric's statue shielded her from the sun's glare. In contrast to their velvet and leather tunics, Flora was clad in a short navy kirtle that ended at the knee; and had surreptitiously pulled off her woollen leggings during a discussion of stonemason fees.

"Finally," Eamon said, aware that most of those present were wilting. "The coronation will take place in two days' time. All arrangements are in place, and the remainder of guests are due to arrive tomorrow."

"Who's here already?" asked Alistair, tilting his face gratefully towards Flora as she fanned him with a sheet of parchment. "Thank you, sweetheart."

" _Grand-Duc_ Gaspard de Chalons, obviously," began Fergus, whose spies had kept a close eye on the movements of the Orlesian nobleman over the past week. "In addition, Celene has sent her Court Enchanter and adviser; she's staying at the Circle's Denerim quarters. The Viscount of Kirkwall and his son arrived yesterday. There's also a magister from Minrathous."

"Lot of mages," commented the Bann of Calon, with a little twitch of apprehension. "Lot of _foreigners,_ actually. I don't remember this many attending Cailan's coronation – most didn't even bother replying to their invitations."

Fergus paused, glancing down the table to his younger sister.

"They're under close watch. And – from what my sources are suggesting - it sounds as though many of them are curious about _you._ Prepare yourself for a lot of stares, pup."

Flora felt the gaze of the council settle on her, curious as to her reaction. She let her eyes roll in a single, languid motion, a dismissive Herring grunt escaping from her threat.

Teagan laughed, shooting her a quick glance of approval.

"Perfect response," Eamon murmured, shuffling through the sheaf of parchment on the desk before him. "Who else is still to come?"

"There's a Pentaghast general arriving tomorrow," Fergus finished, checking his notes. "The Vael's vessel from Starkhaven should be coming into dock soon."

A steward entered unobtrusively, moving around the table and topping up flagons of ale. The cawing of seagulls echoed down from the high windows; tinny and distant.

"Alistair, Florence," the Arl of Redcliffe continued, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "The rehearsal will take place tomorrow in the Grand Chantry. The ceremony itself should last about two hours – I know you wanted to keep it brief, Alistair – and there'll follow a feast here, at the palace."

Alistair nodded, his fingers reaching out to grasp Flora's excitedly underneath the table. Despite the unwanted accompanying fuss and ritual, the king was still unable to hide his delight at finally being able to make his best friend his _wife._

Flora smiled back at him, but had detected a slightly odd prickling of the atmosphere in the council chamber. She looked up, only to see Finian darting his gaze away quick as a snake; Fergus equally uncomfortable. Leonas also avoided her questioning stare, lifting his dark Bryland eyes to the ceiling.

"What?" she asked, perplexed as to why an entire chamber of mostly middle-aged men had suddenly begun to squirm. _"What?"_

Nobody spoke for a moment, and now Alistair too detected the strange tension in the room. He narrowed his eyes, infusing a vein of Theirin authority into his own query.

"Uncle, answer her."

Eamon cleared his throat, tapping his ink-pen methodically against the surface of the table.

"I expect that neither you nor Florence will be aware of the wedding night proceedings for a royal marriage," he said, eyes fixed firmly on the stone Maric's face.

Alistair blinked, glancing sideways at an equally bemused Flora.

"What, like – wearing a special pair of pajamas?" he asked with forced humour, lifting his flagon to his lips. "Bringing out the fanciest bedsheets?"

"Not exactly," continued Eamon, measuredly. "Alistair, you know how important it is that the marriage between a king and queen is undisputed? If anybody did query the legitimacy of a royal union, it could affect the succession and future stability of the nation."

Alistair took several long gulps of lukewarm ale, nodding slowly.

"So – in order to absolutely _guarantee_ that a full and valid marriage has taken place – the consummation needs to be witnessed. By a high-ranking sister of the Chantry, and a peer of the realm."

The king nearly spat his drink across the table, eyes bulging.

" _Maker's Breath!"_

Fergus and Finian both looked as though they wanted to sink a mile underground into the Deep Roads; a fate preferable to remaining in the council chamber. Leonas grunted, a scowl deepening the careworn lines across his face.

Meanwhile Flora sat there, utterly confused. She had no idea what _consummation_ meant; it was not a word found in the Herring lexicon. Alistair, his features contorted in sheer incredulity, leaned over and whispered in her ear. A moment later, she let out a hysterical cackle, smacking nail bitten fingers on the table.

" _Ha!_ Hahaha."

"Maric and my sister were witnessed – not by myself, obviously," Eamon added, hastily. "As were Cailan and Anora. It's _important_ , Alistair – it means that no one can doubt the legality of your marriage… and the status of your heirs."

Alistair glanced down at the swell of Flora's stomach, and thought of their child, which – until they were married – was currently a bastard. Having grown up with this stigma draped like a mantle of shame across his shoulders, Alistair knew full well the importance of legitimacy.

"They'll put a screen before the bed," Finian offered; the ritual being relatively common practice in Orlaisian marriages. "So it's not _eye-witnessing._ Audio only."

"Maker's Breath," the king repeated sarcastically, taking another gulp of ale. "No pressure, then!"

Flora leaned across and whispered in his ear, with the ease of someone who had rarely experienced privacy.

"It'll be just like doing it in the tent," she breathed, patting his knee. "And we used to do that _all the time._ Don't worry about it."

Alistair swallowed, acquiescing with a grim nod.

"Fine," he said, shortly. "So, some old crone from the Chantry – who'll probably tut disapprovingly throughout – and, I'm assuming, one of you lot? Great."

"Not Ferg or I," Finian hastened to reply, as his elder brother grimaced. "Obviously."

"It'll be someone here," Eamon confirmed, the ink-pen twirling between his fingers. "If you prefer, they can stay anonymous."

The king nodded firmly, teeth gritted. Flora, seated beside him, appeared remarkably placid, considering the circumstances.

"Flo, how can you look so calm?" Alistair demanded, turning incredulous eyes on her. "Don't you feel any _pressure?_ "

"Well," Finian called out, malevolently. "She's not the one who needs to _rise to the occasion_ , is she?"

As several in the audience chamber let out barks of appreciative laughter, and many more hid smiles; Alistair gritted his teeth. Flora took pity on him, putting her arm about his neck and planting a kiss on his cheek.

"You've never given me any cause for complaint in that area," she breathed, stroking his ear with her fingertips as she directed her words into his ear. "You don't need to worry. My beautiful king."

Such affectionate language was so uncharacteristic emerging from Flora's Herring-crafted throat that Alistair allowed himself to be temporarily distracted from the looming spectre of the wedding night. He smiled back at Flora, tapping her nose gently with his thumb.

"My _handsome_ queen. Are we finished for today?"

This last part was directed to Eamon; at which the arl gave a soft nod of confirmation.

"Aye, son."

There followed a general murmuring of relief, accompanied by the scraping of chairs across flagstones as the council members rose to their feet and headed _en masse_ to the exit.

Alistair reached out for his betrothed's hand, only to find her fingers already stretching for his.

"Darling," he said, circling his thumb gently around each knuckle in turn. "Ready for lunch? A _late_ lunch. Just me and you."

Flora nodded, smiling up at him.

* * *

OOC Author Note: The inexperienced Elizabeth I kept copious notes during her council meetings so that nobody could alter them or leave anything out, so I thought it would be good for Alistair to do the same thing!

Lol I can't believe I just wrote 4000 words about administration? Can you tell I have spent many, many hours trawling through records of 16th century council meetings, lol.

A few definitions – a progress is a royal tour around the country, and _demesne_ is the land owned by a noble.

Also of course the witnessing of a royal marriage consummation is an actual thing! Very important to prove that the marriage is valid, ahahaha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	46. Mab The Midwife

Chapter 46: Mab The Midwife

Both former Wardens retired to the Royal bedchamber, where a table and two chairs had been placed in preparation for lunch. Flora stared at the array of food on offer – platters of meats, cheeses and pickled vegetables, roasted chicken in a wine sauce, strips of smoked haddock, a rich fruit-filled pie served with cream – and then turned her incredulous gaze on Alistair.

"Is all this for _us?"_

"I believe so, sweetheart," the king replied, plate already in hand as he headed towards the cheeseboard. "Does it meet with your approval?"

"Mm," said Flora, wide-eyed. "How much do they think we're going to _eat?"_

"I'm not sure, my love. You're eating for two, after all."

"More like two _hundred."_

Flora picked up her plate, with words like _subsistence crisis_ and _harvest failure_ echoing around her mind from the council meeting earlier. As Alistair piled his own plate high with hunks of fresh-baked bread, crab claws and roasted asparagus; she picked up a boiled egg and stared at it gloomily.

"Did you know, in Orlais, they let their cheese go _mouldy?"_ Alistair said, through a mouthful of sharp Fereldan cheddar. "Big, thick veins of rotted _green_ running though! Absolutely disg- Lo, _what's wrong?"_

Discarding his plate without a second thought, the king strode towards his forlorn mistress, who was still incongruously clutching the boiled egg as tears ran down her face.

"Darling," Alistair breathed in dismay as he went to embrace her. "Is it the baby unbalancing you? Or something else?"

"All this food," Flora whispered, her voice trembling. "There's enough for a dozen mouths here. And there are refugees hungry on the docks. And what if the crops all fail this autumn? Everyone will _starve!_ It's not fair, people have survived the Blight and now they won't have enough to _eat_ \- _"_

Alistair's eyebrows shot into his hairline, and he drew his best friend close to his chest; thinking on how best to comfort her.

"Well, then," he said, at last. "Anything that we don't eat, I'll have it sent down to the refugees on the docks. Don't worry about the harvest, yet – we'll set up this grain deal with the Marches, and most destroyed towns have got their rebuilding committees already set up. Leonas is leading the South Reach efforts – Lothering is in his arling too."

A wet-eyed Flora nodded, her anxieties somewhat assuaged. Alistair peered at her for a moment, then ducked his head and kissed the dampness tenderly from each of her cheeks in turn. He had done the same many, many months prior, on a balcony of Redcliffe Castle overlooking Lake Calenhad; when she had seen the Archdemon in her dreams and woken up stricken by fear.

"My sweet-hearted girl," he cajoled, brushing his thumb over her full, turned-down mouth. "You must put aside some of your concern for _yourself,_ love. You're so busy worrying about what people are going to eat in four months' time, that you haven't even touched your _own_ food."

Seeing Flora's shoulders slump, Alistair tried a different tack; dropping to his knees on the flagstones and pressing his ear to the swell of her belly.

"Our child is talking," the king murmured, turning wide hazel eyes up to her. "It's saying: _feed me, mother. I have inherited your appetite, and I demand eighty bread rolls and four hundred crab claws for lunch"_

Flora started to laugh, then froze as she felt the baby shifting position in her stomach.

"Oh, it woke up," she said, oddly enchanted. "It must have heard you."

Alistair blinked mutedly, and suddenly it was _his_ turn to brush away a sudden dampness from his eyelashes.

They took a plate each and sat on the deep, velvet-cushioned bench before the widened window, the Amaranthine Ocean stretching out like an emerald tapestry in the background. Seagulls swooped and called out to one another; in the distance, a ship flying the crimson and black mantle of Starkhaven made its way west into the estuary.

Flora tore a large hunk of rye bread into strips, dipping each one absentmindedly into a honey and mustard sauce as she listened to Alistair talk. Mouth full, the king meandered from topic to topic; from a hideous nine hour long council meeting he'd suffered through the previous week, to the new Marcher horse that Teagan had purchased him for his birthday. Flora made the occasional comment or question, content to listen while satisfying the demands of her stomach.

Once both had finished, they talked about Oghren wanting to join the Wardens, then about the wedding night consummation. The pair spent nearly half a candle trying to speculate on what the gender of the baby might be. Alistair thought that it would be a boy – based on an old wives' tale about the volume of Flora's snores. Flora, on the other hand, had no idea – she was still trying to think of the being in her stomach as an actual _baby,_ rather than the ambiguous 'little creature'. Privately, she didn't care what gender the baby was – as long as it was a _human_. In her more paranoid moments, Flora thought that all the Blighed essence she had submerged herself in over the months might have had some terrible effect on the baby's development.

 _Please don't actually be a Hurlock, little creature._

Every so often, Alistair would put down his knife and pause his conversation; reaching out to touch Flora's face as though wanting to confirm that she was _really_ sitting at his side, her bare feet in his lap; and not miles away in a draughty cliff-top monastery. The third time this happened, Flora set her plate on the cushions and crawled into Alistair's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her chin on his shoulder.

"I love you," she whispered, tilting her face towards his ear. "I promise this is real. It's not a dream; I _can't_ dream."

Alistair embraced her in return, careful not to hug too tightly. His hand rose to stroke Flora's narrow back, feeling the ridge of her spine through the thin navy lambs-wool of her tunic.

"I wish I were marrying you tonight," he murmured, with a wry smile at his own impatience. "I want you as my _wife."_

Flora kissed the curve of his ear, the lobe thick and fleshy. She resisted the urge to nip at it with her teeth – an act which invariably led to them tangled together on the floor – and instead pressed her face against his neck.

"I've been your wife in all but name for months," she said instead into his warm, olive-toned skin. "Haven't I, though?"

"Of course you have, baby." A secretly delighted Alistair brushed away thick ropes of dark red hair to kiss the back of her neck in return. "You've always been _mine."_

Just then, there came a tentative knock at the door. Finian advanced into the Royal bedchamber with one hand dramatically placed over his sole remaining eye.

"Is it safe to look?" he enquired, a touch melodramatically. "One never knows, when one is coming into a room where you two have been left to your own devices. Is my sister dressed?"

With exaggerated caution, the young arl peered between his fingers, exhaling in relief when he saw Flora fully clothed – albeit perched in Alistair's lap.

"The midwife is waiting in the corridor, and she doesn't have a surfeit of patience," Finian informed them, taking a chicken leg from the leftover food. "Shall I invite her in?"

At Alistair's nod, Finian returned to the door and nudged it open; calling through to those waiting outside.

"It's safe to enter; they're both fully clothed!"

To Flora's surprise, what seemed like half of Ferelden proceeded into the chamber. Wynne entered with Leliana, the two old friends conversing in earnest tones. Teagan came next, the bann shooting Alistair a quick glance of warning.

Alistair blinked, bemused, and then a familiar Orlesian-accented voice came drifting across the room. He sat bolt upright; Flora, in slight shock, almost fell off his knees.

" _Alistaaair!"_ announced Isolde, a brazen smile writ brightly across her features as she entered on Eamon's elbow. "It has been _far_ too long, dear boy."

Alistair shot Flora a look of fleeting alarm, then helped her carefully off his lap; crossing the chamber to cordially greet the woman who had made his childhood years a misery.

"Lady Isolde," he said, careful and polite as she kissed him on both cheeks. "I didn't realise that you were in the city. You've come for the coronation?"

" _Oui,"_ replied the arlessa, her autumn-coloured eyes surreptitiously sweeping the Royal bedchamber. "Though, I admit – I've not received as many _social_ invitations as I would have expected since I've been back."

"Isolde, you did try and hide the existence of Connor," Eamon murmured, a slight edge to his tone that suggested that he had not yet fully forgiven his wife. "It would have been a far greater scandal if Ferelden had not been in the midst of a Blight. You ought to be grateful."

Isolde glanced downwards, her painted mouth turning south at the corners. Flora, who felt oddly sorry for her, crossed the room to stand at Alistair's side.

"My parents were so ashamed of me being a mage that they sent me away in secret," she offered, softly. "At least Connor will never know what that feels like. You wanted to keep him."

Isolde met Flora's eyes, embarrassed; the older woman recalling the many times that she had slighted the girl for her common accent and unpolished manners.

Fortunately, the tension in the room was broken by the arrival of Fergus, who was chatting easily to an old woman who possessed a dwarf-like squat, broad-shouldered frame. Her steel-grey hair had been cropped above her shoulders, and she carried a large leather bag beneath her arm. The brusque demeanour of the stranger suggested that she was a woman who never allowed anyone to carry her baggage for her.

"This is Mab," announced Fergus, as the old woman swept beady eyes about the chamber. "Highever's longest-serving midwife. Every babe born in Castle Cousland for the past thirty five years was delivered by this good lady. Myself, Finn and Floss included!"

 _And Oren,_ the teyrn thought, with a brief twinge of sadness. _My poor boy._

Finian gave the woman a little wave, clearly intimidated by her presence.

"Hullo, ma'am."

Mab muttered a half-grunted greeting, the words emerging in a timbre that immediately drew Flora's attention.

"You're from _Skingle,"_ the youngest Cousland said, pale eyes igniting with recognition as she named the village just to the east of Herring.

Mab's small, dark eyes immediately settled on Flora, taking in the oxblood hair and distinctive full, sulky Cousland mouth.

"Florence Cousland," she said, her words shaped by the northern coast in a slightly different manner to Flora's. "Lost an' found again. You've grown since I last saw yeh."

Flora nodded, searching her mind for any memory of this barrel-chested woman. Mab started across the room, stopping abruptly when she spotted Alistair. She eyed the crown on his head for a moment, and then shot him a belligerent look.

"'Scuse me for not bowin'," the midwife said, with typical bluntness. "I got a bad back."

"That's quite alright," replied Alistair, fascinated by the brusque northerner. "Thank you for travelling this far east."

"Mab is the best midwife in the teyrnir," added Fergus, proudly. "She hasn't lost a mother or babe in five years."

Alistair, who had lost his own mother during childbirth, blanched a fraction. Swallowing the acidic bile that had surged upwards in his throat, he distracted himself by promptly asking another question.

"You delivered Flora, then?"

The woman grunted, dumping the leather case unceremoniously on the bed and unfastening its buttons.

"Aye. Big brute of an infant she was. Tore poor Lady Eleanor to shreds on her way out. _Full two days and nights of labour."_

Flora's jaw dropped in horror, her fingers instinctively groping for Alistair's hand.

"But you were worth it," he murmured reassuringly, squeezing them tight against his palm. "I bet you were an _adorable_ baby _."_

Mab continued in business-like tones, taking out a cloth measuring tape.

"Ugly pink shrimp of a creature too. I'll never forget all that wild _ginger_ hair atop that oversized head. Evil reptilian eyes."

"She's right, Floss," Finian called from beside the dinner table, mouth full of smoked salmon. "You were a _hideous_ baby. I called you Ratface for a year."

'Ratface' herself looked slightly perturbed, her brows drawing together as Alistair was unable to stop himself from spluttering out a snort.

"Well," interjected Teagan, feeling rather sorry for her. "Florence has grown into a beautiful young woman. And I'm sure that she and Alistair are going to produce a comely child."

Flora smiled at Teagan, appreciating his gentlemanly attempt to come to her defence.

Mab took out a leather pouch, uncorked it with her teeth, and proceeded to pour the watery contents over her hands; letting the runoff trickle onto the flagstones.

"Come on, lassie," she instructed, with a blunt gesture towards the bed. "Up you get."

"Is that seawater?" Flora asked, nostrils twitching in recognition as she clambered up onto the furs, settling back against the cushions.

Mab nodded, unceremoniously whipping the cushions from behind Flora's head so that she was lying flat on the mattress.

"I ain't used to having an audience," the midwife said after a moment, shooting a glance towards the other occupants of the room. "Not even the teyrna had a half-dozen people in with her. Loosen your dress."

"We do the same thing in Herring," Flora said from the mattress, expertly loosing the fisherman's knot securing her bodice. "The seawater. Our midwife – Bess – swears by it."

Mab let out a little sneer, lip curling as she opened up the folds of the dress to reveal ripe breasts contained by a strip of cloth, and a substantial swollen stomach.

"I know Bess," she said after a moment, nose wrinkling. "Got in a fight wi' her once over a bucket o' crabs."

Flora nodded solemnly, as the nobles in the room exchanged incredulous glances.

"Right."

Mab fell silent, a professional demeanour setting over her florid, wind-blasted features as she reached out to run her hands over the swell of Flora's stomach. She pressed her fingers into the ripe flesh, measuring the mound with the span of her hands.

Alistair – who, naturally, had not been present during the first midwife inspection twelve weeks prior – watched in fascination and a small, irrational air of protectiveness. He had to bite his tongue from asking the midwife to handle Flora's stomach with a little more gentility; grimacing every time Mab issued a business-like prod.

"It's fine, Alistair," murmured Wynne, noticing the king's anxiety. "It won't hurt the baby."

"It's a large babe," Mab observed, a moment later. "Feels good and strong – moving well, responds to bein' poked."

Alistair beamed while Flora blanched, recalling the midwife's comment about her own delivery _tearing the teyrna to shreds._

"How _large_ is it going to be?" she asked, tentatively. "Considering it's got to… come out. Is it going to _hurt_ at all? I'm not very good at pain – I'm not really used to it."

 _I used to be able to anaesthetise myself within seconds of an injury being inflicted; then heal the wound minutes later._

Mab let out an incredulous bark of laughter, eyeing the girl pityingly as she moved downwards.

"Of course it's goin' to hurt," she replied bluntly from between Flora's thighs. "It's alright. We'll tie up some rope for you to hold onto. Give you a bit o' driftwood to bite through."

Flora went even paler, her eyes going immediately to Alistair's face to seek some reassurance. He came to her side without pause, perching on the mattress and winding her fingers tightly within his own.

"Is there any way of making it – hurt less?" he asked, as inexperienced as she in such matters.

Mab snorted, shaking her head from side to side as she rinsed her fingers once again in the saltwater.

"No. Most you can do is hope that it's _quick_."

Flora brought her fingers to her mouth and began to bite at the nails anxiously, _Mairyn's Star_ twinkling in the mellow late-afternoon sunlight.

"Floss, you'll be _fine,"_ Fergus sought to reassure his younger sister after a moment, seeing the fear naked on her face. "Oriana was terrified too, but Mother told me she was fine, eventually. I was down the end of the corridor, and I couldn't even hear her screaming after a while."

"Aye," Eamon offered, recanting the story of Connor's birth. The common theme between both men appeared to be that they had not been present during the actual labour; appearing only once baby had been delivered, cleaned and presented in a lacy gown.

"You'll stay with me?" Flora whispered frantically to Alistair as Mab ducked beneath the hem of her tunic. "You won't leave?"

The king kissed her forehead, then raised their entwined hands to his mouth and kissed each of her knuckles in turn.

"Of course I won't leave, sweetheart."

"It won't be a pretty sight," warned Mab, doing something with her fingers that made Flora's eyes bulge. "Stop _tensing up,_ girl!"

"Aah, your hands are _freezing._ Alistair, you promise you won't leave me? Even if it's not pretty?"

Alistair gazed down at his former sister-warden's face; lost in a sudden rush of memories.

 _I remember – at Ostagar - when you were sick with fear after our first expedition against the Darkspawn,_ he recalled, suddenly. _You were so frightened that you were sick over yourself in your sleep after a nightmare. I took you to the wash-tent and found you some spare clothing, and exhausted my supply of jokes in an attempt to cheer you up._

 _How many times did we fall asleep curled together, stinking and covered in Darkspawn effulgence? You've seen me bloodied and cursing; I've seen you splattered by the froth coughed from the mouths of the dying. I remember when neither of us washed for a week because we couldn't find a spring large enough to bathe in; and we both smelt so bad that an entire tavern recoiled when we walked in._

"Maker's Breath, Lo," he murmured, softly. "Wild Marcher stallions couldn't tear me from your side."

"Promise?" she repeated, grimacing and peering down between her legs. "Ow."

"I swear on Ferelden itself, my love."

Finally, Mab withdrew her hands with a business-like cough, returning upright.

"All looks as it ought. Baby's resting nice and high. You've got some good muscle in that tummy, eh?"

"We walked from one end of the nation to the other," replied Flora, relieved that the inspection was over.

Eamon gave a small gesture to a nearby servant, who came forwards dutifully with a pouch of coin for the midwife. "So, the babe will be here by end of Harvestmere, you'd say?"

The midwife cast a final, appraising glance over Flora's stomach; before giving a nod of confirmation.

"Aye, my lord. Though since it's her first bairn, it's like to be late. And _you_ can put your legs together now, lass – you look like a street-wench advertisin' the wares."

Flora obediently drew her knees closed, pulling the hem of her tunic down over her thighs.

Mab of Skingle accepted the heavy purse with a little grunt. With a northerner's wariness, she took out a coin and bit it to check the quality of the metal, eyeing Eamon with suspicion. Only once the coin's worth was proven did she tuck the purse away, delivering a laundry list of _dos_ and _don'ts_ to a bemused Flora.

"Stay away from Orlesian cheese and shellfish, keep in the shade, lie down if you feel dizzy. Chew on some wormwood bark if you feel nauseous. Once the first Kingsway frost falls, get your husband to salt the fancy tiles."

Flora nodded, having already forgotten what came after _Orlesian cheeses_. Fortunately, Alistair had whipped out the small pad of parchment he used to minute the Council meetings; and was frantically scribbling each piece of advice.

"Oh, and don't think of ugly people," the midwife delivered as a parting shot over her shoulder, shuffling her squat frame towards the exit. "Or the babe will be born with foul features."

"Like our little Ratface herself," Finian murmured evilly, receiving an elbow to the ribs from his elder brother in response.

"As _though_ those two could ever produce an aesthetically unappealing child," Leliana replied, withering scorn in her voice. _"Look_ at them!"

The bard gestured an elegant hand towards where Alistair was leaning forwards on the mattress, face inches from Flora's own as she gazed up at him from the depths of the cushions. Alistair beamed back down at her, and moments later, the grin softened into a wondering smile. He tilted her face upwards with a finger beneath her chin; leaning forward to kiss her on the mouth. The room was still filled with a half-dozen people, yet they had eyes only for each other, barely noticing even as the others filed quietly out.

* * *

OOC Author Note: To clarify: Baby is not a Hurlock, lol, that's just Flora being unnecessarily paranoid! She's definitely not going to enjoy the process of giving birth though, she doesn't really cope well with pain considering that she's never really had to experience a great degree of it before.

Also, it makes me laugh to think of Flo as being an exceptionally hideous baby, lol. A massive, oversized creature who brutalised poor Eleanor Cousland on the way out, hahaha. Oh well, she turned out cute enough, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	47. Leaving For Antiva?

Chapter 47: Leaving For Antiva? 

Later that evening, the former Wardens and their companions – save for Morrigan, who was winging her way south towards the Wilds, and Sten, who had his own business – congregated on the top of the palace's loftiest tower. One of the great southern constellations drifted idly above them, half-cloaked in miasma and atmospheric effulgence. The moon hung low and full, a swollen version of _Mairyn's Star._

They had gathered about a makeshift campfire, an incongruous construct of kindling that seemed rather meagre when compared to the vast, pit-bellied braziers elevated on the ramparts above. Yet with the host of familiar faces gathered about the flames, blankets spread out and ale-flasks lying askance; it was almost as though the companions were on their travels once again, camped out in some isolated corner of the Fereldan wilderness. Only the pair of Royal Guard, tucked discreetly away near the rampart steps, disputed the illusion.

It was an unusually balmy evening, mild enough for Leliana to bare her tanned, muscled calves in short leathers. Zevran needed little excuse to unbutton the entire front of his shirt, reclining against a blanket and winking at a young steward who arrived clutching a tray of tankards. Oghren, who was laying off the bottle in preparation for the Joining, devoured his way through six and a half roasted sausages; wondering enthusiastically how many ladies he would be able to beguile with tales of Grey Warden heroics. This was met with stern chiding from Wynne, who reminded the dwarf of the Order's solemn duty and purpose - which did _not_ include sleeping one's way around Ferelden.

Leliana produced a lute from the fold of the blankets, singing an old Frostbacks folk song in her distinctive, sweet-toned voice. The bard then sang an Orlesian love ballad, and despite Flora's patriotic distrust of anything from over the western border, she could not stop herself from listening, captivated, to the strange-tongued tune. Alistair preferred drinking songs to serenades, but there was something about the simple beauty of Leliana's verse that appealed to his sentimental side. Instead of interrupting with a request for _The Round-Bellied Redcliffe Brewer,_ the king found himself following the melody of the music; barely daring to breathe as Leliana's dulcet tones drifted to the heavens. Once the bard had finished, she lowered her head modestly and set the lute down in her lap.

"The Maker has truly blessed us with a voice like yours," Wynne murmured, smiling gently through the fire-lit shadows. "I hope you're going to sing during the coronation."

"It has been requested, yes," Leliana confirmed, unable to stop a glow of pride creeping into her reply. "It'll be a little like the olden days, when I used to serenade wealthy patrons at _Halamshiral_. You've never seen such a rainbow spectrum of colour as when the elites of Celene's court are gathered together in their finery! It's _breathtaking_."

"Great idea," offered Oghren, a slight edge of malevolence to his tone. "And if the guests are out-stayin' their welcome, we could just get the _bride_ to do a solo. That'd send the poor buggers runnin' for the hills!"

Flora shot him an unamused look from where she was sitting cross-legged on a fur besides Alistair.

"I think a Herring wedding song would add a certain _specialness_ to the occasion," she insistently, defiantly. "Nobody can resist dancing when they hear the opening of _Bones In The Sand_ or – my dad's favourite - _The Dead Sailor Returns To Drive His Lover Into Madness."_

"Intriguing names," purred Zevran, gulping down another swallow of ale. "Though I can't imagine the natives of Herring _dancing,_ somehow, _nena."_

"Oh, we know all the northern dances," retorted Flora, immediately. "We also have some _local_ dances unique to Herring."

"Like what?"

"Like… _the octopus."_

Flora waved her arms vigorously about her head; Alistair ducked to avoid a flailing hand. The others gaped wordlessly, struck into momentary silence.

"I can't do _the lobster_ because of my stomach," Flora confessed, slightly out of breath. "I'll have to show you at Satinalia."

Alistair reached out to anchor her fingers in his; bringing their conjoined hands to his mouth so that he could kiss her knuckles. She smiled at him, then yawned involuntarily.

"I can't wait to see it," he murmured, an involuntary beam spreading over his face. "I can't _wait_ for the day after tomorrow, actually."

Oghren let out a snort, leaning forward to prod at the fire with the tip of his short-sword.

"You've been complainin' about the coronation every time I seen you for the past month! ' _I hate formal occasions, I'm king already, see this crown on my head, why do we need all these formalities?'"_

Alistair made no immediate reply, his thumb brushing gently over _Mairyn's Star_ as he clasped Flora's fingers in his. Lifting his arm, he drew her against his side, suddenly anxious about the increasingly chilly breeze. The warm envelope of his arms was too inviting to resist; within minutes; she was snoring quietly into his armpit.

"You may have to _write_ to me about the details of the ceremony itself."

Alistair's brow furrowed as he turned his head towards the elf. The former Crow was silhouetted behind the temperamental flames, the drifting sparks reflected in his watchful, coal-dark pupils.

"What do you mean, Zev?"

"There is a possibility that I may not be here."

When Alistair gaped, the elf hastened to explain.

"You have several Antivan trade princes attending the ceremony. With such powerful influencers removed from the country, it would be the perfect opportunity for me to return and begin the process of dismantling the Crows."

It was a flimsy excuse, the words emerging as brittle and unconvincing as the rationalisation itself. Alistair's brows drew together, his mouth already dropping open to protest.

"Zev, _why-_ "

"Bedtime," Leliana chirped quickly, taking a steely grip on Oghren's collar and hauling the dwarf upwards with surprising strength. "Come on, let's go."

Wynne propelled herself to her feet with the aid of her staff – the senior enchanter was far too proud to accept a hand. Within minutes, the rooftop was deserted save for elf, king and snoring future queen; the three of them gathered about the campfire with only the stars left to eavesdrop. Even the Royal Guard had been dismissed – which, in their vernacular, meant that they now stood several steps down as opposed to atop the tower itself.

Flora yawned against Alistair's shoulder, slumping gracelessly forwards until she was face-down in his lap. The king stroked his hand absentmindedly down her back, his brow creasing further into pre-existing indentations as he gazed at Zevran.

"You're leaving?"

The elf inclined his chin silently, avoiding Alistair's stare as he would a poisoned dagger-thrust. Alistair paused to gather his thoughts, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"But – I thought that- "

"You thought that I would stay at your side forever?" Zevran retorted, giving a smile laced with a flash of Antivan defiance. "An exotic elven ornament to augment the court? I have my _own_ plans for the future, you know. There is only so much of this damp Fereldan climate that I can take."

"I know," repeated Alistair, quietly. "But – I thought that you would stay for the coronation. Maybe join us on the progress around the country. I thought you'd want to stay until the baby is born - it's only twelve weeks away."

The elf glanced towards Alistair, eyes dropping to where Flora lay snoring inelegantly in the king's lap. Loose wisps of hair curled about her face, erratic as fraying strands of fishing net. There followed a flicker of something unreadable across his tattooed face, and he quickly looked away once again.

"I _want_ you to come with us on the progress," Alistair cajoled, deciding to lay the guilt on heavily. "There could be bandits. Pockets of Darkspawn remaining. Without Flo's shield, she's vulnerable."

Zevran grimaced, aware that he was being coerced but unable to ignore the truth embedded in his friend's words.

"It'll break Flo's heart if you go," Alistair said softly, changing tactic. "She adores you. She _loves_ you, Zev. You can't leave now, she'll be devastated."

The elf nodded with a small sigh, knowing that the king spoke the truth. With feline agility, he clambered around the perimeter of the campfire, coming to rest beside the two former Wardens. Reaching out, he let his richly tanned hand rest on the nape of Flora's neck; the elegant, tattooed fingers in stark contrast to her pale skin. She let out a little grunt in response to the contact, fingers curling absentmindedly into her palm.

"Ah, but I'm a selfish creature," the elf said, half-laughing without a shred of humour. "To be loved by _mi sirenita_ is a great thing; even if it is… as a _friend."_

Sensing that the elf's resolve was wavering, Alistair determinedly pressed home the advantage.

"Please, stay," he implored, hazel eyes boring into Zevran's coal-dark pupils. "At least until the baby is born."

There was a silence, during which Alistair held his breath; not daring to look away from their former Crow's face. Finally, a rueful smile tugged at the corner of Zevran's mouth and the king breathed an inward sigh of relief.

"Eh, I cannot say _no_ to such a handsome face," the elf murmured, raising slender fingers to pat Alistair's bearded cheek. "Especially since you are the _king_ now, _mi amor._ Who knows, you might decide to lock me in the dungeons! Although, if _chains_ are involved, I may not be too averse to that prospect."

Zevran laughed at the flush that rose to Alistair's face, and the throaty Antivan cackle was enough to rouse Flora from her impromptu doze.

"Ooh," she yawned, pushing herself out of Alistair's lap on sleepy elbows. "Was I snoring?"

"Like a drunken soldier, my love," Alistair confirmed, reaching out to smooth a hand over her rumpled, dark red head. "Anyway, here's some good news – Zevran is going to stay until after the baby is born."

Flora, who had not even _considered_ the possibility that the elf might be departing any sooner than that, immediately turned a distraught face towards him.

"You were thinking about leaving?" she breathed, alarm writ across her features. Her pale grey irises flickered with reflected firelight, the gold fleck left by the Archdemon's soul glinting like pyrite. _"Leaving?"_

Zevran reached out and put his fingers on her sleeve, fingering the skin beneath the navy lambswool.

"No, no, no- " he hastened to reassure her, not wanting to be the cause of any undue distress. "No, I am afraid you are stuck with my lechery and witty remarks for the immediate future _, mi reina_."

"Good!"

Flora leaned towards the elf and put her arms around his neck, still anxious despite his assurances. Zevran embraced her in return, patting between her shoulder-blades in an effort to put her mind to rest. Looking up, his gaze met Alistair's, and the king gave a slight nod of gratitude. Flora, feeling her heart slowly settle back into a normal rhythm, exhaled in relief. She pressed her lips impulsively against the faded markings on the elf's cheek, moving her mouth to his ear.

" _Guess what."_

"Eh, _carina?"_

"Alistair and I have to _do it_ in front of a priestess and someone from the Landsmeet," she said gleefully, as Alistair let out a groan. "Isn't that strange? Nobles are peculiar."

Zevran cackled, cheering up immensely as he shot the scowling king a malefic grin.

"Ah, the traditional _witnessing of the consummation!_ I admit, it is a ritual long since died out in Antiva."

 _Typical Ferelden, two Ages behind the rest of Thedas,_ the elf thought with a snort, a grin curling the corner of his mouth.

Flora, who had never known- and, in her new capacity as queen would now _never_ know – privacy, seemed far less anxious about the prospect than Alistair. Despite the coolness of the evening, several beads of sweat had risen to the king's forehead.

"It's a lot of _pressure,"_ the Theirin insisted, stubbornly. "I mean, who would get… _in the mood_ with some wizened old bat from the Chantry muttering away within arm's reach? And – Maker forbid – _Eamon_ on the other side of the curtain."

This was a sobering thought for both Flora and Alistair, their eyes meeting in alarm.

"I don't think it'd be Arl Eamon," she said at last, uncertainly. "Maybe it'll be some minor bann we don't know."

Zevran let out a cackle, leaning elegantly to the side as the wind bent a thin tendril of smoke from the campfire towards him.

"Well, if you need another witness, _let me know,"_ the elf offered, gleefully. "I have heard stories of these old wedding rituals. The bride is stripped naked by her women and put into bed; the husband brought along by the menfolk shortly later, often accompanied with lewd jokes and provocative verses."

"Stripped naked by _which_ women?" Flora asked, bewildered. "I don't understand. _Noblewomen?"_

The only two noble women she knew were Anora Mac Tir and Isolde Guerrin. This prospect was so utterly horrific that her mouth fell open in dismay; eyes widening.

"Oh, no!" she croaked, plaintively. "I'd rather let the _Archdemon_ undress me. Can't I just take off my own clothes? Or ask Leliana?"

Meanwhile, Alistair was still quietly obsessing over the daunting prospect of _performing on demand._

"What if I can't… _get in the mood?"_ he demanded in a low, urgent hiss. "I'll be a laughing stock. They'll lampoon me in the market square. The taverns will have a field day. _The man who couldn't take his wife on the wedding night."_

Flora, suppressing her own nerves in the face of her best friend's anxiety, reached out to put her hand on his arm.

"I'll help you," she assured him, earnestly. "Don't worry."

The three of them watched the makeshift campfire burn out; there was no more fuel for it to consume and the disconsolate flames sunk ever lower. Sparks drifted towards the heavens, the flecks of red and white standing out stark against the gloom, illuminating the faces of those still in attendance. Zevran's expression was pensive, Alistair still grimacing at the prospect of the wedding night. Flora's head was nodding forwards with tiredness; the baby had leeched her energy especially vigorously that evening.

Eventually, they were driven inside by a faint, misting drizzle. Flora, who would have barely noticed the fine shower if she had been awake, was too busy snoring against Alistair's chest to protest. King, unconscious mistress and elf made to part ways outside the Royal bedchamber; when Alistair realised that Zevran intended to spend the remainder of the evening alone, he invited him in to play a round of Wicked Grace.

The round soon turned into three, and then five; Flora slumbered in contented, dreamless oblivion on the bed as the king proceeded to lose thirteen gold coins to the sleight-handed elf. Zevran pocketed his winnings with a grin, promising to spend at least _part_ of it on a gift for the baby. Once the midnight bell had rung and the watch changed, Alistair made his way over to the bed, not even bothering to take off his boots before slumping facedown beside his snoring lover. For a moment, the elf pondered departure – there were always a few doors guaranteed to open for him, no matter how late the hour – but ultimately lingered on in the stuffed arm chair beside the fire, thoughts meandering idly as the dark tide of sleep crept ever closer.

* * *

OOC Author Note: I love writing campfire scenes! Haven't had one so far this story. I like the thought of Alistair still wanting to do the things they used to do when they were travelling, even though he's now king and living in a palace, hehe. Went to London Pride today and it was amazing! My best friend and her girlfriend came from Wales and we all went to the parade.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	48. Good Morning

Chapter 48: Good Morning

By the time that Flora awoke to the pallid grey light of pre-dawn spilling across the flagstones, the armchair was empty. She yawned deeply, un-entangling herself from the furs on the bed and propping herself up on an elbow. As though sensing that it's mother was awake, there came a little exploratory nudge from within her stomach; Flora rested a hand on top of the swollen curve and thought _good morning._

A moment later, she realised that the baby would be formed enough to hear, and repeated the greeting out loud. This felt stranger in many ways than saying it inwardly – a practise she was used to from years of conversing with her spirits.

A snore from behind drew her attention, and Flora looked over her shoulder to see Alistair sprawled naked across the blankets, one hand flung in her direction. She leaned over to press her lips against the back of the king's head; feeling a sudden surge of affection as she saw him clutching a blanket embroidered with herringbone – a traditional pattern of the northern coast.

Unable to fall back asleep once she had risen, Flora wandered over to the window bench and settled herself on the velvet cushions, leaning back against the stone wall and watching the crimson sun inch leisurely above the eastern horizon. Molten light spilled across the glasslike surface of the Amaranthine Ocean; a feat impossible to replicate on the perpetually restless waters of her native Waking Sea.

The night steward, hearing activity from within, peered around the door and inquired if there was anything he could bring her. Out of habit Flora began to politely decline, and then arrested herself abruptly mid-sentence. The strange urge to _gnaw_ on something organic had returned; if a wooden spoon was not brought to her within minutes, Flora was relatively sure that she was going to start chewing on the furniture. These sudden, irresistible cravings struck without warning – often at inconvenient moments - and Flora was utterly helpless in the face of her body's peculiar desires.

When Alistair awoke an hour later, Flora was still sprawled in the window seat; gazing down at the waking movements of the city below while fervently licking a wooden spoon.

"Morning, sweetheart," he murmured, dragging a hand over his rumpled head and yawning. "Having fun?"

Flora extracted the spoon from her mouth and eyed the chewed wooden length, bemused at her own odd compulsions.

"Yes," she said at last, sinking her teeth once more into the mangled handle as she returned her gaze to the estuary. A ship bearing a yellow and black standard in the shape of a skull was just making a leisurely final approach towards the harbour. It was a vast and flat-bellied galleon, dominating the smaller trade vessels to either side.

Alistair pushed back the heavy furs and clambered upright, ambling across the dawn-lit floorboards without a stitch of clothing. Her best friend's well-sculpted form was the one thing guaranteed to distract Flora from the sea; she eyed his nakedness surreptitiously as he came to stand beside her.

"My little beaver," Alistair said fondly, fingers sliding through her hair to cup the back of her head gently. "I wonder whose standard that is? Looks rather _sinister,_ if you ask me _."_

Flora reluctantly averted her eyes from the taut muscle of Alistair's abdomen, gazing down at the stately vessel as it glided across the pond-like stillness of the estuary. A flicker of memory ignited in the back of her mind, and she reached out to flutter her fingers against her companion's elbow.

"Oh! I _know,"_ she exclaimed, recalling Leliana's cards of Theodesian leaders. "It's the P-Pantleghosts. Pentagoons. _Pentaghasts."_

Alistair intercepted her hand at the wrist, raising it to brush his lips lightly over her fingers; lingering against the cool, weighty sphere of _Mairyn's Star._

"Ah, of course. The ruling family of Nevarra. They're meant to be dragon hunters, so they're probably a bit mad. Plus – this'll make a shiver go down your spine, baby – they sponsor _death cults._ Explains that flag."

The wooden spoon dropped from Flora's mouth as she turned startled eyes on him, eyebrows rising into her hairline.

" _Death cults?_ What's a death cult?"

Alistair lowered himself to the window seat beside her, one foot propped against the wall as he leaned back on the stone.

"They take out the organs from their dead and pickle them in vinegar," he said, with enthusiasm but not a great deal of accuracy. "Then they stack them up in rows in great stone standing tombs. And every year, they bring them out and parade them about the city!"

Flora gaped at him, her startled eyes now as round as silver coins.

"No! _Really?"_

"Something like that," he replied blithely, then laughed at her expression. "Is that the face you're going to make when we're formally introduced tomorrow?"

Flora scowled, turning disapproving eyes on the Pentaghast ship as it dropped anchor in the still, green waters below. She suspected that her Herring stoicism and Cousland composure might be _extensively_ tested over the next few days; as they were introduced to a string of Thedas' most eccentric foreign notables.

A grinning Alistair reached out to turn Flora's face towards him, thumb caressing the high angle of her cheek.

"This coronation rehearsal is going to take _hours,"_ he murmured, leaning purposefully forwards on the bench. "Give me a kiss to keep me going."

Flora was more than happy to oblige, wrapping her arms around the king's neck and parting her lips readily against his own. One kiss quickly turned into several, each becoming more heated until she was in his lap, his lips roaming down the hollow of her throat and her hand working between his muscled thighs.

Unfortunately, the morning's commitments would not wait, and a firm, staccato knock sounded at the door.

Alistair, flushed-faced and teeth gritted, muttered a curse under his breath.

"Don't stop, baby," he instructed in an unsteady voice, pushing into her soft fingers. _"_ Almost, _almost - "_

Another knock came, soft yet insistent.

"Your Majesty? The Chancellor is in the entrance hall."

The king groaned at the news of Eamon's arrival. He reached ill-temperedly for a cushion to cover himself as Flora withdrew her hand with an apologetic grimace.

A moment later, Guillaume entered with a pair of servants in tow, struggling with a full bathtub. Water splashed over the flagstones, and the Nevarran shot the servants a beady-eyed glower.

"Your Majesty, Lady Cousland," the steward murmured, bowing expertly as he turned towards the window seat. Well-aware of what he had interrupted, not a flicker passed across the silver-bearded man's face. "I hope you both slept well."

"Morning," said Flora placidly, leaning back against the glass and pulling the striped Theirin-crested nightshirt down over her thighs.

The king was less inclined to be amiable. Discarding the cushion, he stalked naked across the room to pour himself an ale; muscled, golden and leonine.

"Eamon's _early,"_ he complained, emptying the flagon ill-temperedly into the tankard. "The eighth bell hasn't even rung yet. How long is this rehearsal going to take?"

"From _Canticles_ through to _Threnodies,_ I'd wager," came Fergus' voice wryly from the doorway. "Floss, I'm not making any assumptions about your state of dress – are you decent?"

Once Flora had confirmed that she was indeed decent, the teyrn removed his hand from his eyes and stepped fully inside the room, Finian close behind him.

"It's been years since Grand Cleric Elemena has had an opportunity like this," Fergus continued, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Alistair's face. Meanwhile, Finian was ogling the king unashamedly; giving his sister a little gleeful thumbs-up behind Fergus' back.

"She's definitely going to take advantage. Prepare yourselves for a _monologue_ of epic proportion!"

"How much of the Chant can she fit into the span of a day, do you think?" Alistair replied with a little snort, unable to stop himself from smiling at the prospect of tomorrow's ceremony. Despite his complaints and grumbling, he was inwardly chafing at the bit with impatience; unconcerned about the crowning, but desperate to have his bond with his mistress formalised.

"At least six hundred verses," replied Fergus, inspecting the fresh-painted fish pattern above the hearth. "Eight hundred, if she's feeling ambitious. And she's _deaf,_ so she won't be able to hear your pleas for her to stop."

" _Maker's Breath!"_

Eamon was not kept waiting long in the entrance hall – Flora prided herself on her punctuality and grew unduly anxious if she believed herself to be _late._ Seeing his mistress shifting fretfully from foot to foot, her fresh-washed hair hanging in thick, wet ropes down her back, Alistair duly picked up his own pace.

Less than half a candle length later, they were riding through the noble district, flanked by the usual escort of guards. It was the type of summer day more suited to Orlais or Antiva than Ferelden – a cornflower-blue sky unblemished by cloud, the sun an unblinking tourmaline lion's eye. The heat radiated from the cobbles and surrounding buildings; the smoke and animal-scent of the city mixing with the salt-edged sea breeze.

Alistair rode with the reins in a single, confident hand, keeping one arm curled around Flora's belly to anchor her in place before him. She was sitting in her usual position on the saddle, trying not to look too rapidly from side to side in case her damp ponytail whipped him in the face.

 _Not looking_ proved to be an increasingly difficult endeavour, especially once they entered the city proper. Every canal-bridge and lamp-post bore the conjoined Theirin-Cousland legend, depicting the intertwined lion and laurel. The banners hung down, long and weighty; their colours fresh-embroidered. Flowers and garlands had been planted in hastily-constructed planters and barrels alongside the main thoroughfares of the city.

To Flora's astonishment, crimson ribbons had also been tied onto tavern signs and balcony-railings; woven through the wheel-spokes of carts and wrapped about the staves of the city guard. With a sudden, sharp poignancy, she recalled the raised pikes and staves of her gathered army, the crimson ribbon tied defiantly to each one. She was suddenly glad that she had not been awake to see the immediate aftermath of the final battle; to see the broken remains of these weapons trodden into the bloodied mud. There had not been excessive casualties against the Darkspawn horde, but their forces had not escaped without losses.

Most people had not yet realised that Flora was back in the city, and so the first part of their journey passed relatively unimpeded. Yet news travelled faster in Denerim than through the dormitories of the Circle; by the time that they neared the Square of the Bride, the crowds had come out in full vigour to see their handsome Theirin and his betrothed.

Although Flora had received substantial attention when she was riding to the docks with Teagan for her feast, the prospect of seeing both king and mistress together proved a great lure for the crowds. The people of Denerim flocked to the streets as the procession approached, streaming out of taverns and leaning out of upper windows. Their cries melded together into a general roar of approval; the occasional distinct call standing out amongst the rest.

" _Welcome back, Lady Cousland!"_

" _Congratulations!"_

" _Show us your belly!"_

Although the city folk knew better than to come too close to the king's horse – besides which, the closed-face ranks of the Royal Guard were too intimidating to broach – Flora still felt herself pressing reflexively back against Alistair. The noise, the heat, the crowd of excited faces and open mouths - all melded together into a swell of overwhelming stimulation. Grateful for her haughty, impassive Cousland features; Flora relied on the natural coolness of her expression to disguise the anxiety that lay beneath.

Even the famous Cousland ambiguity was not potent enough to fool Alistair. He tightened his grip about Flora's waist, ducking forward to nuzzle his face against the back of her head.

"Not much longer, darling," he murmured, kissing the pale curve of her ear. "They've closed the entire Square of the Bride to the public. We're almost there, see?"

Sure enough, the vast staggered spire of Ferelden's largest Chantry towered above the rooftops ahead, raised high like a cleric's chiding finger. Alistair let the reins rest and used his strong thighs to keep himself astride in the saddle as he raised a hand to acknowledge the crowds. There was a swell of sound in response; bright faces with their mouths open calling out to their king.

" _Theirin! Theirin!"_

Suddenly proud of her best friend for embracing a role that he had once so vehemently rejected; Flora sat up a little straighter on the saddle, feeling Alistair's arm tighten around her waist in response to her movement.

 _If he can do it, I can do it._

As they turned into the wide promenade that led into the Square of the Bride, Flora twisted her head back towards the crowd. Forcing the natural coolness from her face, she smiled at them; hoping that it wasn't coming across as a maniacal leer.

From the immediate calls and delight that followed; it was clear that her smile had not offended. Alistair snorted, pressing his lips swiftly against the back of her head.

"Either you stopped glowering, or you just flashed them," he whispered, grinning slyly into her ear. "Which was it, baby?"

"Oh, _definitely_ just flashed them," she replied, solemnly. "And they all think you're a lucky man."

Alistair laughed out loud, lifting the reins once again as they passed into the Square of the Bride.

"You can say that again, sweetheart."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Just a brief little chapter before the coronation/wedding rehearsal because I have a work thing tomorrow!

Alistair definitely has some pretty inaccurate information about the Nevarran death cults and their practices – but I thought that would be pretty realistic, considering the unreliability of information and difficulty of communication at the time.

When Flora was Warden-Commander, she had other things to worry about – such as the rapidly approaching Darkspawn army and ARCHDEMON! – so riding within large crowds didn't faze her at all. Now that she can fully focus on the huge mass of people all staring at her, it's a little disconcerting.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you! I appreciate every one!


	49. The Wedding Rehearsal

Chapter 49: The Wedding Rehearsal

The sounds of the crowds died away as the high stone buildings reared up to either side; the Square of the Bride was home to some of the tallest structures in the city. The Chantry administrative offices ran along one side, decorated with a series of relief panels depicting the life, death and redemption of Andraste. Opposite, the Templar headquarters rose, stern and without décor, save for the flecked-sword banner hanging from a dozen iron fixings along the face of the building.

On the far side of the Square, Ferelden's largest Chantry was built atop a raised stone terrace; accessible by flights of parallel steps. It was built in sympathetic manner to other Chantries within the region, but on a far vaster scale. Three towers loomed overhead, their shadows long enough to cloak the entire Square in gloom when the sun was high. The embroidered Chantry sunburst hung down from various metal fixings, each lofty standard the height of a merchant's warehouse. A great circular stained glass window faced east, the shards of dyed crystal gleaming with a prismatic sheen in the morning sunlight.

It had been months since Flora had last been here – even when she and Alistair had been residing in the palace; she had preferred to use the smaller chapel within the castle itself. Now, gazing up at the vast, imposing edifice of Ferelden's oldest and grandest Chantry, she realised quite _how_ large and imposing it was. Recalling how she had been alarmed by the size of the crowds gathering on the streets, Flora felt as though she was seeing the city with fresh eyes.

 _I suppose, before, the final battle loomed so large that everything else faded into insignificance. Now that the Blight is over, I see the world for what it is._

 _This city is large. Everything is so tall._

They dismounted on the cobbles before the great twin flights of stairs leading upwards to the Chantry entrance. As the party began to climb the fifty four basalt steps, retainers led their horses away to some discreet stabling. The sun continued to beam in radiant approval from overhead, and by the thirtieth step, Alistair felt beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Teagan thinks it's going to be a hot summer," he called upwards to Flora, who was plodding determinedly several steps ahead of him. "Feels like it."

" _Threety-two, threety-three –_ oh, that means a good harvest? Lots of crops?"

"Sweetheart, are you still fretting about people starving in the autumn?"

Flora shot him a gloomy look of confirmation over her shoulder. Alistair took several steps at once, catching up to his companion easily. Sliding an arm around her waist, he kissed her tenderly on the cheek and climbed the remainder of the steps at her side.

A familiar trio of figures stood beside the carved oak panels of the entrance doors. Flora beamed, delighted to see Wynne, Leliana and Zevran conversing quietly as they waited.

"Leliana," Eamon murmured in place of greeting, as the bard also discarded the usual pleasantries and advanced towards them. "Have the arrangements been made?"

Leliana nodded, fluttering an elegant hand towards the doors.

"All is as you requested, Arl Eamon. I'll perform the role of the Grand Cleric for today. Will you stay for your part?"

The arl shook his head, gesturing to where Teagan was just ascending the last of the steps.

"My brother will take my role for today," Eamon replied, wryly. "I remember the last coronation all too well; I need not a practice."

"Good morning, _amors_ ," purred Zevran meanwhile, advancing towards Flora with the merry eyes of a rogue. "A kiss from the blushing bride?"

"I'm not blushing," replied Flora, pressing her lips obligingly to the elf's tattooed cheek. "I'm _burning._ It's so hot on the east coast. Oh, you have a – _here_."

She reached up, touching her finger to the edge of Zevran's ear; intercepting the progress of a small, wispy-legged spider as it descended from some dusty overhead eaves. Letting it drop gently onto the stone terrace, Flora smiled at the elf; then shuffled towards Leliana's imperious beckon. The bard, who was scandalised by the prospect of tomorrow's ceremony being marred by unsightly sunburn, was eager for the pallid young Cousland to get inside the gloom of the Chantry.

As Leliana followed in Flora's wake, she leaned forward to whisper in the elf's ear.

"And _breathe, mon cher."_

Zevran exhaled in a rush, shaking his head with a small growl of frustration. Leliana darted a quick glance over her shoulder, shooting him a look as though to say: _even now? A sunset before she marries another man?_

 _Even now_ , the Antivan thought, defiantly. _Permit me my foolish fancy._

Meanwhile, Flora had stopped still within the entrance to the Chantry, one booted foot over the threshold. The elongated space inside was even higher and deeper than she had remembered; twin lines of granite columns thicker than the oldest tree trunks running from door to transept. Andraste's eternal flame blazed at the far end, set into a sunken copper trough so that the writhing tongues of fire appeared to rise miraculously from the tiles themselves. High above, patterned glass windows high in the vaulted ceiling cast imperious patterns on the flagstones.

Yet all this Flora remembered, for it had been such when she had last visited the Grand Chantry. Instead – just as when she had stepped into the Royal bedchamber after Alistair's redecoration – her eye was drawn to that which was _different_.

Just as in the entrance hall of the castle, a multitude of familiar banners now dangled from the great columns. The colours of Highever hung adjacent to the ancient arms of Denerim, and every other banner was the conjoined lion and laurel; commemorating the union between Theirin and Cousland. Long vines of laurel had been woven through the back of every pew, their elongated oval leaves pale and soft as fresh mint. Tall braziers had been placed at intervals, crimson ribbons wrapped around their bronze supports. More scarlet drapery hung from the alter; cut into slender skeins to emulate the token once carried by Flora's armies. Each tallow candle had been replaced with a luxuriant equivalent moulded from beeswax, radiating warm, honeyed puddles of light across the basalt tiles.

Voices called out to one another, echoing up to the lofty murals painted on the walls. A pair of Chantry brothers scuttled between hanging incense gourds; the first polishing and the second refilling. More servants wound the final skeins of crimson ribbon into place, chattering in excited undertones. High above, affixed by some ingenious means, long strands of laurel had been draped across the vaulted parapets. Interspersed with crimson roses, they formed an organic curtain overhead, turning the light filtering in from overhead into a pale, milky green.

Flora stood as though she had been paralysed; her eyes wide with sheer disbelief. Alistair came to a halt just beside her, an astonished grunt escaping his throat.

"By Andraste's holy bosom," he breathed, receiving a swift elbow from Leliana for the profanity. "You mentioned some decoration, uncle, but I wasn't expecting _this."_

Teagan laughed, letting the door swing shut with a low, muffled thud in his wake.

"Does it meet with your approval?" he asked, mildly. "I know neither of you are inclined to fuss and ornamentation, but we've got representatives from all over Thedas attending tomorrow. Each one ready to gauge Ferelden's post-Blight capacity."

Flora, who in the latter weeks of the Blight had worn her hair constantly in a symbolic – immediately recognisable- crimson ponytail, understood full-well the importance of _putting on a show._ She shot a quick glance across at Teagan, still awed by the Grand Chantry's transformation.

"Surely all this isn't for me and Alistair? It's too much!"

"For the union of Cousland and Theirin: the two most powerful dynasties in the nation?" Leliana interrupted, stepping forward to gesture widely; fingers curling towards minor details not obvious on first appraisal. "Heroes of the realm both? _Non,_ it is not too much."

Every pew contained a stiff parchment card depicting a different cost of arms – from the crossed spears of Vael to the silver lion's head of Valmont. These were to denote where the various dignitaries of Thedas would sit – ranked by order of allegiance to Ferelden, rather than by prestige alone. The Marcher representatives – with whom Eamon hoped to forge new trade routes – were placed front and centre.

Flora tilted her head back, inhaling the fragrant smell wafting from the roses and feeling Alistair's anxious eyes on her. The king knew well that Flora's Herring-instilled sensibilities would be incredulous at such expense and show for something so uncomplicated as a marriage; which could be performed simply by expressing and consummating such a bond before the Maker.

 _It is an expense. But remember – this is for show. It's to show everyone that Ferelden has got a future._

"It's lovely," Flora said softly, smiling at Teagan and bowing her head. "What an honour, to be married in such beautiful place. Thank you."

Alistair exhaled in slight relief, his fingers reaching out to twine affectionately into her own.

"Right," continued the bann, glancing at the position of the sun through the great stained glass windows. "The marriage ceremony will come before the coronation, so that you can be crowned king and queen together after being made man and wife- "

There came a loud sniff from somewhere amongst the bann's small audience. Teagan broke off, gazing across at Alistair in surprise. The king went a minor shade of pink, slightly embarrassed at his own sentiment even as his eyes welled up.

"Sorry," he muttered, as Leliana cooed under her breath and advanced forwards with a silken handkerchief. "I just – _anyway._ Keep explaining, don't mind me."

Flora squeezed her best friend's palm tightly against her own, feeling him immediately return the firm pressure.

" – after that's finished, you'll proceed down the aisle and emerge at the top of the steps; where the crowds will be gathered in the Square of the Bride. You'll return to the palace for the wedding feast and celebrations, and then – _ah -_ "

The elf gave a little cackle, dark eyes lighting up.

"Then you'll be put into your marital bed together," he murmured, snickering like a schoolboy. "And perform for your audience."

Flora darted a quick glance up at her lover, just in time to see him swallow, hard. She gave his hand another reassuring little squeeze, feeling a corresponding pressure on her fingers.

Teagan coughed and continued, addressing his words to the great statue of Andraste at the far end of the aisle.

"I've put a stop to some of the bawdier traditions. Don't worry, Alistair, nobody will try and break into the bedchamber with a cup of _bride's broth_ to fortify you. Flora, they won't be pulling your clothes off in an attempt to steal your garter!"

"Damned right," muttered Alistair, bristling defensively even as Flora's jaw dropped. "I'll put up with the witnessing to make sure the baby can't ever be named _bastard,_ but that's _it._ And if anyone tries to pull Flo's clothes off, they'll be _pulling_ their sword from out of their own- "

" _We are in the house of the Maker!"_ interjected Leliana, as a Chantry sister squeaked nearby.

Teagan nodded, with a little grimace of sympathy.

"Aye, lad. I don't blame you. Anyway, we should get underway with this practice – I'll stand where Eamon stands for now, and Leliana can be our Grand Cleric. Finian appears to be delayed – would somebody be Fergus until he arrives?"

Zevran raised his hand with a game grin, always desiring to be involved.

A short time later, the assorted Chantry sisters and brothers had withdrawn to the chapels and side-chambers, and a stillness fell over the great, hallowed hall. Alistair, Leliana and Teagan stood near the alter on a specially raised step at the front of the Chantry; the light from Andraste's flame flickering across their faces.

Alistair was caught between anticipation and frustration that this was _only_ a simulacrum of marriage. If it had been up to him alone, he would have wedded his mistress the very day he brought her back from Revanloch. Teagan was busy running through the chronology of proceedings in his head, though the bann was reasonably sure that Leliana would not allow him to disorder events. The Orlesian bard seemed determined to prove her efficiency; perhaps desiring to garner some international attention.

Leliana did not quite dare to don the lofty helm of a senior church official, but she had draped a violet-tinted _surplice_ over her lay-sister robes and bore an additional air of haughty eminence.

" _Florence!"_ she called, projecting her voice with bardic skill directly down the central aisle. "You have to wait until the drumming starts. Don't start walking just yet."

At the very back of the Chantry, beside the great wooden doors, Flora squinted down at Leliana's diminutive figure. She was waiting alongside Zevran, who was tapping his fingers somewhat agitatedly against a carved stone relief.

"What did she say?"

"' _Wait until the drumming starts to start walking',"_ Zevran repeated, whose sharper ears had heard the bard's enunciation.

Flora blinked at him for a moment, nonplussed.

" _Drumming?_ Whaa- "

The elf returned her confusion with a shrug, one eyebrow rising.

"I don't know, _carina."_

Flora fell silent, her brow furrowed. Teagan, Alistair and Leliana appeared to be deep in conversation at the far end of the Chantry; king listening with bemused attention as the lay-sister gesticulated enthusiastically.

Unable to hear their discussion, Flora turned her attention to Zevran. The elf was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, humming under his breath. She reached out a gentle finger to touch the fine, silver-blond tendrils of hair, which now reached partway down the elf's back.

"Your hair is getting long," she observed, twisting one lock around her finger and watching the pink nail go white. "You could wear it in a plait if you wanted. A nice fishtail braid."

The elf grinned at her, his amusement discoloured only by the faintest shadow.

"Will you braid it for me later, _mi sirenita_? I find my fingers awfully _clumsy_ in recent times."

Flora crossed her eyes at him, knowing full well that this was an untruth. The elf had the quickest hands of all their companions; his gestures swift as a salmon darting through patches of dappled sunlight. Zevran let out a little cackle, lifting his eyes to the heavy vines of laurel suspended from the ceiling.

"Putting on quite a show, aren't they? I hope you're ready to be centre-stage, _nena."_

Flora shrugged a shoulder, her stomach letting loose a plaintive grumble. She dropped a hand to her belly, rubbing her palm soothingly over the plump mound.

"I feel like I've been _centre-stage_ since we were at South Reach," the young Cousland replied, mildly. "I'll have to grow used to it."

The elf smiled back at her, a touch wistful. Flora, willing her stomach to stop grumbling, focused instead on the wide, basalt-tiled central aisle that she would soon be traversing.

"It's so _long._ Am I supposed to _walk_ the whole way down? It's going to take ages. Can't I… jog?"

Zevran snickered, dark cat-eyes flickering reflexively towards a nearby movement in the shadows. A pair of drummers, their instruments suspended by straps around their necks, emerged with sticks held aloft; clearly waiting for some signal from the distant bard.

"Ah, as _amusing_ a sight as that would be, _mi amor,_ I fear that it would not be permitted."

Flora scowled, then jumped a little as a slow, measured drumbeat began; wooden stick striking taut leather in a formal, almost militaristic pulse. The sound echoed to the vaulted ceiling, amplified by the acoustics of the centuries-old building. From the raised altar, Leliana made an impatient, imperious gesture with her hand, a clear signal to proceed.

"Alright, my dear _hermanita,"_ murmured Zevran, as Flora continued to gawp with naked astonishment at the drummers. "Are you ready for a little role play?"

"Yes," she replied, only half-listening. "What is 'role-play'?"

" _Excelente._ I shall be the wicked sinner confessing my lusty escapades, and you can be the sweet young Chantry sister, who can't help but be _fascinated_ by my sexual prowess."

Flora eyed him dubiously and the elf cackled, relenting and offering her his arm to take.

"I jest, _mi florita._ I shall, of course, be the Teyrn of Highever, ready to give away my lovely little sister."

She slid her arm through his offered elbow, curling her fingers into his leather-clad sleeve.

The drummers continued their stately rhythm as Flora and Zevran proceeded down the aisle, passing pews reserved for some of Thedas' most prominent figureheads. Zevran, who had the more musical ear, kept their tread in time to the slow beat of the drums.

"Don't charge off like a ship in full sail," he murmured from the corner of his mouth. "Patience; Alistair is not going to _leave_ if you don't get there soon enough."

"I'm starving," Flora mumbled in reply. "The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can have some lunch. Wait, did I hide a _snack_ in my tunic?"

At the front of the Chantry, Alistair shifted from foot to foot; his own stomach giving a rather ominous rumble.

"Is that hunger or nerves, Alistair?" Leliana asked, smiling even as she kept her eyes trained hawk-like on the two figures approaching down the central aisle. The sun was shifting slowly into its highest stance; rays of jewel-coloured light beaming down onto the dark basalt flagstones.

"A bit of both," the king replied honestly, forcing himself to take his eyes from his mistress and look at the bard. "I can't believe I'm going to _marry_ Flo tomorrow. She's going to be my wife – my very _own_ wife – and nobody will ever be able to part us. I've dreamed of this for… longer than I'd care to admit, uncle."

A soft laugh escaped Teagan's throat, the bann's mouth curling into a rueful smile.

"Only one-and-twenty years of age, and desperate to wed," he murmured, wryly. "When I was your age, marriage was the _furthest_ thing from my mind. I was more concerned with horses and comely stable-lasses."

"I wager you'd have felt different if you'd known a girl like her," countered Alistair, confidently.

Teagan paused for a moment, then let out a soft bark of laughter.

"Aye, lad. You're probably not too far from the mark, there."

Meanwhile, Leliana had also become a little distracted thanks to a servant placing a bundle of linen-wrapped objects discreetly on the bench of the Royal pew. When she turned her gaze back to the central aisle, a squawk of disbelief flew from between her lips like an un-caged songbird.

" _Flora!_ You cannot _snack_ on your journey down the aisle!"

Those waiting beside Andraste's eternal flame returned their eyes to the middle of the Chantry. Sure enough, Flora was sitting in a pew about halfway between doorway and transept, munching contentedly on a pear while Zevran tried to cajole her into continuing.

"The baby _hungers,"_ Flora called back earnestly through a mouthful of fruit. "I have a maternal obligation to feed it."

"Lel, the baby needs to eat," an anxious Alistair repeated, turning his gaze on Leliana as they stood near the altar. "Maybe we should pause for lunch."

The bard's nostrils flared almost the width of the Chantry, her eyes like focused darts of disapproval.

" _Ahem!_ This is the girl whom _I personally witnessed_ eating six bread rolls, four apples and an entire cauldron of cooked eggs when breaking her fast this morning. The baby is plenty nourished; it's your _betrothed_ who is a slave to the unnatural demands of her stomach!"

A proud Alistair beamed at his mistress as she pushed herself upright from the bench, reaching out for Zevran's arm so that they could continue their journey down the aisle.

"I appreciate a girl with a healthy appetite," the king murmured, fondly.

Finally, after much humming of disapproval from Leliana, Flora and Zevran arrived at the foot of the three shallow steps that led up to the central platform. The drumbeat escalated into a loud, crescendo roll and then abruptly ended; the lingering sound echoing about the vaulted eaves.

Alistair began instinctively to head down, and then froze as Leliana let out a hiss of instruction.

" _Arrêtez!_ You cannot just go and _embrace_ her. There are traditions that must be followed!"

Alistair let out a small huff of impatience, but allowed himself to be led back up beside Teagan. Leliana, resplendent in her borrowed mantle of authority, cleared her throat.

"Alright, 'Fergus' – are you _listening?"_

Zevran dragged his attention reluctantly from a pair of slender young Chantry sisters, smiling with brilliant white teeth up at the increasingly irate lay sister.

" _Sí._ I mean, _'aye'._ I, Teyrn of Highever, am here."

"You must first remove the fur from around Flora's shoulders – no, it is an _imaginary_ fur for today – and let it fall to the floor. Then you kiss your sister and pass her to 'Eamon'. _Not on the mouth, fiend!"_

Flora, who was caught between amusement and bemusement, laughed as Zevran changed course at the last minute; planting his lips on her cheek. Turning, she saw Teagan extending a hand towards her, and went dutifully to take it. Leliana nodded, gesturing for Teagan to lead Flora up the three steps towards an impatient Alistair.

"Now, Alistair – stop, you can't just _grab_ your bride like the choice cut of meat from a roasted boar! 'Eamon' will lead your bride to you, and you need to place your own 'fur' around her shoulders."

Alistair's brow furrowed, blinking down at the Chantry robe which had suddenly appeared in his hands courtesy of a hovering servant. He gazed down at Flora in perplexion, even as he did as he was told and draped the robe about her neck.

"I don't understand," he started, brow furrowed. "What's the point of this _fur-swapping?"_

Leliana opened her mouth to clarify; but to everybody's surprise, Flora piped up with her own explanation.

"It's from when Andraste gets married to Maf -Maferon," she said, mangling the latter's name. "She wore furs from her family home into the marital bedchamber; his Mabari didn't recognise the scent and almost attacked her. So she had to abandon all her old furs and wear the furs of Maferon's house. We used to tell the story in Herring."

Leliana nodded in slow astonishment, her finely plucked eyebrows lodged within her hairline.

"It seems that the old Alamarri traditions are kept alive in the smallest villages of Ferelden" she murmured, stepping forwards in preparation to emulate the Grand Cleric's role. "You are quite right, _ma petite._ Except, it's _Maferath."_

"I'm going to sweat like a pig," Flora added, with gloomy resignation. "Who wears _fur_ in the summer?"

Slowly but surely, the audience in the Chantry was beginning to swell. Curious sisters and minor brothers lurked in the shadows of the thick basalt columns; Cousland retainers perched themselves in the pews and Royal Guardsmen lined the far wall. All eyes were trained on the odd collection of figures gathered at the transept of the Cathedral; king, mistress, elf emulating teyrn, bann representing arl, and a lowly lay sister clad in the elegant mantle of a senior priestess.

"So after you both confirm your identity – and make sure you get your names in the _correct_ order this time, Flora – you will exchange rings," Leliana continued, adjusting the angle of the lofty hat. "Flora, make sure that _Mairyn's Star_ is on your other hand."

Flora, who had been mouthing _Florence Chastity Popelyn Ragenhilda_ to herself, suddenly looked stricken.

"I haven't got you a ring," she breathed to Alistair, wide-eyed. "I didn't realise I was supposed to, I'll go to the market now- "

Leliana reached out, letting a reassuring hand settle on Flora's elbow as the latter quivered in distress.

"You didn't even know you were _getting married_ until three days ago, _ma crevette._ Do not worry; Bann Teagan is taking responsibility for the rings."

Teagan nodded in gruff confirmation, and Flora relaxed a fraction. Alistair smiled at her, surreptitiously squeezing her fingers tightly within his own.

"Finally," Leliana continued, impatient to rehearse the more ritualistic coronation. "Arl Eamon will bind your hands together with a leather strap. A symbolic representation of your Maker-blessed bond."

" _Mi sirenita_ should be used to that," purred Zevran, unable to resist. "It won't be the first time she's had her hands tied before Alistair."

" _We are in the Maker's house!"_ Leliana hissed malevolently as the king went a deep shade of pink. "Keep your lechery to yourself."

"You're meant to be Fergus," Flora added solemnly, trying not to laugh. "Try and stay in character."

Zevran assumed an equally sombre expression, then flashed her a little wink.

A lay brother came forward at the bard's gesture, clutching a long wooden case. Inside the case rested a number of assorted objects – a long silver-handled candlestick, an apple, a copy of the Chant; amongst various others. These were meant to represent the regalia of the kings of Ferelden; the authentic collection currently resting ceremoniously in the castle treasury.

Patiently, Teagan guided Alistair and Flora through the ritual-laden coronation itself. Alistair, as king regnant, would take the main role in proceedings – it would be he who would be presented with Calenhad's sword and Andraste's sceptre. Flora had merely to hold the Orb of Fionne – represented in this instance by a plump crimson apple – and a caged wren, which she was a little nervous about.

"Why does it matter that I hold out my _right_ hand for the bloody sword?" complained Alistair, whose patience was wearing thin. "Will the Grand Cleric refuse to crown me if I get it the wrong way round?"

"Your brother and father both managed it well enough," countered Teagan, sympathetic to a degree but also aware of the importance of adhering to tradition. "Come on, lad. You can do it."

A guilty Flora, who had eaten half of the 'Orb of Fionne', sought to deflect attention from herself.

"What's a sceptre?" she asked, eyeing the silver-handled taper meant to represent this particular piece of regalia.

"A stick to beat your enemies with," replied Zevran, with a yawn. "Used to fend off would-be usurpers."

Flora's brow furrowed in confusion, and she looked to Teagan for clarification. The bann let out a sigh under his breath, aware that the rehearsal was dragging on far longer than anyone had anticipated.

"Right. Let's run through it one more time. You alright with that, poppet?"

This latter query was directed to Flora, who was busy shifting her weight onto her stronger leg. Her bound knee was complaining bitterly after several hours spent standing on it; she could feel the leather strapping beginning to loosen around the weak joint.

"I'm fine," she replied stoically, avoiding Alistair's suspicious stare. "I'm afraid that _somebody_ has eaten all of the Orb of Fionne, though."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol poor Leliana, I feel sorry for her having to wrangle this lot into place! Between Alistair's impatience, Zevran's lechery and Flora stopping to snack every thirty seconds… hahaha. I think this coronation-wedding is going to be how Leliana really makes a name for herself within the Chantry.

Is it obvious I love stuff like this, haha? I finished the game and felt a little ENRAGED about getting no big coronation/wedding scene! So I decided to write my own, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	50. The Gwaren Restoration Committee

Chapter 50: The Gwaren Restoration Committee

An hour later and the rehearsal was finally finished, the sun just beginning on its leisurely afternoon descent. It had lost none of its brilliance during its tenure in the sky; baking the mud between the flagstones and prompting the people of Denerim to unbutton their shirts and roll up the arms of their tunics. Still, even this uncharacteristically warm Solace afternoon could not stop them working with _especial_ keenness, eager to finish the day's labour and begin tomorrow's coronation day holiday early. The taverns had already thrown open their doors; the more reputable dwellings housing musicians that played excerpts from Leliana's bardic epic _The Lion and the Light._ The _less_ reputable establishments echoed with the explicit version of _Warden Flora, we adore her,_ and other bawdy songs that had sprung up based on the reputedly _vigorous_ bedroom proclivities of their youthful king and his solemn-faced mistress.

The only citizens not partaking in these celebrations were the refugees that had formed the so-called _restoration committees;_ the groups that were determined to return to their devastated homelands and see them rebuilt. These gatherings of men and women took place in tavern basements and vacant guild-halls, trying to get as much as possible accomplished before tomorrow's holiday. They were assisted in their efforts by the presence of their local liege lord, who would be responsible for coordinating the response and securing funding. Bann Teagan had gone straight from the Grand Chantry to the meeting of men and women from the arling of Redcliffe. Eamon's _demesne_ had not suffered extensively from the Blight, but there were a handful of villages on the south-eastern border of his territory that had been destroyed.

Likewise, Arl Leonas, the Bann of Calon and Bann Reginalda had each gone to oversee proceedings in their own restoration committees. Leonas' familial seat of South Reach had been ransacked by the horde to build their siege weaponry, and the new general was quietly determined to see it restored.

The only restoration committee who had no noble patron to oversee its efforts, was the southern teyrnir of Gwaren. Loghain was now co-leading the Fereldan Wardens, and his daughter – having lost all noble claim after the attainting of the Mac Tir name – resided under heavy guard within Denerim's noble district.

Even if either Mac Tir had taken an interest in overseeing the rebuilding of Gwaren, the residents were determined to reject their efforts. Gwaren had been one of the earliest provinces swarmed by the Darkspawn, and its people could not forgive the utter inaction of both former queen and regent in the face of their plight. Therefore this committee laboured alone in its efforts to organise materials and funding, with no noble patron to oversee efforts or campaign on its behalf. The two main sources of income for the town were its dock and its fishing industry; both utterly devastated.

The mayor of Gwaren, a man so short and stocky it was rumoured he had dwarven ancestry, was currently listening to a litany of problems recited by the master of the fishermen's guild. Without a patron, the Gwaren committee had not managed to secure respectable premises to meet, and so they were gathered in an abandoned storeroom in the warehouse district. Fortunately, it was a sunny day and the gaps in the rafters did not matter overmuch; though the rats scuttling along the borders of the room did somewhat distract from proceedings.

"First problem is, we can't get nothin' back down south," piped up Tadric, the bearded fisherman who was the most outspoken of his peers. "It's too difficult to get materials over the hills, and 'alf our ships have sailed off to the Marches."

"With half of our people," chimed in a sad-faced merchant, fingering his moustache.

"And they've _took_ everything they could get their hands on," added a flush-cheeked fishwife, who had lost her husband during the Blight. "The jetties and piers have fallen into the sea. Our nets are gone. The lobster pots scattered to the corners of the Amaranthine Ocean."

The mayor banged a tankard on the table, irritably. They had agreed to try and retain a sense of _positivity and optimism;_ so far, nobody had stuck to their own rule. The table, being uneven, wobbled in precarious manner.

"So, first priorities are to secure ships and wood," he repeated with a nod to his scrawny adolescent son; who was serving as scribe. "If we can get at least one or two piers back in operation before summer-end, we might have a chance of gettin' some autumn trade."

"Because _ships_ are such an easy thing to come by," muttered the merchant, still pulling at the drooping ends of his moustache. "And the nobles own all the trees. It's _poachin'_ if we just start choppin' em down."

Just then, there was a slight commotion from the entrance. Booted metallic footsteps echoed about the crumbling stone walls of the warehouse, and a troop of a half-dozen Royal Guard proceeded to make entrance. They formed two ranks at either side of the door; pikes held straight and aloft.

" – going to be _late_ for your wedding dress fitting _,"_ hissed an irate Orlesian voice from the passageway. "You'll be wearing a baggy _sack_ tomorrow, and have nobody to blame but yourself."

"When I was a child in Herring, I wore a sack for a _year,_ actually, _"_ came an indignant, northern-tinged reply, the accent deceptively low-born considering the noble blood of its progenitor. "I can wear one at my wedding if needs be."

" _I despair!"_

The assembled citizens of Gwaren gaped at the door and then at each other, utterly confused. However, those that had been at the refugee's feast several weeks prior soon recognised that distinctive accent.

"Quick!" hissed the mayor, shoving his chair back and nearly falling over in his haste. "On your feet! Get up! It's the lady Cousland."

Moments later, the lady herself arrived; shooting a slightly bemused glance at the ranks of Royal Guard standing at either side of the entrance. She was accompanied by an irate redhead clad in lay-sister robes, and a grinning blond elf with fading tattoos scribed on his cheeks.

"Hello," said Flora, eyeing the eclectic mix of merchants, fishermen and peasants gathered before her; who were half-risen from their chairs, too stunned even to bow. "My name is- "

" _The Hero of Ferelden!"_ breathed the fishwife, a flush of disbelief rising to her cheeks.

"Florence Cousland," corrected Flora, slightly nonplussed. "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. We were rehearsing the wedding, and _someone_ ate the Orb of Fionne, and then – anyway. It doesn't matter. I _hate_ being late."

The mayor ventured a question, his hand creeping upwards like a shy initiate in a Templar classroom.

"Late, my lady?"

Flora nodded, advancing further into the decrepit warehouse, paying no heed to the rotten floorboards or cobwebbed rafters. There had been rats in the Circle tower – the resident cats were lazy and didn't venture much above the fifth floor – and so the rodents scuttling about the warehouse walls did not bother her.

"For your meeting," she said patiently, as a bearded man clad in a much-patched tunic scuttled to provide a chair for her. "It took ages to find out where you were. We got lost."

Pleased, Flora sat down with a little exhalation of air, reaching to tighten the loose strapping about her weak knee. The fishermen and traders of Gwaren darted small glances at each other from the corners of their eyes, uncertain how to proceed. They sunk back into their seats, one at a time; excited whispers quickly falling to a hush as she spoke once again.

"I want to help, if you'll let me," Flora said, blunt and without preamble. "With Gwaren."

There followed a small, astonished silence, a tentative and uncertain flush of hope appearing on the face of the mayor.

"What – what do you mean, Lady Cousland?"

"I know you have no one to support you," she continued, patiently. "You've lost your teyrn."

"Aye, my lady," replied the mayor, the words emerging slow and tentative. "With the fall of the Mac Tirs, we have no liege lord and no voice in the Landsmeet. Any assistance you could offer us would be _much_ appreciated."

"Well, we fishing communities ought to stick together," replied Flora, immediately. "Even though Herring and Skingle are _arch-rivals_ , whenever Skingle has a problem with wreckers – or Herring loses a boat to a storm – we help each other out. Did you say you needed wood and ships?"

The mayor nodded mutedly, his eyes wide. Flora smiled, absurdly pleased that she was able to offer some genuine assistance – perhaps make a difference to the lives of these unfortunate refugees.

 _I might not be able to heal this man's cough or mend that old lady's linen-bandaged arm. But I can still help them._

"My brothers have promised to assist me," she said, stifling a grimace of discomfort as the baby swung a gleefully malicious foot into her kidneys. "Highever wasn't Blighted, and they have wood to spare. There's a whole host of ships at Amaranthine, where my other brother holds tenure."

"And they would be willing to assist us?" asked the mayor warily, not quite daring to let the hope show in his tone. He was well aware of the old rivalry between Cousland and Mac Tir; a mutual mistrust reflected by the history of antagonism between their respective teyrnirs.

"Of course," murmured the Orlesian bard from her position leaning watchfully against the door frame. "Gwaren was once Ferelden's third largest economy, after Denerim and Highever. It must be restored, for the good of the nation."

"I believe that you will end up with _more_ than a few offers of assistance," added the tattooed elf wryly from the opposite side of the entrance. "The Cousland menfolk will naturally assist their sister; and nobody in the Landsmeet will be able to resist that lovely, earnest face, especially when it belongs to a _hero of the realm._ She need only make a request on your behalf and a dozen promises of aid will be thrust upon her. Not least from the king himself, who can refuse her nothing."

The dawning hope on the mayor's face at last began to spread to those around him. The people of Gwaren had suffered perhaps in even _greater_ degree than most of Ferelden. Like many others, they had lost land, livelihoods and loved ones with the arrival of the Darkspawn horde; but they had also struggled on as refugees for almost a year with no assistance from either Mac Tir.

Changing the subject, Flora leaned forwards on the table and dropped her voice.

"Tell me," she whispered, conspiratorially. "What kind of fish do you get in the _southern_ waters at this time of year?"

"Here we go on the fish tangent," Zevran murmured to Leliana quietly; the bard nodded and rolled her eyes.

"This time of year, we'd get a lot o' copper bream," one man offered after a tentative moment of silence – _who was going to respond to the Hero of Ferelden?_ "An' the lobster pots'd be full."

He was rewarded with such an uncharacteristic beam of delight that others began to pipe up, selfishly desiring a similar reaction from their future queen.

"Green-tailed pike, they'd be swarmin' round the legs of the southern pier."

"Only 'cause your Berne used to bait the waters there! Otherwise they'd be clumpin' in _my_ traps at the riverhead."

"Them whelk-fish should think 'emselves lucky they aren't getting caught up in our nets this summer. They'll be runnin' rampant."

Flora listened in fascination, her chin propped in her hand. Eventually, Leliana – who had been experiencing traumatic visions of the bride advancing down the aisle clad in a _literal sack_ – cleared her throat, pointedly.

"Alright," Flora said obediently, realising that the bard's nerves were wearing thin. "So, we need wood and ships. I'll speak to my brothers, after tomorrow."

The mayor nodded, aware of two dozen pointed stares prickling between his shoulder-blades. Flora had just risen from her chair, using a hand to propel her swollen stomach upwards.

"Ah – lady Cousland?"

She turned her pale, questioning eyes on him, searching as silvered lanterns.

"I think we're all in agreement, my lady... I know it's the _king,_ by rights, who awards things like this, but… we all _desire_ it."

Flora watched the nervous man shifting from foot to foot. The entire gathered company had fallen silent; their hopeful faces were turned on hers.

"Would… would you consider becoming our new teyrna? We ain't got anyone in charge, and – and you've shown that you care. Noone else has come lookin' for us."

Flora was astonished; she had – rather naively – not considered the possibility of such a request. Out of fairness, she forced herself to mull over it, grateful for her face's neutrality.

"You honour me with this request," she whispered, bowing her head in their general direction. "And… if I wasn't becoming queen tomorrow, I would agree gladly."

 _Maybe,_ she thought to herself, remembering how quickly she had spurned the arling of Amaranthine. _Possibly._

The mayor nodded with a defeated slump; he had suspected as much. Flora gazed at them a moment, thoughtful.

"What about… Lady Anora?" she suggested, softly. "She was raised in Gwaren, wasn't she?"

"And did nothin' to save it during the Blight, she were so under the thumb of her father," replied a fishwife, indignantly. "She left us to be overrun by the Darkspawn. She ain't even been to see us."

Flora thought for a moment, biting on her lip anxiously. In her practical Herring mind, Anora was the most logical choice to be the new leader of Gwaren – it was the Mac Tir family seat, she had experience of governance and knowledge of Gwaren's unique trade patterns.

Yet from the creased brows and mutterings before her, it seemed that there was a long way to go before the people would countenance the return of their disgraced local dynasty.

"What if she came here – to one of these meetings – and made amends?" Flora suggested at last, one hand resting lightly on her stomach.

"It'd have to be a _lot_ of amends," said the mayor, eventually. "The name Mac Tir is spoken as a _blasphemy_ more often than not, nowadays."

"And the dynasty has been attainted," Leliana murmured softly from near the doorway. "Alistair would have to reverse the attainder to grant Anora any sort of authority."

Flora grunted; she was not overly worried that Alistair would refuse her.

"We'd rather have you as our _teyrna,"_ repeated a merchant, slightly sulkily. "Lass with a sensible head on her shoulders, and one who understands the workins' of a _piscicultural_ economy."

Flora bowed her head apologetically, deciding to pay Anora a visit in the immediate future.

"I don't need a title to be concerned with Gwaren's welfare," she said softly, letting her pale gaze meander from one anxious face to the next. "Alistair and I will rebuild Gwaren, as we will _all_ the villages and towns destroyed during the Blight."

The people looked at Flora with bright new hope on their faces, and this triggered the sudden emergence of a memory, rising like flotsam on the surface of her mind.

 _It's like when I was the Warden-Commander. The soldiers used to look at me the same way._

" _Ma petite,"_ murmured Leliana quietly, and Flora decided that the bard had been patient long enough. As she pushed herself to her feet, there was a great scraping of chair legs against wood as those present hurried to stand.

"When is your next meeting?" she asked hastily, seeing that the mayor was preparing to deliver an effusive - and unnecessary, in Flora's opinion- speech of gratitude.

"In a week," replied the mayor, wide-eyed.

Flora nodded, biting her lip as she thought on the timings.

"I'll speak to my brothers about the wood and the ships," she said, at last. "We want that sorted out before the progress."

"My lady- "

"It's _fine,"_ Flora said quickly, feeling a faint flush rise to her cheeks. "I hope the lobsters and whelk-fish enjoy their summer of reprieve, because the nets and crab-pots will be _back with a vengeance_ by autumn."

There was a resounding murmur of agreement, and Flora was gratified to hear a distinct vein of optimism emerging in their muttered conversation.

As she, Zevran and Leliana – accompanied by the usual plethora of Royal Guard – made their way out into the sunlight; the elf turned around with a little, teasing smile on his face.

"I've had an idea, _carina."_

"Eh?" said Flora, who was trying to avoid the direct glare of the sun for fear of burning. "What?"

The horses were led forwards from the shade between two warehouses, their tails whisking briskly at the hovering flies.

"I think the sons and daughters of the nobility should _all_ be sent off to be raised in little villages," Zevran continued, ascending onto his horse with a fluid grace as Leliana heaved Flora bodily up behind her. "If they develop such a care for the common person as you."

"Losing your home feels just as bad, whether you're a villager losing a little hut, or a lord losing a castle," replied Flora solemnly, her brow furrowed. "I'm glad that I can do something to help, even though I'm- "

 _Useless,_ she had been about to say, but now Flora was uncertain how _true_ that actually was.

 _I can still help. I can still be useful. Even without my magic._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol, I just wanted to use the word PISCICULTURAL! Which is like agricultural, but for fish. Yes I know that a peasant would not know that word in all likelihood, hehe.

I wanted to incorporate some mention of the rebuilding of Ferelden in this sequel, I feel like it's a subject that isn't often touched on – and it's the boring historian in me that wonders about HOW exactly you rebuild a country that's experienced something like the Blight? I think it'd be a little bit like the Black Death hitting Europe in the 14th century (with some warfare thrown in) – but, hey, we got the Renaissance as a direct consequence of that, so… there IS hope for Ferelden, maybe? Lol.

Anyway, I think it's good for Flo to have a project of her own – a role that isn't just Alistair's baby-making queen! I hope the changing pattern of her speech is coming across – whenever she's talking about Herring, the words are shorter and more abrupt; whenever she's talking about her Cousland brothers, or queenly role, she speaks more eloquently. And I haven't abandoned Anora - I think she's such a competent character, I'm not done with her yet! Since Loghain has been instituted as joint Warden-Commander of Ferelden, I think his daughter deserves a bit of redemption - I reckon we can persuade the men and women of Gwaren to accept her as their new teyrna!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	51. An Alamarri Wedding Dress

Chapter 51: An Alamarri Wedding Dress

A half-candle later and they had arrived – better late than never – at the Guerrin manor, which was set in a prime location within the noble district. Eamon himself greeted them at the door, ushering them swiftly into the entrance hall. Flora wandered along in Leliana's brisk wake, recalling how she and Alistair had stayed here during the frenetic, uncertain days of the Landsmeet. She had realised the existence of her _little creature_ within the dining chamber of this very manor – finally acknowledging that which she had denied since the first horrible suspicions crept into her mind at South Reach.

They passed before the family portrait at the peak of the staircase – Eamon, Isolde and Connor, their painted plaster faces staring out blindly into the void of the hallway. Eamon led them down another wide, flagstoned corridor until they reached a familiar door – the chamber that Alistair and Flora had been assigned during their stay here.

"The dressmaker is all ready for you," the arl murmured to Flora, with a small smile. "I know that gowns aren't your usual choice of garb – I hope that you can tolerate one for tomorrow."

Flora let out a little grunt of assent, following Leliana into the chamber. It was just as she remembered – wide and airy, with the row of dancing Mabari painted above the hearth and a large, leaded-glass window that looked out onto the mouth of the estuary.

A slender woman with the narrow, clever features of a fox was waiting beside the bed, reams of material piled atop the blankets.

"At last!" she murmured, with a thick Redcliffe accent. "My lady, we have much to do. If you wouldn't mind leaving your tunic on the stool!"

"I'll leave you to it, Greta," said Eamon hastily, knowing that Flora had a habit of premature disrobing. "Let me know the cost of the materials."

"For the Hero of Ferelden?" the dressmaker retorted, incredulous. "No charge!"

Soon afterwards, Flora was standing in her smallclothes before the hearth; counting each painted Mabari beneath her breath as Leliana and the dressmaker exchanged swift, abbreviated conversation.

"Not the patterned wool," the bard declared, eyeing the crimson chequered fabric. "It'll be too warm with all the fur and leather. Remember, she'll be on her feet for several hours."

"Traditionally, the Avvar wore the tartan at their wedding ceremonies," Greta retorted, stretching a swathe of leather around a silent, compliant Flora's waist.

"Avvar brides also got their husbands to unpick knots to determine the length of their marriage," retorted Leliana, comparing the weight of two furs. "We're emulating the Alamarri in general, not just the Avvar."

Flora let the women move about her, raising her arms as required, her gaze drifting across to where Zevran lay sprawled in an armchair. A swathe of scarlet and tan tartan was draped across his thighs; as he sensed her stare, the elf lifted his leg atop the chair's arm.

"Does this pattern make me look more ' _Ferelden'?"_ he enquired with a wicked smile, knowing that – with his warm-hued skin, golden earring and pronounced accent – he could not look more foreign if he tried.

Flora smiled at him, and then squawked as Leliana yanked the strings of a bodice tightly around her breasts.

"I think you're already a little bit ' _Ferelden',"_ she replied, slightly breathless. "I haven't heard you complain about the blandness of the food for at least a day."

The elf snorted, sitting upright and eyeing her from top to toe. Although the dress was not yet completed, it was easy to see the general aesthetic that the Redcliffe dressmaker intended: traditional Alamarri, unsullied by the Orlesian influence that had crept into Fereldan fashion over the past decade. There would be no silk or velvet found in either king or queen's wedding outfits on the morrow, no lace sleeves or satin trim. Instead, their garb would be hewn from leather and fur in a clear statement: _we both are descended from the oldest humans in Thedas; from the great warriors who shaped the south in our image. Andraste Herself was one of our kind, as was the dragon-slayer Calenhad._

This political subtext was lost on Flora, who was merely bemused at the decision to wear such weighty materials _in the middle of summer._

"I'm going to _sweat like a pig,"_ she said plaintively as Leliana draped a bearskin around her shoulders. "Especially with my hair down."

"No, you won't," the bard replied briskly, removing the bearskin and replacing it with a dark sable fur. "The Grand Chantry is always cool."

"Save your sweating for later," Zevran chimed in, with a slightly malicious edge to his voice. "For when you and Alistair must _perform for your audience._ Ha! Is the witnessing of a consummation an Alamarri tradition too?"

The question was directed at Leliana, who snorted and gave a little shake of the head.

Flora grimaced slightly, having been so preoccupied with remembering the order of the coronation ritual – _was it take orb, then pass sceptre to Alistair, or the other way around? –_ that the spectre of the wedding night had been temporarily banished from her mind.

"I forgot about that," she said, gloomily. "Leliana, can't _you_ be the Chantry sister who watches us?"

The bard laughed, removing fur and bodice before setting them down on the bed.

"I'm nowhere near senior enough to verify the legitimacy of a royal marriage, _ma cherie_."

Zevran eyed Flora's swollen breasts appreciatively for a moment, elegant tattooed fingers moving in idle patterns across the worn velvet chair arm.

"I have it on good authority that more than a _dozen_ nobles have volunteered to witness the consummation," he purred, Finian having told him in bed that morning. "It seems that there are many keen to hear the sounds that the lovely lady Cousland makes in the bedchamber."

"Snoring?" offered Flora sweetly, as Leliana resisted the urge to throw a pin at the lecherous Antivan.

"Come now," retorted Zevran, crooking a wicked golden eyebrow towards her. "Not _just_ snoring, _nena."_

Flora thought for a moment, and then flashed him an innocent smile; her pale Mabari eyes wide and guileless.

"Not just snoring," she confirmed, then cackled as he grinned, shooting her a knowing look.

The edge of the sun brushed the western horizon, the pale peach hue of sunset shining through the leaded glass and filling the chamber with mellow light.

The baby shifted in Flora's stomach, woken by the echo of her laughter. The leather strapping around it's mother's knee had come loose; she was about to attempt to tighten it when a foot swung into her kidneys. A second kick followed shortly afterwards as the baby tested the confines of Flora's belly, and she gave a reflexive grimace.

"Ow. Stop kicking me, you little _toad._ We're making you a _not-bastard_ tomorrow, be grateful."

"Sturdy creature," murmured Leliana, going to fetch Flora's navy tunic from where it had been abandoned on the bed. "At least it's not making you sick in the mornings anymore."

"Oh, it still does sometimes," replied Flora immediately, pulling the tunic on over her head. "It did the other day. Thank you."

This was in response to the sharp-eyed Zevran, who had had spotted the trailing leather strap at her knee and was now on his own knees before her; deft fingers skilfully pulling the thin band taut.

" _De nada, carina."_

Leliana retrieved Flora's boots from where she had kicked them off near the entrance. A steward ducked their head around the ajar door, voicing a soft question; bard and servant began to converse in low tones about arrangements for the morrow.

Zevran glanced over to check that the dressmaker was preoccupied with gathering her materials, rising to his feet with the feline grace of a leopard. He caught Flora's eye and she leaned towards him; knowing from long familiarity that the elf had something to say.

" _Nena,"_ he breathed, with a last thin vein of hope infused through the words. "I can offer you one more chance to escape the gilded handcuffs that will be placed on you tomorrow. We can bring Alistair with us as well, if he is willing. After the coronation, such liberation will be impossible."

Flora gazed at the elf, whose dark eyes were gleaming like ignited coals. There was an air of resignation infusing his request; as though he already knew what her response was going to be.

"We can't leave," she whispered, tying the laces of her tunic in a swift fisherman's knot. "You know we can't. This is what Alistair and I have to do, now that the Blight is over."

"But you do not _want_ it, _nena,"_ replied Zevran, a pleading edge now creeping into his tone. "I know the sweet-hearted girl from Herring never wished to be queen. I remember her fleeing Redcliffe Castle because she did not even wish to be _Lady Cousland_."

"It's _duty,_ not desire," continued Flora, quietly. "Even though I'm not a Warden anymore, I can still serve this country."

The elf half-laughed, and there was no humour in the sound.

"Forgive me, _mi florita,_ but did you not assemble an army, slay the Archdemon and end the Fifth Blight? Have you not served Ferelden enough?"

Flora reached out to touch the slender braid hanging beside Zevran's ear, thoughtful.

"But I don't want to stop trying to _help,"_ she said softly, fingering the woven strands of platinum. "Even though Compassion's left me. I'm not ready to _retire._ And I can do more as queen than I could as just a… girl from Herring. _"_

Zevran stared at her with a myriad of conflicting emotions tangled together on his face; Flora pulled gently at the slender braid.

"Will you help me put some of these in my hair tomorrow? I'm not as good as you at doing them."

"Of… of course," the elf replied at last, plastering a smile atop his clouded features. "It would be my pleasure, _nena."_

Pleased, Flora smiled at him, and then ducked neatly around his body to retrieve her boots.

By the time that they arrived back at the palace, the sun had half-lowered itself into the sky. It promised to be a fine day tomorrow – the sky was a blended mix of ochre and violet, with no ominous cloud brewing on the horizon.

The grounds of the palace seemed far busier than usual – many of the more esteemed wedding guests were staying within the castle itself. Wagons, horses and retainers clad in a spectrum of different liveries were clustered on the palace forecourt; a babble of excited foreign tongues rising up above them like some exotic effluence.

A dozen different banners were propped against the wall – thanks to Leliana's tutelage at Revanloch, Flora found that she recognised many of them. She spotted the silver and blue of Orlais, far more refined in pattern compared to the Marcher standards nearby; the _grand duc's_ guards clad in the formal attire of Celene's court. The banner of the Pentaghasts – a black skull on a mustard field – was at the opposite side of the courtyard from the Vaels of Nevarre; the two noble dynasties had fallen out over a trade disagreement earlier that year.

There was also a heavy Templar presence – Flora recognised several familiar faces from Revanloch – due to the number of mages in attendance. The Empress Celene had sent her Court Enchanter; a woman with unmatchable poise who travelled in the style befitting a lady of her stature. In addition, there were a gaggle of Tevinter magisters who had come out of sheer curiosity; hoping to catch a glimpse of the reputed markings left by the Archdemon's soul on the body of Ferelden's future queen.

There was so much bustle and conversation within the courtyard that Leliana managed to secrete Flora inside a side-entrance unnoticed, aided by Zevran's loud and purposefully distracting flirtation with a pair of un-amused Templar several yards away.

Once they were inside the palace, Leliana led the way skilfully through the labyrinth of servant tunnels that circled the public areas of the palace, Flora's hand gripped tightly in hers. Servants were rushing back and forth, clutching sacks of raw ingredients, bolts of fabric, and garlands of flowers. Pairs of dwarves carried great barrels of ale between them, sweat dripping down their necks. With the coronation _and_ wedding on the morrow, it was set to be the most significant occasion since the liberation of Ferelden; and there was a corresponding urgency in these last minute preparations.

"Why are we back here?" the young Cousland asked, following in Leliana's wake as they navigated through a busy set of corridors. "Ooh, is that the kitchens? It smells _good._ I wish the baby would let me eat meat, I miss chicken."

"Arl Eamon wants to keep you under wraps until tomorrow," replied Leliana, knowing the maze-like network of torch-lit passages like the back of her own lute. "All of your guests will be dining in the great hall later, but you and Alistair will be eating in your quarters."

Flora beamed; infinitely preferring this latter option.

They crossed the elevated passage that overlooked the Landsmeet chamber. Flora was unable to resist peering down through the window-slits at the darkened chamber, the rows of tiered wooden seating bathed in shadow as the unlit hearths sat like gaping mouths. The shutters across the Alamarri balcony had been left part-open to air the chamber; revealing a glimpse of star-studded sky.

Before they could step through the doorway leading to the Royal passage, Zevran took his leave.

"I'll see you tomorrow, _señoras_ ," he murmured, winking at Leliana. "I'm going to see if any of our Antivan guests remember me."

Although the playful tone of his voice implied some provocative intent, Leliana was well aware of the elf's true purpose: to drift amongst the foreign factions and blend into the background in the way that only an elf could, his aim to divine any ill intentions. Zevran had already secured access to the _grand duc's quarters_ after beguiling Gaspard's Orlesian groom.

Flora opened her mouth anxiously, and the elf hastened to reassure her, lifting a hand to brush his thumb along her jaw.

"Don't fret, _hermosa novia._ I will be at your quarters in the morning to put some braids into your hair."

She smiled at Zevran, and he leaned forward to kiss her just to the east of her mouth.

One unobtrusive side door later and Leliana led them triumphantly into the Royal passage; the torches on the walls struggling to illuminate such a broad and lengthy corridor. The Royal Guard stood still as statues between the _actual_ suits of armour; their pikes throwing long shadows across the flagstones.

The chief steward, Guillaume, was standing just outside the king's quarters, talking in muted tones to a servant. As Leliana and Flora approached, the Nevarran interrupted his conversation and turned to face them; sweeping into a bow.

"Lady Cousland," he murmured, clever eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Lay-Sister. I trust all went well with the dressmaker today?"

"Very well," replied Leliana, inclining her own head. "Florence, I imagine that Alistair is waiting for you. I'll see you after dinner, _ma chérie."_

"The king is indeed waiting," confirmed the steward, canting his chin towards the double doors leading into the Theirin chamber. "He's getting a tad anxious."

"Alistair gets anxious when she goes to the wash-chamber in the mornings," muttered Leliana, nudging Flora forwards. "Go on, put him out of his misery."

The guardsmen hurried to open the doors, revealing the Royal bedchamber in all its stark, rough-hewn native glory. The hearth had been piled high with fresh cedar-wood, and the spiked iron wheel hanging overhead gleamed with fat beeswax candles.

Alistair, still clad in the leathers he had worn during the rehearsal earlier that day, was pacing the length of the flagstones between the hearth and the bed. Turning swiftly as the doors opened, relief suffused the king's handsome features as his eyes focused on his fat-bellied mistress.

"Maker's Breath, Lo! I was about to head out with a search party."

Her former brother-warden strode towards her, pulling the crown impatiently from his head and setting it down on the dresser. Flora, beaming reflexively, went happily into his outstretched arms. Alistair embraced her close to his chest, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head.

"I thought you'd be back hours ago," he murmured, aware that he was being overly protective but unable to stop himself. "You were just meant to be going to the dressmaker, not wandering all over Denerim!"

"I did go to the dressmaker," Flora repeated indignantly into the muscle of Alistair's leather-clad chest. " _Eventually_. Anyway, I was with Zevran and Leliana. And six guards."

"Saela can't birth those pups soon enough," Alistair replied, thinking on Fergus' favourite Mabari. "Your brother has promised to train the fiercest pair to guard you and the baby. We need more dogs around the place, anyway."

Flora smiled vaguely at her overly concerned best friend, extricating herself from his arms and wandering over to the bed to pull off her boots. This proved to be easier said than done: her feet had swollen enough to test the confines of the leather.

There followed a rap at the door and a small procession of servants entered, carrying trays and tankards between them. Seeing a slender elven female buckling under the weight of a heavy platter, Alistair went to assist, taking the tray with a murmur of gratitude. Plates of meat, cheese and onion tartlets were placed on the table among bowls of stuffed eggs and sugared almonds. A platter of raw vegetables – with as much earth as the cook could bear to leave on them – was also included; catering for Flora's hormonal urges.

"Sweetheart," Alistair said, turning away from the freshly laid table and seeing Flora red-faced and contorted trying to remove her boots. "Let me help you."

Striding over to the bed, he sat beside Flora amidst the furs; pulling her legs up into his lap and reaching for her boots.

"Ouch, ouch- "

"I know, baby. Sorry."

Once the offending boots were on the floor, Flora eyed her aching and swollen feet, belligerently.

"I don't understand _why_ something growing in the stomach would make my feet hurt," she said in perplexion, letting her fingers drift idly over Alistair's head as he bent to rub her sore toes. "How is it connected?"

 _I could have found out, when I still had my magic,_ Flora thought ruefully to herself; Alistair's strong fingers working away the tension from her feet just as they had done for her sore knee. _I could see the body in my mind, easy as opening up a book. Easier, actually – I didn't need to learn how to read the crevices and fissures of flesh and bone; I just knew them._

 _Why didn't I spend more time working out how it all fit together? How one part connected to another? I wasted so much of my gift, and now it's gone._

"Darling. Is that better?"

Alistair's voice punctuated Flora's reverie and she shook off her melancholy, smiling down at his handsome face as he gazed hopefully up at her.

"Much better. Thank you."

She reached out to put her arms about his neck, planting a grateful kiss on his cheek.

They ate together on the rug before the hearth; Flora ignoring the meat and gobbling down all the vegetables, Alistair readily consuming the chicken and beef cuts that she spurned.

Mouths full, they tried to recall the order of the coronation ritual that they would soon be enacting before the leading figures of Thedas.

"I pass you the scep- scorp- _fancy stick_ ," Flora said without any degree of certainty, handing him a fork intended to emulate a sceptre. "And then you do… something with it. Twirl it?"

Alistair looked down at the fork, his brow creasing in an effort to remember.

"Is that before or after I raise the sword?"

Flora took his meat-knife, giving it an experimental thrust upwards.

"I'd rather have the sword. I have to carry a _bird. Why_ do I need to carry a bird? What if I drop the cage?"

For a moment, the two former Wardens gazed at one another in mutual bemusement before the fire. Finally, Alistair laughed and put down the fork, reaching out to stroke her cheek with the calloused ball of his thumb.

"It doesn't matter, darling. The most important bit of the whole thing is getting married to _you._ Everything else comes second to that."

Alistair lifted Flora's fingers to his mouth, as though he were not _king_ but a grown stable boy declaring his love to the local fisherman's daughter. Still clutching her hand, he leaned forward and let his lips brush against her ear.

"You're the light of my life," he murmured, delighted at the blush rising to her cheeks. "You know that, baby?"

Flora dropped her eyes to her lap, suddenly made shy. Instead of replying, she brought their intertwined hands to her breast, letting him feel the steady rhythm of her heart.

"This beats for _you_ ," she whispered, feeling tears prickling on her eyelashes that were not _entirely_ caused by hormonal fluctuation. " _Always_ for you."

Alistair gazed back at her, dampness gleaming within his own hazel irises; the green flecks illuminated by the light of the hearth.

"You two are so sweet, it's making my teeth rot," commented a dry, familiar voice from behind them.

Finian – whose entrance had been announced by the steward but gone unnoticed – was hovering beside the table, picking at the leftovers. He grinned down at them, tossing an olive into his mouth before crooking an imperious finger.

"Floss, your birthday present is here. It's in our chamber."

* * *

OOC Author Note: You know Flora isn't going to be dressed in some traditional silk bridal outfit and veil on her wedding day, haha! Everything about the coronation-wedding is symbolic and propagandised to some extent; even what she's going to wear. And some of Thedas' most famous denizens – Andraste, Calenhad, Flemeth, are Alamarri. Since Alistair is a bastard and Flora a former mage (deeply unconventional for a king and queen), I thought it made sense to publically emphasise their historic ancestry at the coronation - through their outfits.

I've always emphasised the Alamarri heritage thing way more than it comes up in game, because I find it so fascinating – I'm pretty certain it's based on Celtic culture. Calenhad is wearing a literal tartan kilt in his DA wikia page, the image of the Alamarri shows them painted in woad (Celtic face and body paint) and lots of the named Alamarri have Celtic-origin names – like Brona. Anyway, as a Welsh girl, I'm definitely into it, hehehe.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	52. Special Guests And Rebel Queens

Chapter 52: Special Guests And Rebel Queens

Bemused, Flora and Alistair both followed Finian the short distance down the passageway to the Cousland quarters. Retainers clad in the family livery hastened to open the doors; heads inclined in polite acknowledgement of king and future queen.

With a triumphant flourish, Finian led the way inside the quarters once used extensively by Bryce Cousland. The hearth had been piled high with the same perfumed cedar wood as the Royal bedchamber, but these flames illuminated stark differences in décor. The laurel of Highever was painted painstakingly on the plastered walls; fabric accents of navy and olive permeated throughout. A framed family tree, carefully inked on parchment, hung above the hearth itself.

Fergus was sitting at the table, a polite and slightly bemused expression writ across his auburn-bearded face. Opposite him was a rotund, middle-aged man with florid and weather-beaten features. He was wearing a rather odd combination of clothing: a grubby linen shirt, a striped mustard and tan tunic, and a bright orange fishing hat. The entire ensemble was much patched and clearly well-travelled in.

Alistair thought at first that it might be some familiar face from Herring, but this theory was quickly dashed when his lover appeared equally clueless as to the man's identity.

On seeing them, the man rose awkwardly to his feet; not used to being in such esteemed company.

"Floss," announced Finian from behind her shoulder, pride suffusing the words as they emerged. "I'm very pleased to introduce _Wulfric Letholdus,_ formerly of Honnleath, currently of Dragon's Peak."

Alistair blinked - the name meant nothing to him. At his side Flora's jaw dropped, her eyes widening in disbelief. Finian had spent a half-candle deciphering this name with her at South Reach, his finger patiently tracing out the letters scored into the book's leather binding.

"You wrote _Exotic Fish of Thedas,"_ she breathed, awestruck.

"Aye, milady."

"My favourite book in the world. You _fished up all those amazing fish."_

The man nodded, eyeing her warily.

"Aye, that I did, ma'am. Every one, by my own net and pole."

"Oh," she continued, utterly enraptured. "That's _amazing._ I'm so jealous."

Wulfric let out a little grunt, shifting in his seat and shooting a surreptitious glance at the Cousland heraldry painted on the walls.

"How did you manage to catch the _Rivaini_ _Night Eel?"_ Flora whispered, with eyes like saucers. "It only comes out of the nest twice a year, according to your own entry."

"All a matter of usin' a big-enough hook," replied the fisherman, with the dourness typical of his profession. "And waitin' for a sou'westerly current."

Fascinated, Flora drifted forwards as though in a waking dream; taking a seat at the table and staring at the man as though he were the Blessed Andraste Herself returned to the mortal world.

"But what kind of _bait_ did you use?"

Within moments, fisherman and future queen were immersed deep in a conversation that seemed utterly nonsensical to the others present in the chamber. Alistair had no idea what his best friend was babbling excitedly about – it was an incomprehensible tangle of fishing linguistics, interspersed with peculiar breed names he _just_ about recognised from reading through _Exotic Fish_ with her. Still, he was delighted to see his lover looking so animated, simultaneously grateful to Finian for organising such a deeply meaningful gift.

Fergus apparently had similar thoughts, the teyrn draping an arm about his younger brother's shoulders as he came to stand alongside them.

"How in Andraste's flaming smalls did you manage to track him down, Finn?"

Finian grinned, at once both proud and smug.

"He was a bugger to find," the new arl of Amaranthine admitted, cheerfully. "Had to use all my Orlesian contacts. I owe quite a few people favours now. But, it's _worth_ it. Look at her sweet face!"

Flora was leaning forwards, utterly enthralled, her chin resting in her hands and her pale eyes bright with fascination.

For the next two hours, fisherman and daughter of Herring were consumed by frenzied conversation. Unable to contribute, king and Cousland brothers ended up playing several quiet rounds of Wicked Grace in the corner of the chamber; Finian winning three times and the others a round apiece.

Finally, Wulfric Letholdus ended up rather awkwardly presenting Flora with a sheaf of parchment bound together with twine; coughing and raising his eyes to the ceiling. She used her finger to trace the words etched into the leather, reading them painstakingly out loud.

"' _Even… More… Ex- Exotic Fish of Thedas.'_ Oh! Oooooh!"

"It's the sequel," muttered Wulfric, with the awkward demeanour of a man who spent more time alone in the wilds with a fishing rod than he did in the company of others. "Only a first draft, mind."

Flora clutched the book to her chest; so overwhelmed that she felt a choked sob surging up from her belly. Not bothering to restrain herself – after all, she was not in _public_ – she let the tears of gratitude roll freely down her cheeks.

Wulfric, even less used to dealing with tears than he was women in general, shot a frantic glance towards the others. Alistair, whose head had shot around at the first sniffle, immediately rose to his feet; the cards falling from his lap to the flagstones.

"Three Serpents and a Rose," observed Finian quietly, smug in the knowledge that he would have won this round too.

Alistair came to stand behind Flora's chair, one hand settling gently on top of her head. Flora wiped roughly at her eyes, clutching the book to her chest as though it were a precious baby.

"I owe youmore than I can say," she whispered tremulously, forcing some evenness into her reply. " _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ gave me so much happiness during the Blight. I can't thank you enough."

"Well, we all owe you our lives," muttered Wulfric, the words accompanied by a little grunt. _"Dragon-slayer."_

Once Wulfric had taken his leave, Finian shot a self-satisfied grin across the room towards his little sister, who was still sitting – slightly dazed - at the table.

"Told you my gift was worth waiting for, Flossie," he declared, with equal parts smugness and pride.

Flora placed the _Exotic Fish_ sequel atop the gleaming beech surface; propelling herself and her belly upright with a spread palm. Crossing the room in a handful of strides, she embraced her brother with a ferocity that knocked the air from his lungs. Finian laughed as he held her against him, hand patting her shoulder blades through the lambs' wool tunic.

"I take it you liked your present then, sweet pea?"

"I loved it!"

"Does it make up for me chasing you around Redcliffe Castle with some Templars when we first met?"

"Yes!"

A short while later - much to Alistair and Flora's dismay - they were forced to part. Old Fereldan tradition dictated that the bride be kept in a separate room from her future husband on the night preceding the wedding. Eamon had sent Leliana as enforcer; knowing that both Alistair and Flora would do as the sweetly smiling, steely-eyed bard requested.

With Flora's nightgown over her arm, the lay sister manifested in the corridor outside the Cousland quarters, intercepting both former Wardens as they left. Alistair's face had been almost comical in its disappointment as he learnt that he was to be separated from his best friend _until midday the next day –_ indeed, the next time he would set eyes on her would be in the Grand Chantry itself.

Flora, equally glum at the prospect of their parting, reached out her arms towards him; _Mairyn's Star_ glintingin the torchlight.

"I'll have the horses ready at eleven bells tomorrow morning," Fergus murmured to Leliana, as the lay sister gave a small nod of confirmation. "The streets will be cordoned off to carts and wagons, and guards will line the route, but I suspect it'll still take longer than normal to reach the Square."

"In Orlais, it's fashionable for a bride to be late to her own wedding," Leliana replied, with a little snort reminiscent of Val Royeaux. "Oh, for the love of Andraste, you two are being parted for a _single night,_ not a year! Florence, do try and leave Alistair _some_ face left, won't you?"

A flushed Flora detached herself with extreme reluctance. Alistair appeared half tempted to take his mistress by the hand and lead her back into their own bedchamber, though he was rapidly dissuaded by a deadly glare from Leliana.

"I'll see you tomorrow, baby," the king called after Flora as she was steered down the corridor by the determined bard. "I'll be the one standing at the front of the Chantry in a gold hat."

Leliana, with the acumen of one who knew the layout of the palace intimately, led the way from the Royal quarters and into the eastern wing of the castle. They traversed branching corridors and passageways that Flora had not even _seen_ before, passing over balconies overlooking mouldering hallways and barely-used reception chambers. Flora was so fascinated by this venture into the decaying depths of the palace that she abandoned her sulk at being parted from Alistair. The bard seemed to be leading her into a far older section of the castle – one in dire need of repairs. The stone walls were crumbling, the flagstones cracked and the tapestries on the wall visibly threadbare. Even the candelabras were cloaked in cobwebs, remnants of candles frozen in waxy drips. The corridor was lit sporadically, one torch lit for every three iron brackets.

"I've never been here before," Flora breathed, almost colliding with Leliana as the bard halted outside a wooden door inscribed with a wolf's snarling maw. "It smells like Herring."

"Damp and mouldering? I agree," murmured Leliana, giving the door an experimental nudge.

In contrast to the dilapidated surroundings, the door swung open easily; as though its hinges had been freshly oiled. Indeed, the small bedchamber that lay within appeared to have been recently renovated – a fresh coat of plaster had been applied to the walls, clean furs spread over the bed and sweet-smelling rushes strewn across the flagstones. A fire had been set in the hearth, crackling contentedly away behind the iron grate.

The neat little bedchamber was in such disparity to the mildewed corridor that Flora stared at it, and then twisted her head to peer up and down the dilapidated passageway.

"In, in," chided Leliana, ushering Flora inside and promptly closing the door. "You're going to let all the heat out."

Flora wandered across the room, her attention caught by the faded tapestry on the wall. It depicted several playful Mabari at play; one gnawing at a bone, the other chasing its tail, and the third barking up at its master. It was faded and frayed, clearly a great number of decades old.

"Whose room was this?" she breathed, touching a finger to the moth-eaten fabric and sneezing at the dust that rose in its wake.

"This was the childhood room of Moira Theirin," Leliana replied softly, heading to the window and pushing back the shutters. A sloping tiled roof ran alongside the wall; running a length of several metres before ending in a sharp drop to the courtyard below. Just beneath the window was a low balcony, barely large enough for two people to stand abreast.

"Moira Theirin?" Flora repeated, trying to recall Alistair's ancestry.

"The _Rebel Queen_ of Ferelden, Florence. Do you remember _nothing_ of my history lessons? Although," Leliana relented, seeing Flora yawn. "She wasn't yet the _Rebel Queen_ when she lived here. She was a little girl, whose father was desperately clinging to his throne. The Orlesians had already captured the south-west- "

"Boo! Hiss!"

"Indeed, _ma petite._ The Orlesians had taken Redcliffe, and were rapidly encroaching on the Bannorn. King Brandel could not rally the Fereldan people, and so eventually he lost Denerim too. It was his _daughter_ who united the people behind her and took up the rebel cause; in defiance of what seemed an insurmountable force."

Flora blinked, dropping an absentminded hand to her stomach as she felt the baby give an irritable kick.

"I have a feeling I'm staying in this room tonight for a _reason_ ," she said carefully at last, and Leliana gave a small, patient nod of confirmation.

" _Oui, ma crevette._ It sends out a message to Ferelden, much like the entirety of tomorrow. You understand, yes?"

Flora nodded; she did understand.

 _All of Thedas' leaders will be at the coronation tomorrow; either in person or in proxy. They're not just there as guests, they're there to assess Ferelden's post-Blight strength._

 _Alistair and I, we both have to appear strong. Like leaders that can rally a nation behind us._

Leliana smiled, drawing the shutters closed and turning back into the room.

"Anyway! As isolated as this chamber may seem, I assure you that there are servants and stewards lingering nearby if you have any requests. However, I must suggest an _early_ night - it's going to be a _very_ exhausting day tomorrow."

Leliana's 'suggestions' were actually none-too-subtly disguised _instructions_. Minutes later, Flora was sitting on the bed in her nightgown, eyes watering as the bard wielded a merciless hairbrush.

"The dressmaker will arrive at eight bells tomorrow. We'll need to be up at dawn to wash and dry this great unruly mass of hair," Leliana murmured, finally satisfied that she had worked out all the tangles. "It'll take three hours to get you ready- "

" _Three hours?!"_ bleated Flora, who customarily took three _minutes_ to get ready. _"Hours?"_

" _Ssh! Oui._ We'll depart at eleven bells. Does that suit you?"

Flora let out a little grunt of assent, winding several thick ropes of hair into a plump braid over her shoulder.

"Eleven hours," she repeated, fastening the end of the woven hair with a leather tie and lying back against the furs. "Alright."

Leliana leaned across to blow out the candle, settling back into the mass of overstuffed cushions. For several moments, both redheads were silent, thinking on the events of the next day. An owl called from somewhere beyond the closed shutters, the cry echoed by its mate moments later. The bard's sharp ears detected the sound of guardsmen's boots against the flagstones; a pair of soldiers stationing themselves at either side of the door. Clearly, Alistair was willing to take no chances with his mistress' safety on this final night they were to spend apart.

Flora felt the baby shift inside her belly and placed a warning hand over the fleshy curve, inwardly instructing the little creature not to get too _acrobatic_ just as she was settling down.

 _Go back to sleep,_ Flora thought to herself, sternly. _We both have a long day tomorrow._

" _Bonne nuit, ma crevette."_ Leliana's voice drifted from the shadows; the outline of her face just visible against the cushions.

"Night, Leliana," Flora replied, reaching out to pat the bard gently on her freshly moisturised cheek. "Don't let the weever fish bite."

Flora awoke several hours later to the sound of a faint tapping. Confused – and also a little terrified that it might be the headless ghost of the Rebel Queen come back to revisit her old bedroom - Flora opened an eye and squinted through the gloom.

The hearth burned low in the grate, casting a muted ochre glow across the small bedchamber. Leliana was sound asleep beside her, a pink silk Orlesian mask covering the upper half of her face. The chamber itself seemed deserted, and then the faint tapping came again and Flora jumped a little amidst the blankets.

A moment later, she realised that the sound was coming through the closed shutters; faint and insistent.

" _Flo!"_

Flora put down her impromptu weapon - _Even More Exotic Fish Of Thedas -_ and pushed back the furs, swinging herself and her belly out of bed. Creeping barefoot across the flagstones, she reached up to unfasten the shutters, pulling them inwards to reveal a triumphant Alistair perched on the balcony below. He was still fully dressed and grinning triumphantly; untidy hair silvered by an indulgent, low-hanging moon.

" _Finally!"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Haha it was funny to write Flo proper fangirling over the author of _Exotic Fish of Thedas,_ lol. Poor old Alistair, doomed to read about fish with his wife for all eternity!

I'm just making up Fereldan traditions left right and centre here – like the future queen spending the night in the childhood bedchamber of the Rebel Queen. But it seems like it makes sense to me, lol, so hopefully no one will be too offended at my headcanon.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	53. A Restless Night

Chapter 52: A Restless Night

Flora blinked down at Alistair as he balanced precariously on the ledge below, utterly astonished. Somewhere in the night-shrouded courtyard, the bell rang for the tenth hour; the sound echoing between the crumbling stone walls.

"You're turning into Zevran," she breathed after a moment, leaning out of the window to stare down at him. "What are you _doing?"_

"I wanted to come and see my bride," Alistair replied, taking hold of the balcony edge and using strong thighs to propel himself upwards. "Guillaume told me where you were staying. I've never been in this bit of the palace before!"

"Be careful," Flora said in alarm, aware that her long-limbed, broad-shouldered companion was not the most graceful being in Thedas. "Don't slip."

"I'm not going to _slip –_ oh, shit – well, I'm _probably_ not going to slip."

Now successfully perched on the balcony, Alistair grinned winningly up at her; the torch-lit exterior of the Royal Palace serving as a suitably dramatic backdrop.

"My love! No _tradition_ can stop me from seeing you. If they catch us, I'll just plead ignorance due to my upbringing in Arl Eamon's stables."

"I thought you were the ghost of the Rebel Queen," Flora replied, leaning further out of the window as he reached up; one large, sword-calloused hand cupping the side of her cheek.

"Ah, _Granny Moira,"_ the king murmured distractedly, his thumb now tracing the planes and angles of her solemn face. "Sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to come and get my goodnight kiss. Or… I won't sleep well, and then I'll forget when to raise the sword during the coronation ceremony tomorrow, and Leliana might actually _kill me_."

Flora smiled down at him, strands of hair pulling loose from her braid and falling down beside her ears. Alistair gazed back up at her, the green flecks in his hazel irises standing out stark in the moonlight.

"By the Maker, you're so beautiful," he said unsteadily a moment later, shaking his head slowly. "You take my breath away, darling."

Immediately afterwards, his eyes widened in alarm as Flora hoisted the nightgown up around her thighs and swung her leg over the windowsill; his arms shooting upwards to steady her as she clambered out onto the balcony. This accomplished, she beamed in triumph, hair askew and nightgown half slipping from her shoulder.

"Ha! Haha."

A slightly traumatised Alistair drew her into his arms, making sure that she was safely positioned on the interior of the balcony. The beam slid away as Flora turned her face up to him; the metallic mote on her iris like a stray golden fleck from a painter's brush.

After a moment, the king's stare dropped from Flora's eyes to her full Cousland mouth, fascinated by the natural sulkiness found in its solemn curve. Wanting suddenly to see those lips part and shape his name, he bowed his head and pressed his mouth against hers. While his tongue worked busily alongside her own, one hand was already reaching to draw her nightgown up around her hips. Alistair's mouth made its way lower to caress her throat, lips suckling a series of gentle kisses into the creamy skin. Flora's thighs wrapped readily around his waist as he braced her against the wall, his own breeches partway down his thighs. She pressed her face into his shoulder, wide-eyed, not quite able to muffle her little noises of pleasure.

The moon gazed benevolently down from above; a pallid wash of nocturnal light illuminating both lofty balcony and the figures moving together upon it. As the king's thumb worked in conjunction with slow rolls of his pelvis, he felt his lover tense, a half-strangled plea escaping her lips.

"Say my name, baby," he instructed thickly with the Theirin dominance of his father, increasing the speed of his thumb.

Sure enough, moments later his name escaped Flora's throat in a desperate half-moan, her thighs clamping vice-like around his waist. Alistair held her through the shuddering climax, pressing tender kisses to her bared breasts.

As soon as the post-coital haze cleared from her mind, Flora blinked up at him in slight perplexion.

"You didn't…?"

"No, sweetheart."

She looked about the cramped balcony, wondering if there was space for her to sink to her knees. Reading her intentions clear on her face, Alistair almost gave into temptation. One hand hovered above Flora's shoulder, then drew back; the king forcing himself to resist.

"I'm going to save myself for the wedding night," he said, and then stifled a laugh, realising that he sounded like some blushing maid. "Maker knows I'll need all the help I can get, in the company of a wizened old crone from the Chantry and some fellow from the Landsmeet whom I'll never be able to look in the eye again."

Flora was unable to stop herself from cackling as he lowered her gently to the tiles. Alistair shot his best friend a faintly malevolent look, and then broke into a rueful laugh.

"I suppose we'll look back at this in years to come and laugh," he murmured, bowing to press a kiss against her forehead. "I'd better leave you to get your rest now, darling. It's going to be a long one tomorrow."

Alistair kissed her on the end of the nose and then once more on the mouth, fingers reluctant to release the folds of her nightgown. Only when Flora appeared ready to clamber back through the window unaided did he stop his affections; lifting her gently up onto the sill in strong arms.

"There we go," he murmured, manoeuvring each of Flora's feet back over the stone ledge. "Back to bed, and the bard will be none the wiser. See you at the altar, baby."

With a final kiss on the lips, the king was navigating his way across the rooftop, one hand on the wall to steady himself. His mistress, her face wistful, watched Alistair's progress until he disappeared into the shadows; presumably ducking inside another opened window.

Flora drew the shutters quietly behind her, and then turned back into the shadowed chamber that had once belonged to Ferelden's most revered queen. Leliana was still motionless in bed, facing the door with the blankets pulled up to her chin.

Creeping across the tiles, Flora slid back into bed alongside her; letting out a little grunt as the baby swung a foot into her kidney.

 _Don't you start,_ she thought sternly to her abdomen, tugging her nightgown back down over her knees. The next moment, she almost fell out of bed in terror as Leliana rolled over; raising her eye-mask to unleash a glower of epic proportion.

" _Ma petite,_ the purpose of you sleeping in this chamber was to keep Alistair from seeing his bride until you come face to face in the Grand Chantry tomorrow. A purpose defeated if you allow him to illicitly _grope_ you on balconies. You wanton little minx!"

"Yes… _grope…_ that's all," said Flora hastily, worried that Leliana might have a minor heart attack if she discovered the full truth. "Sorry. It's the Herring girl in me. _Shameless."_

The bard let out a typically Orlesian sigh, plumping up the cushions before sinking back into them and replacing the eye mask. Flora eyed Leliana for a moment, then leaned over on her elbow and kissed her on the cheek.

"Lovely Leliana," she whispered, wistfully. "You're so clever. I wish we could keep you here _forever_ with us. But I know you're going to be in demand all over Thedas."

" _Ah, ma crevette!"_ The bard let out a soft laugh, her voice distant. "You are too kind. Do you really think that the Maker has some plan in store for me?"

"Definitely," Flora replied, immediately and without a shred of doubt. "There's lots of great things coming up in your future."

"Do you really believe so, _ma petite?"_

"Yes, of course!"

Leliana smiled at the young Cousland through the shadows, their faces resting a short distance apart on the embroidered cushions.

"I hope you're right, _fleur_. I am not yet ready to retire from His service."

A murmured prayer later and the bard was soon fast asleep, the eye mask firmly back over the upper half of her face. Flora rolled over, unable to get comfortable; the baby was digging itself into the base of her spine. Wishing that Alistair was there – his muscled chest was more comfortable to sprawl against than any mattress – she spent the next half-candle gazing gormlessly into the flickering hearth. A pair of servants entered a short time later, creeping across the flagstones with the breath suspended in their throats in an effort to be silent. They restocked the fire with new logs, sneaking out with equal care.

As the first layer of these fresh logs burned away, sleep continued to elude Flora. She turned impatiently from one side to another, until the furs tangled between her legs and she shoved them to the foot of the bed.

Finally, Flora clambered to her feet and went to the dresser, in the off-chance it would have some meagre contents. Sure enough, it contained a thick woollen dressing robe in an alarming shade of mustard. Pushing her arms through the sleeves, Flora shuffled across the flagstones and nudged the door open, inhaling the scent of mildew from the corridor. Immediately, the two guards posted at the entrance shifted their pikes from hand to hand to acknowledge her presence.

"Lady Florence," offered a Highever retainer, his loyalty recognisable from the navy livery he wore. "Is all well?"

"I'm fine," she replied, edging her way between them with a hand on her stomach. "I need to wait for baby to sleep before I can sleep."

Without any clear idea where she was going, Flora wandered barefoot down the corridor. Although Leliana had complained vociferously about the dampness, Flora had found it oddly comforting – almost reminiscent of Herring. The cold flagstones beneath her feet reminded her of the craggy rock protrusion that her home village was built upon. In the deceptive darkness, with the occasional call of a seagull drifting in through the arrow-slit windows; she could nearly imagine herself back home.

 _Except the air is too still for it to be the north coast,_ she thought idly to herself, continuing to wander without purpose. _The air is placid and peaceful here, it drifts about aimlessly. On the north coast, it rages – whips itself into a frenzy and harasses the waves, pulls loose fishing nets and blows banks of sand up against the buildings._

By now Flora had emerged into a part of the palace that she recognised – the lofty minstrel's gallery that overlooked the great hall. Everything had been set up in preparation for tomorrow's wedding feast – empty plates laid with tankards nearby, unlit candelabras set at regular intervals. The tables were decorated with elaborate strands of woven laurel and crimson ribbons; a stage for additional musicians had been set up at one end of the hall. At the far table – which was raised on a low stone platform – two large wooden thrones stood side by side. They were decorated with laurel and ivy, crimson skeins of ribbon wound about their ornately carved arms.

After gazing down at the empty chairs in slight awe – there must have been at least three hundred placed there in preparation – Flora left the minstrel's gallery. She traversed a long passage lined with sculptures of figures from Andrastrian legend. Andraste stood at their head, her granite eyes staring sightless and accusatory across at Maferath, enclosed in an opposite alcove. Flora felt a little sorry for the prophetess, forced to gaze at her treacherous husband for all eternity.

The corridor branched into a torch-lit passageway that ran from east to west. Flora glanced from one side to the other; her eyes settling on a pair of guards clad in forest green livery stationed outside a nearby doorway. As she approached, the familiar portcullis emblem of South Reach came into view. Leonas did not usually stay within the palace, and Flora assumed that he must have relocated due to the coronation.

"Evenin', Lady Cousland," offered one of the guards, whom she remembered from Leonas' seat. He had often been posted outside the Wardens' chamber – and had thus been one of the first to suspect that the young redheaded Warden might be with child; having brought her water on more than one occasion after she had been sick.

"Hullo, Iain," replied Flora, summoning his name from the depths of her memory as she saw candlelight gleaming beneath the arl's door. "Is Arl Leonas still awake?"

The guard nodded, stepping forward to open the door as she advanced. The quarters lying beyond were plain and unremarkable, with cream-plastered walls and dark wooden beams running the length of the ceiling. A four poster bed stood in one corner, the blankets and furs untouched.

In the opposite corner, Leonas Bryland was sitting at a desk; pouring over a sheaf of papers by the light of several candles and the smouldering hearth. He was fully dressed, a quill clutched awkwardly in his maimed hand and a frown of concentration embedded across his forehead. A half-drunk bottle of ale rested at the corner of the desk, precariously close to the edge.

As Flora wandered in, the arl glanced up; one eyebrow rising at the lurid mustard wool of her dressing-gown.

"Something wrong?" he enquired with the usual rough brusqueness, making as though to stand.

"No, I'm fine," Flora replied vaguely, shuffling across to the desk and nudging the bottle away from the edge. "What are you doing?"

Leonas glanced down at the papers spread across the desk, each sheet covered with tightly-packed words and figures.

"Correspondence with the South Reach restoration committee," he replied, the corner of his mouth curling upwards wryly. "Doing some initial valuation. Everything costs twice as much as it did before the damned Blight."

Flora nodded, shifting from foot to foot. Leonas glanced at his old friend's daughter for a moment but did not raise any query; knowing that she would speak when ready.

"Can I help you?" she asked instead, eyeing the papers.

Leonas gave a small grunt of affirmation, handing her several sheets of parchment and an ink-pen.

"You can read figures well enough, eh?" he sought to confirm, fully aware of Flora's limited literacy. "Numbers?"

"Mm."

"Well, whenever you see any numbers – underline them."

Flora nodded, taking the papers and pen over to a nearby armchair. Tucking her feet beneath her, she rested the papers on top of her stomach and began to pour through them.

They continued in such manner without talking for a half-candle, Leonas scribing lines of text in his neat, efficient hand while Flora dutifully underlined every instance of sum and cost. The hearth hissed and spat gently in its stone confines; from somewhere outside the tower, a seagull issued a harsh summons to its mate.

Eventually, Leonas put down his quill and poured himself an ale from the precarious bottle. Without speaking, he retrieved a second tankard and poured a drink for Flora; knowing that she found the taste unpleasant, he added a large dollop of water from a nearby jug.

"Thank you," she mumbled, putting down the ink-pen and taking the tankard.

The general let out a grunt of acknowledgment. Flora took several large and unladylike gulps, then eyed the arl over the tankard's metal rim.

"Arl Leonas?"

"' _Lady Florence,'"_ he replied with equal solemnity, putting down his tankard and turning in the chair to face her.

"What do you think… my parents would have thought about all this? Me marrying Alistair?"

 _Ah,_ thought Leonas to himself, _here's the reason._

"Well, Bryce always planned for you to marry into the Theirins," he replied measuredly, dark Bryland eyes meeting hers without wavering. "So I'd imagine he'd be pleased, though he was never one for fuss and bother."

"He wasn't?" Flora perked up a little.

Leonas snorted, shaking his head. "He had simple tastes. He might've lived in a castle, lass, but he was still a northerner."

"By that measure, so is Finian," Flora countered, and the arl gave a snort of acknowledgement; aware of the Orlesian-educated Cousland's love of ornamentation.

"Aye, you're right."

"What about my mother?"

"I think she'd be happy that you were marrying for love, rather than for political gain," Leonas said, coughing to hide the uncharacteristic sentimentality of his words. "She chose freely to marry Bryce, and I don't think the betrothal of you and Cailen as children sat well with her."

Flora rolled her eyes, the concept of binding one infant to another for political purpose utterly foreign to her.

"I love Alistair more than anything," she said gravely, as Leonas tried not to laugh at this statement of the obvious. "I'm doing all this for him. This big, fancy… _show._ Me being queen will make him a stronger king, won't it?"

Leonas grunted once more in confirmation, eyeing Flora over the rim of his tankard. She was sitting cross-legged on the chair, stomach resting neatly within the cradle of her thighs, her face no less solemn in profile. The grubbiness of the bare feet, the ugly mustard dressing robe and the general dishevelment of her hair could not disguise the keen beauty of her classically _Fereldan_ features.

"Aye," he replied, bluntly. "It'll strengthen his throne. Marrying a Cousland will win the north to his cause, and they've always been the most troublesome region- "

"Ha!"

" – and you're the ender of the Fifth Blight, slayer of the Archdemon _."_

The arl smiled wryly, replacing the tankard on the tray.

"Young, bonny, and the first royal baby for two decades lies snug in your belly. You're a valuable asset, Florence."

Flora wrinkled her nose; she did not like this attempt to quantify her worth. Still, Leonas' words rang true enough, and she bit thoughtfully at the wooden end of the ink-pen.

There was silence for a moment, the fire hissing as it belched gouts of sparks up the chimney breast. Outside, quiet voices murmured to one another as the guard changed watch.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" Leonas asked eventually, screwing the lid back onto the pot of Antivan ink. "Half of Thedas is going to be in that Chantry."

Flora tilted her face towards him, pale eyes aloof and ambiguous as sea-water.

"No," she replied, honestly. "I'm not nervous."

 _There are places I've walked and things I've done that are far more intimidating._

Leonas let out a hoarse laugh, sliding the ink-pot across the wooden surface of the desk until it rested beside its counterparts.

"Well, you let me know if there's anything I can do to make tomorrow easier," he said after a moment, the humour sliding abruptly from his face. "I mean it, Florence. You _tell_ me, and I'll deal with it."

"Thank you."

"Bryce would be outraged if he thought that his daughter was anything _less_ than perfectly happy on her wedding day. Since he isn't here, I feel an obligation to… well _."_

Flora glanced sideways at the arl as he coughed, uncomfortable but genuine in his offer. Privately, she wasn't sure of the accuracy of his words – her father, far from being concerned for his daughter's wellbeing, had sent her away to a remote village and severed all association – but she appreciated Leonas' offer nonetheless.

"Thank you," she repeated solemnly, then smiled at him. "I'm very grateful for everything you've done. You've always looked out for me, ever since South Reach."

Leonas let out a little embarrassed grunt. Flora heaved herself to her feet, ducking down to kiss him on the cheek on her way to the door.

"See you in the morning, Arl Leonas."

"Goodnight, pet."

* * *

OOC Author Note: OK I thought it was about time for the sequel to have an interestingly-located smut scene, since the Lion and the Light saw them getting down in stables, up trees, on demonic altars in abandoned mage towers… So I thought I would include a brief acrobatic balcony shag before the wedding. Acrobatic shag – ACROSHAG – I'll show myself out, lol. Actually, Acroshag would be an amazing chapter title!

Ten points for anyone who can work out the reference in the second part of this chapter – Flora underlining stuff on important documents for Arl Leonas, her noble father-figure. It's a nod to one of my favourite classics 90s films, starring Alicia Silverstone (literally no one will get this. And it's not Batman ahahaha)

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	54. The Wedding Day Dawns

Chapter 54: The Wedding Day Dawns

The morning of the great _wedding-coronation_ dawned bright and cloudless, the sun rising with a benevolent beam over the Amaranthine Ocean. It was accompanied by an easterly breeze that carried the scent of seawater throughout the labyrinthine thoroughfares of the city; overhead, the seagulls wheeled and cried as though detecting the latent excitement below.

Flora awoke to the sound of bells, their muffled, tinny resonance penetrating her dreamless slumber. She turned her head reflexively even as she woke, tangled in the blankets and furs.

Before Flora had even opened her eyes fully, a bright-voiced figure had descended to the bed; kissing her on both cheeks and exclaiming.

" _Congratulations, ma cherie!"_

Flora squinted, rather blearily, at the bard; rubbing at her eyes and yawning.

"Eeehhh- "

"It's your _wedding day!"_

"Hnghh."

Flora let out a distinctly Herring-inflected grunt, peering around at the unfamiliar chamber before recalling that they had stayed the night in the Rebel Queen's childhood chamber. Leliana, whose face was plastered with some unguent cream, was beaming excitedly – and a fraction _maniacally_ \- down at her.

Sensing that it's mother was awake, the baby gave a little experimental nudge. Flora patted her stomach absentmindedly, ears pricking at the increasing resonant clamour from outside.

"What's that noise?"

"The Chantry bells, _ma petite._ They ring from the towers of every chapel in the city. Just wait until the Grand Chantry joins- "

Even as the bard spoke, the nine hanging bells of Ferelden's largest Chantry chimed in. Even at a mile's distance, their sonorous metallic pealing echoed about the palace towers; demanding the attention of those within.

Awestruck, Flora wandered to the window and stood on her toes, craning her neck to peer down at the city below – this chamber did not have such a lofty view as did the Royal quarters. The joyous ringing of the bells seemed to rise above the slate rooftops, resonating above the city like a miasma of sound.

"It's not Sunday," she observed, brow furrowing. "Why are they all _going off?"_

"Because it's the coronation," replied Leliana, who had just finished issuing a series of instructions to a hovering servant. "And your _wedding day._ They're ringing for you and Alistair, _ma petite."_

Flora thought of her best friend and former brother-warden, waking up alone in a far grander bedchamber. He too would be able to hear the insistent clamour of the bells – she wondered if he was at all nervous.

 _I don't think he's at all anxious about the coronation, actually. I think he's nervous about tonight._

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool, leaded glass. Oddly enough, Flora's own heart was racing – fluttering against her chest like the caged wren she would have to wield at the altar in mere hours. This was accompanied by a peculiar curdling in the base of her belly that felt wholly unlike the nausea caused by the baby.

 _I can't have had a nightmare. I don't dream anymore. Why am I feeling like this?_

Flora took a deep, steadying gulp of cool air, watching the moisture from her own exhalations slowly cloud the glass before her face.

 _Am I nervous?_

There came a soft throb of pain from her hand; when Flora glanced down at her palm, she noticed a semi-circle of pink indentations dug into the delicate skin. These must have been caused by the pressure of her own bitten nails, driven into her palm by curled, overly tense fingers.

 _I must be nervous. I wish Alistair was here._

"Right!"

Leliana advanced across the chamber with the feverish efficiency of a commander issuing orders to his cornered troops.

"The bath is being brought up – hopefully it's not _cold_ by the time it makes it to this Maker-forsaken corner of the palace – and we have two candles to get you washed and that rampant mass of _hair_ dried. The dressmaker is arriving at nine bells. We need to be ready to leave an hour before midday. We _must_ adhere to this schedule, Florence, or _all is lost!"_

Flora nodded, boggling at the meticulous timings. There came a knock at the door, and the bard's head flicked around quick as a whip.

"Ah, that'll be the bath!"

Instead, much to Flora's delight, Zevran and Wynne were waiting in the mildewed corridor. The senior enchanter was clad in a rich crimson robe edged with bronze thread, her hair wound into an elaborate braid around her head, whereas the elf had managed to find a set of dark, high-necked leathers that almost appeared _formal -_ at a distance. Flora beamed, ridiculously happy to see them both; the peculiar nerves in her belly subsiding.

In place of a greeting, the elf strode straight across the chamber. Without hesitation, he clasped Flora's face in-between his elegant, tan fingers and kissed her squarely on the mouth; hard and purposeful.

"There! Your last as an unmarried woman," he declared gleefully, stepping back as an astonished Flora blinked. "It is _Antivan tradition_ that a bride be kissed by a man who is not her husband on the morning of her marriage."

"Oh! _Really?"_ she replied, fascinated. "I've not heard of that."

"Antivan tradition, or _lecherous elf_ tradition?" muttered Leliana, leaning out into the corridor in a vain effort to spot the approaching bath. "I think the latter!"

Zevran let out a roguish cackle, darting a quick wink in Flora's direction. She smiled back at him, before turning to Wynne. To her surprise, the strait-laced senior mage appeared distinctly damp around the eyes, the corners of her lined mouth puckering.

"Wynne," Flora breathed, reaching out to clasp her companion's hand. "Wynne, I- "

"Don't _start_ , Flora," retorted Wynne sternly, unable to disguise the distinct tremor in her voice. "I'll prove myself a foolish old woman by shedding an _abundance_ of tears today; I do not wish to start prematurely."

Fortunately, the bathwater arrived before the senior enchanter could succumb further to her emotions. The bathtub was hauled into the centre of the chamber, water spilling over the flagstones as the great copper receptacle was lowered before the hearth. A gaggle of excitable maidservants scuttled about the room; one adding more logs to the fire, another bringing forth a selection of scented soaps on a silver tray. A third presented a delighted Flora with a small bowl filled with cubes of raw turnip and carrot – covered with a fine sprinkling of earth – while a fourth waited for any further instructions.

Leliana dismissed the maids with polite tenseness; neither requiring nor desiring assistance.

" _Vêtements!"_ she commanded, keeping one ear out for the bell that marked the morning change of watch.

"Eh?" mumbled Flora - whom the command had been aimed at – through a mouth of raw turnip.

"Your _clothing!_ Take it all off."

Flora obediently pulled loose the strings of her nightgown, shaking her shoulders to let the voluminous material pool around her feet. Leliana gestured her towards the bathtub, rummaging through the tray of scented perfumes with a clatter of glass.

"It _is_ a large babe for only two-thirds grown," Wynne commented with a faint air of experience as she took a seat at the window; eyeing the swollen mound rising from Flora's belly. "Think it's a boy?"

"Possibly," agreed Leliana, placing several vials to one side. "Though according to the midwife, Florence herself was an overlarge babe. It could be a girl."

"Your body is as beautiful as I remember from the Temple of Sacred Ashes," Zevran commented kindly from the bed, in an effort to distract Flora from the horrors of birthing an _overly large babe_. "Even _more_ so. My ripening little peach."

Flora smiled at him gratefully, taking Leliana's steadying hand as she clambered into the bathtub. The water was an inoffensive temperature – no servant was going to risk either freezing or scalding their future queen – and she let her head tip back to soak her hair. It floated up about her shoulders, like thick clumps of dark red seaweed.

The bells kept ringing in the distance, their anticipatory pealing echoing even up as high as the Rebel Queen's chamber. Leliana, aware of Flora's distaste for overly girlish scents, spurned the fanciful floral concoctions that she personally adored, using instead perfumed oils of rosemary and hazel.

"Your fingernails are filthy," Leliana murmured with gritted teeth, scrubbing them furiously against a horsehair brush. "What have you been _doing_ , digging up handfuls of earth?"

 _YES,_ Flora thought defiantly to herself; unable to explain the strange urges that occasionally drove her to eat raw earth and gnaw on wooden spoons. Instead she smiled up at Leliana, peeling a wet rope of crimson away from her cheek.

"Thank you."

The bard blew her a kiss in response, working the oil methodically through to the end of each strand of hair. Flora settled back against the copper rim of the tub, eyeing the glistening milky orb of _Mairyn's Star_ as it sat plump on her fourth finger.

"This ring would make excellent bait," she commented idly after a moment. "I bet some really _interesting_ fish would be attracted to this if I attached it to the end of a line."

Wynne glanced across at Zevran, who gave a little helpless shrug; both hoping very much that Flora was joking.

After Flora was done soaking herself, she was given strict instructions to kneel before the hearth and direct her hair towards the heat of the flames, while Leliana took her place in the bathtub. Finian, who arrived clad in the full velvet-edged regalia of an arl, was promptly assigned the task of soaking up as much moisture as possible from the damp mass of tangled red.

"Don't you dare let that blanket fall, Floss," the young arl instructed sternly as he knelt on the flagstones, rubbing clumps of his sister's wet hair between two linen cloths.

Flora clutched the embroidered wool about her shoulders, letting the swell of her stomach rest on her thighs as she bowed her head. The baby gave a vigorous little nudge against one kidney, and she patted it gently through the skin.

"You're getting made _not-a-bastard_ today," she informed it solemnly, knowing that it's ears were formed enough to hear. "So there's no need to kick me."

The scent of violets soon billowed throughout the room as Leliana liberally applied the perfumes that Flora had spurned. The bard hummed a soft melody under her breath; such was the beauty of her voice that the others paused in their conversations to listen.

A short while later, Leliana finished in the bathtub with a soapy flourish, water streaming in rivulets down her magnificently toned and athletic body as she stood.

" _Hair?"_ she snapped imperiously towards Finian, who held up a half-dried strand of oxblood. "No, that's not yet dry enough. Keep going!"

"Maker's Breath," the young Cousland murmured under his breath as the bard strode, dripping, across the flagstones to retrieve her dressing robe. "Our Chantry sister is filled with _urgency_ this morning."

"We have a strict schedule," offered Flora helpfully from somewhere beneath the mass of hair. "We have to stick to it, or _'all is lost'."_

" _How_ much will be lost, flower?" asked Finian innocently, shooting Zevran a sly glance.

"All!"

"Some?"

"No! _All!"_

As the morning watch changed, the excited rhythms of the Royal Palace increased in intensity, each occupant counting down the hours until the coronation began. Although the ceremony itself was taking place in the Grand Chantry, the attendants would be returning to the palace for feasting and festivities that would last nearly eight hours. It would be the most monumental occasion since the coronation of Cailan five years prior; and, especially in the wake of the Fifth Blight, everybody was looking forward to the celebrations. The coronation – and the wedding – were seen as yet another portent of hope for Ferelden's future; tangible as the lady Cousland's swollen belly.

Up in the Royal Chamber, Alistair paced back and forth across the length of the room in a frenzy of nervous excitement. Teagan, Eamon and Fergus attempted in turns to calm him down; while a grinning Oghren was determined to insert as many lewd _wedding night_ puns as possible into every comment. A pair of smirking manservants had manoeuvred a wood-framed silken privacy screen into the room without comment; resting it discretely against the wall in preparation for later.

Alistair, who was clad in the traditional tan leather and pale fur garb of a Fereldan king, had his head bare in preparation for the ceremonial crown. He paused before the mirror, running a finger over the short, neatly trimmed facial hair over his jaw, before turning to face Teagan in mild agitation.

"How is she even _getting_ to the Grand Chantry? She's not riding on horseback alone, is she?"

"I'll have her on my saddle," Fergus replied, in a tone caught halfway between reassurance and amusement. Like the other nobles of Ferelden, the young teyrn was clad in the formal livery of his family seat; the distinctive olive and navy colours of Highever reflected in the expensive cloth of his tunic.

"And with a proper escort? The people will all be on the streets – they've been given a holiday – I don't want them rushing towards your horse."

" _Maker's Breath,_ Alistair! _"_ Fergus retorted, a rueful smile curling the corner of his full Cousland mouth. "I'll not let a hair on my little sister's head be harmed."

Alistair grimaced, not entirely reassured. Reaching for a half-drunk and lukewarm tankard of ale, he swallowed it in three gulps before turning to Eamon. The Chancellor made a final few notes on a long skein of parchment before handing the letter off to a scribe.

"Once you're both inside the Chantry, the guards will allow the crowds into the Square; where they'll wait for your first public appearance as man and wife."

Eamon's eyebrows shot into his greying hairline as Alistair gave a slightly damp sniff in response, his hazel eyes gleaming with emotional anticipation.

"Come on, lad," the arl said, not unkindly. "Keep it together."

"I wish I could see Flo now," said Alistair in defiant response, turning his head longingly towards the tower where the Rebel Queen's childhood bedchamber lay. "I can't wait until midday. I might go and say _good morning._ See if the baby let her get any sleep."

"Best of luck getting past the lay-sister Leliana," Teagan murmured from where he was leaning against the window. "You know how much of a _devotee_ she is to tradition. I believe the senior enchanter Wynne is also present in Flora's bedchamber."

A small muscle at the corner of Alistair's eye twitched, and he visibly deflated.

"Well, I'm not getting past those two," he admitted, resigned. "They're more effective than guard-Mabari. Speaking of Mabari, Ferg, how far in pup is Saela?"

"She'll be birthing them as you get back from your progress, by my estimates," replied Fergus, more than happy to distract Alistair from his own eager anticipation. "I'll train the strongest pair in the litter myself; I've got a knack for it. I… I trained Jethro."

The teyrn was silent for a moment, recalling the brave hound that had fallen in defence of Finian during the final battle.

"Thank you," replied Alistair, earnestly. "I can't wait to get more dogs around here. This place is _far_ too clean; it wants for a nice layer of animal hair over everything."

Meanwhile, up in Moira Theirin's childhood bedchamber, Flora's hair was _finally_ dry; due to a combination of the hearth's radiating warmth, Finian's efforts with a linen cloth – and, finally, some tactful application of Wynne's staff.

During the delay, Leliana had changed into her own outfit – the cream and maroon garb of a lay sister, the heavy weave of the material clinging to her athletic form like poured milk. Despite this necessary adherence to uniform, Leliana had managed to add her own Orlesian touches to the outfit. Beneath the long skirt, she wore a pair of rose-pink, raw silk slippers, and perfume was applied liberally to both wrists and behind her ears.

"How do I look, Wynne?" the bard asked with a coy smile, gazing at her own reflection in the warped surface of the mirror. "Acceptable, I hope."

"You look lovely, my dear," replied the senior enchanter, giving a soft laugh. "The perfect picture of devotion."

Flora was perched on the edge of the bed, a dressing robe clutched loosely around her bare shoulders. She had eaten her way methodically through the bowl of raw turnips, trying not to let the nervous squirming in the base of her stomach alarm her.

 _I'm not scared. Why would I be scared? I've been Warden-Commander, I've spoken in front of ten thousand troops._

Zevran was watching her carefully, the elf's keenly-honed perception sensing that something was perhaps _not quite right._ He was almost as skilled as Alistair at picking up on the fine nuances of Flora's expressions; at seeing through the customary solemnity to the latent emotion below. He was just about to lean towards her and whisper a soft query into her ear, when there came a quick rap at the door.

" _The dress!"_ breathed Leliana, checking quickly to see that Flora was decent before scurrying across to the entrance. "Perfectly on time, just as instructed."

The dressmaker entered, with the shadowed eyes and limp hair of one who had been up all night. Leliana immediately swooped forwards to intercept the muslin-wrapped length of material, murmuring effusive thanks. The dressmaker handed over a small leather pouch, and Leliana returned the gesture with a similarly-sized silk purse. When the woman made to refuse – garbing the Hero of Ferelden on her wedding day would bring in business enough – the bard murmured an insistence, pressing the pouch into her hand.

While Finian and Leliana made to unwrap the dress itself, Flora peered out of the window down to the courtyard below. Servants were crowding over the cobblestones in a near constant stream; carrying tables, wine-barrels, standing candelabra, and other items associated with great social gatherings. The baby gave a little nudge inside her stomach and Flora rubbed the heel of her hand absentmindedly over the high, swollen mound.

"Florence, _ma petite,"_ came Leliana's voice from across the room. "Are you ready?"

Flora nodded, letting the dressing robe drop from around her shoulders. She padded across the flagstones clad only in her smalls; much to Finian's dismay as he clapped his hand over his face a fraction too late.

"I'm now _blind_ in my only remaining eye, Floss, thanks a lot!"

Flora let out a little grunt of apology, confusion mounting. She could recall Leliana describing Anora Mac Tir's wedding gown – the bard had not been present, but had come to hear of it through other channels. Anora's gown had been made from sky-blue silk velvet imported from Orlais, each yard of fabric costing hundreds of gold. The queen had worn a gossamer veil which sat, cloud-like, atop a tightly braided intricacy of golden hair.

"But this doesn't even look like a _dress_ ," she observed, brow furrowing as she gazed at the swathes of leather on the bed. "Where's the head-hole?"

"It's _not_ a traditional wedding gown," Leliana confirmed, positioning Flora on the flagstones and lifting one of the swathes of leather. "That's the point. Zevran? She'll need to be sewn in right from the beginning."

The elf rose to his feet, duly producing a stiff, leather-working needle and a skein of thread. He went to assist the bard, dragging over the stool from the hearth to perch himself on as he bent to Flora's waist. Flashing a quick wink up at the astonished bride, he began to pin the leather around her hips.

Finian, who had been present in the relevant discussion between Fergus, Eamon and Leliana, took pity on his younger sister and went to explain; his gaze still firmly directed at the ceiling.

"Floss, your greatest asset as queen will be that you're _not traditional._ You're the Hero of Ferelden; a girl with the power to summon and lead armies; a _dragon slayer."_

"It was a demon in the form of a dragon, not an _actual_ dragon," Flora corrected with Herring pedantry, lifting her arms obediently as Leliana fastened a swathe of buttery-soft leather around her waist.

Finian rolled his eye at his sister's exactness, leaning back against the bed cushions.

"It doesn't matter. Flossie, do you _know_ how many eyes across Thedas have been studying the map over the past year? Knowing that Ferelden is _vulnerable_? Wondering how _far_ they could possibly encroach upon our borders while we've been dealing with Darkspawn in the east?"

Flora blinked, feeling Zevran's deft fingers brush against her hip as he worked the needle skilfully through the leather.

"Now, it helps that there's a popular Theirin on the throne once again," Finian continued, as his sister rotated according to Leliana's quiet instructions. "Alistair has the look of Maric, and has proven himself in battle. But there's a message that needs to start spreading across Thedas from _now –_ that Ferelden's new rulers are undoubtedly _unconventional,_ but they're as strong as silverite and twice as unyielding."

" _Oui,"_ mumbled Leliana, her mouth full of pins. "And that Alistair's queen is one who can summon and lead armies. Who has slain Archdemons and ended Blights."

"Just the _one_ Blight. What's that got to do with my _outfit? –_ oh," said Flora, suddenly recalling the conversation from yesterday. "You're dressing me like one of the Alamarri."

Finian clapped his hands together, finally daring to look at his sister now that her bosom had been sewn into a leather corset.

"Like one of the ancient tribal queens, yes," he murmured, and although he did not _say_ the name of the Maker's Bride; the inference was clear. "The women who rallied armies of thousands and then fought like banshees at their side. This is the image we are presenting today."

Flora scratched her nose, thoughtfully. She had been told a hundred times of her typically _Fereldan_ colouring – the milk white skin, the dark red hair, usually in conjunction with remarks on her traditionally-hewn profile. All the Couslands were descended from one of the oldest Alamarri tribes; it just so happened that these ancient phenotypes had manifested particularly strongly in her.

It took a full hour for Flora to be sewn fully into the leather garb. She bore it with northern stoicism; it had taken almost as long for her to don full Grey Warden ceremonial garb.

"This reminds me of when we were preparing for the Landsmeet vote," she said, lifting her mass of hair above her shoulders so that Leliana could adjust a final strap. "Remember, when I got dressed up in proper Warden stuff for the first time?"

" _Oui,_ and this outfit today is _also_ for the purpose of spectacle. Can you breathe?"

Flora had been a little worried when she had seen the corset – with painful memories of being laced into them tight enough to disguise her swollen stomach – but this one had been cut perfectly to the curve of her belly, to _emphasise_ rather than to hide.

"I can breathe," she said, eyeing her fur-lined, leather-boosted cleavage in awe. "But I think I might knock the Grand Cleric's hat off with _these_ if I turn around too quickly _._ I feel… thrusty. _"_

"I _can't_ breathe," announced Zevran dramatically, collapsing backwards on the bed and gazing at Flora in a great imitation of a moonstruck youth. "You're going to feature prominently in my erotic fantasies tonight, _mi sirenita."_

Flora continued to stare at herself in the full length mirror, eyes wide. The bodice emphasised her breasts and her high, rounded belly, the soft, dark leather clinging lovingly to the flesh. It was cut low in the back to expose her from neck to base of spine, and the skirts flowed about her legs like liquid; cut up to the thigh. She would wear no boots, since the Alamarri traditionally wed barefoot.

"When you said it was a _leather_ dress, I thought I'd get _really sweaty,"_ Flora said at last, letting out a cackle. "But I can see that's not going to be a problem. How many cows died to make this? Actually, probably only _half_ a cow. There's not much of it."

"A cow-leg," added Zevran, with an appreciative smirk. "If that."

 _It's meant to show off the baby,_ Flora thought to herself, eyeing herself a final time in the mirror as Leliana stepped back, placing needle and thread proudly back in the pouch. _And the marks left by the Archdemon on my thigh and between my shoulder-blades._

 _It's a message without words. Just like when I was Warden-Commander and wore my hair in the high ponytail every day. On the morning of the final battle, everyone had the crimson ribbon wrapped about their weapons._

"You look beautiful, and very _Fereldan,"_ Leliana murmured, unable to stop a beam of pride from spreading across her own lovely features. "Let them see that _this_ queen does not wear Orlesian silk or Nevarran scent."

"She wears fish oil?"

"She does _not,"_ countered the bard with a _moue_ of horror, a small glass vial manifesting in her hand. "She wears _essence of violet_. Give me your wrists."

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOoohhh the wedding day is finally here! How exciting. And Flo's getting all strapped up into her hot leather mama gear, haha. Lol I literally take my own wedding dress out of the cupboard and just STARE at it from time to time, I'm such a loser! The other night I had half a bottle of wine and watched my wedding DVD. I LOVE WEDDINGS!

Flora is not going to be a hot leather mama at her own wedding if she gets her own way and drenches herself in fish oil though, haha.

Incidentally, the film reference scene from the previous chapter was CLUELESS! The bit where Cher helps her lawyer-father with underlining deposition documents.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	55. The Kaddis-Marked Queen

Chapter 55: The Kaddis-Marked Queen

As the eleventh hour of the wedding day crept nearer, the taverns and inns of Denerim began to empty. The citizens had begun their celebrating early – many had been eating and drinking since dawn – but all were aware that at the _eleventh hour_ , the lady Cousland would be making her way from the palace to the Square of the Bride. The route that she would take was obvious – soldiers of the Royal Army were already lining the street on both sides, under the direction of General Bryland – and the people wished to claim a decent spot from which to view their future queen and her brothers.

Eager to show their appreciation for the girl who had become the public face of Ferelden's victory over the Fifth Blight, spectators had gathered fistfuls of wildflowers to throw before the Cousland horses. Others – aware of Flora's unusual background – had scattered dozens of seashells across the road. Crimson ribbons had been tied to sticks, ready to be waved frantically once the bridal procession came into view.

Children, who did not quite understand what was going on, but who had picked up on their parents' excitement, scampered about the stern-faced soldiers; picking up handfuls of scattered blossoms and tossing them into the air. Others plucked up stray strands of crimson silk and ran alongside the canals to make the ribbons flutter joyfully in their wake.

The king, Chancellor and other members of the Landsmeet had already made their way to the Grand Chantry an hour prior. Those who had gone early to claim their vantage points along the route were rewarded with a glimpse of the royal retinue. Alistair, a sheen of sweat on his brow, cut an impressive figure on his warhorse; head bare in preparation for the coronation regalia. He lifted a distracted hand to acknowledge the crowds that had gathered to greet him, smiling with excitement and nervousness mingling on his handsome face.

Back up in the Rebel Queen's childhood bedchamber, the bride's final preparations were taking place. After the novelty of the leather garb had worn off, Flora wandered over to the window seat. Propping her bare legs up against the stone wall, she gazed down at the activity in the lower courtyard. The bells were still pealing joyfully in the city below; their mingled metallic chiming echoing the great sonorous boom of the Grand Chantry belfry.

Idly, Flora twisted _Mairyn's Star_ around her fourth finger, then remembered that she was supposed to place it on her other hand in preparation for the marriage band.

Finian and Wynne had departed to seek out Fergus, but Zevran was seated beside her, plaiting a handful of slender braids into her loose, dark red hair. Flora had not cut it for over six months, and it now fell in a heavy mass to her waist. She was not wearing the Cousland diadem – for the crown of a queen would soon be placed upon her head – but a dozen laurel leaves worked in gold, each no larger than a fingernail, had been threaded amidst the cloud of oxblood curls; cunningly placed to catch the light.

Leliana, in the meantime, was finishing off her own subtle makeup, a handheld enamelled mirror held before her carefully painted face. Underneath the austere Chantry garb, she had donned a pair of silk stockings edged with ribbon; a source of secret pleasure that would be hidden by the robe's long skirt.

"There: I am ready," the bard announced, aware that all eyes would be on her during the closing hymn. "Zevran, are you finished?"

The elf replied an affirmative in his native tongue, licking his thumb and sweeping back a stray curl from Flora's forehead.

 _"_ _Sí._ Are you ready for her?"

Leliana nodded, gesturing impatiently for Flora to come over to the bed. There was a faint glow of perspiration on the bard's forehead – she had contributed as much as Eamon to the day's organisation, and was acutely aware that the success of the coronation could open many potential doors for her future.

Lowering her bare legs, Flora rose to her feet and padded obediently across the flagstones. Sitting down on the bed beside the bard, she let Leliana take her chin and tilt it upwards.

"The Maker worked His best artistry on your face, _ma petite_ ," said the lay-sister after a moment, giving a small, slightly rueful laugh as she set aside the gilded palette that had been in her possession since Val Royeux. "We need not enhance your eyes or mouth with cosmetics."

Instead, Leliana went to open a small, rounded tin, which turned out to contain a dark red paste with a familiar herbal odour.

"Is that- " Flora started, and Leliana responded with a little nod.

 _"_ _Oui,_ it is _kaddis._ Nowadays the people of Ferelden daub it on the faces of their Mabari; but the Alamarri once wore it on their bodies when they were going into battle."

Flora eyed the crimson paste for a moment, and then shrugged her shoulders cheerfully.

"Sounds good to me. Is this the last thing we have to do?"

Leliana nodded, dipping the tip of her smallest finger into the crimson paste.

 _"_ _Oui._ You have been very patient, daughter of Herring."

The daughter of Herring made to smile, and then froze as Leliana lifted her finger to her cheek, daubing a simple, archaic pattern beneath Flora's gold-flecked eye. Withdrawing her hand, the bard beamed; delighted with her own handiwork.

 _"_ _Et, voila!_ We are ready. I admit, it is nice to see you out of the same _three_ dull tunics that you always wear."

Flora stood before the mirror, gazing at herself in astonishment. The dark leather clung to the augmented curves of her body, sewn into place so that there was not an inch of spare material. It was deliberately archaic in design – a dress from an Age long past. In the back, it dropped to the base of her spine, leaving her shoulders and arms bare; in the front, the cut of the leather emphasised the swell of her breasts. The skirt was slit high enough to show her Archdemon-marked thigh, her feet left traditionally bare. Her hair fell to her waist like thick, curling tendrils of dark red seaweed, glinting where the golden laurel leaves had been threaded. The _kaddis_ pattern daubed beneath her right eye stood out stark against the paleness of her cheek; the only cosmetic enhancement used on her solemn, fine-boned face.

"I don't usually look like this," she said in awe after a moment, in the understatement of the Age. "I look…"

"Like a beautiful, fearsome woman who _kills dragons_ and _births kings_ ," murmured Leliana, the pride aglow on her features. "Or queens. Whatever this little one is."

 _"_ _Sí,"_ agreed Zevran throatily, manifesting on Flora's other side and sliding a lean arm around her waist. "I'd wager that Arl Teagan, Leonas Bryland - _all_ the men who usually call you _pup_ and _poppet_ and _child_ \- will not be doing so today."

"It was a demon, not a dragon," Flora corrected for the second time that morning, still distracted by the startling, painted girl in the mirror. "Can I have a quick snack before we go? Otherwise my stomach will rumble throughout the ceremony."

Leliana appeared about to acquiesce, and then the distinct, clear sound of the eleventh-hour bell rose above the distant chimes of the city Chantries. The bard shot upright as though electrified by mage lightning; her blue eyes widening in alarm.

"You'll have to eat and walk, _ma petite!"_

The bard led the way down the corridors, her head held high with the imperious self-import of the Chantry. Flora followed in her wake, munching methodologically on some carrot sticks, the flagstones cold against her bare feet. Bringing up the rear, the elf glided along with leonine elegance, the corner of his mouth curling upwards as he noted the reaction of those whom they came across.

Sure enough, as they passed the stained glass Calenhad window, the servants in the corridor ahead drew back against the walls; dropping into far deeper bows than were customary.

 _"_ _Your Majesty_ ," they breathed, in tones that ranged from respectful to reverent.

Flora eyed them in mild confusion, swallowing the last bite of carrot.

"I'm not married to Alistair yet," she said to Leliana's cream-silk clad shoulders as the bard swept towards the entrance hall. "Why are they calling me that?"

"Because you look like a queen, _ma crevette,"_ her companion replied, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

Flora shrugged; it was a fair point. Two wide-eyed guards shoved hastily at a pair of double doors, and then they were emerging out into the palace entrance hall.

This cavernous space, with its great flying buttresses and dual lines of opposing hearths, had also been decorated in honour of the upcoming nuptials. The entwined Cousland-Theirin banner hung from the lofty ceiling beams; each one hanging down in a glorious parade of crimson, emerald green and gold. Sunlight cascaded in through the high windows, casting an array of gleaming patterns on the newly-replaced velvet carpet.

At the far end of the hall, the Cousland brothers stood amidst a crowd of their retainers., They formed a mass of Highever colours, clad in matching livery; Fergus wearing the teyrn's crown on his short-cropped russet hair, and Finian wearing a smaller band to denote his newly granted arl's status. The latter was saying something to Fergus to make him laugh, gesturing to one of the great Mabari statues that guarded the entrance. The teyrn grinned, making some comment back while raising a tankard in an impromptu toast.

At the sound of Leliana's heels tapping against the flagstones, the retainers fell into a respectful silence. Finian, trying not to smile, nudged for his brother to look around.

" – don't want to get started too early," Fergus continued saying jovially as he turned. "The ale isn't worth the- "

The young teyrn broke off his sentence abruptly, jaw falling open. The tankard dropped from his hand – fortunately, the contents splattered over the carpeting as opposed to his navy velvet tunic – and he mouthed silently for a moment.

"I told you," Finian declared gleefully, striding forward to greet their little sister when it appeared that _elder_ brother was still struck dumb. "Floss, you look like something from the old stories. _Elethea the Fair and Unyielding."_

Flora had no idea who that was, and so gazed up at her tall brother without responding. Finian brushed a slender scholar's finger over her cheek, his feather-light touch tracing the _kaddis_ pattern daubed there.

"You look ravishing," he said, admiring the golden laurel leaves woven into her hair. "Ravishing, and a little like you need to be _tamed._ You wild beauty."

Fergus managed to gather his composure sufficient to come forwards and greet his sister. Instead of embracing Flora, he chose to ruffle her on the head in a gruff, almost fatherly manner.

"You do look astonishing, Florence," he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on her face. "I can understand what Eamon was going on about last night now- the whole _Alamarri_ concept. I thought he had drunk a little too much Antivan port-wine and forgotten what Age we were in."

Flora smiled up at him while Zevran gave an appreciative snort; more than aware of the potency of his native country's port-wine.

"Anyway, I've – I've got something for you, " the teyrn continued, reaching into the pocket of his velvet tunic. "I don't know if it'll match what you're wearing, but… I thought it would be a good gift."

"But it's not my birthday," Flora replied, relatively certain that had passed several days prior. "Why are you giving me a gift?"

Fergus did not mention that three storage chambers in the palace had currently been stacked to the brim with wedding gifts brought by the foreign guests; each one trying to outdo the other. Instead, he held out a slender golden bangle in the shape of an ouroboros fish, the delicate scaled head consuming its own tail. Flora gazed at it, wide-eyed; Fergus reached for her hand and slid the bangle on over her slender, nail-bitten fingers. The metal band fell down about her wrist, heavy and gleaming in the hearth-light.

"Now you can take a piece of Herring with you down the aisle. Your father, by the way, will be seated with us – next to Finian. So you'll be able to see him well enough."

"Thank you," Flora breathed after a moment, absurdly touched by her elder brother's thoughtful gift. She reached up and Fergus ducked his head, letting her put her arms around his neck. He went to pat her back, then realised that the entire expanse of skin – from her neck to the base of her spine – was bare, and hastily went to pat her shoulder instead.

The great doors were opened to the sunny gravelled forecourt, the Cousland retainers flooding out in a sea of navy and olive. The horses had already been brought out from the stables – crimson ribbons plaited into their manes and tails, and pale lilies woven around their bridles – but there followed a slight delay as they were allocated out to each rider. The men milled around, laughing and exchanging light-hearted comments as the stable-boys frantically tried to assign each horse to a knight.

"I _definitely_ left instructions regarding this!" snarled Leliana, abandoning her demure lay-sister demeanour and plunging into the melee. "I should never _delegate!"_

"Flora?"

A soft, familiar voice echoed from the shady patch beside the wall. While everyone else busied themselves with the horses, Flora picked her way carefully over to where the senior enchanter was standing. Wynne was clad in her best maroon silk robes, the fabric expensive and weighty; her silver hair caught up in a simple, elegant bun.

"Ow, I hope there's not too much _gravel_ between here and the Grand Chantry," Flora whispered, lifting one bare foot and then the other. "Ouch. You look lovely, Wynne."

Wynne smiled down at her, and there came a sudden gleam in the old mage's periwinkle-blue eyes.

"As do you, Flora. But that's _not_ the praise I wanted to give you on this morning: you've always been a beautiful girl, regardless of outfit."

Flora's brow furrowed, but she remained silent to let the elder mage speak. Wynne took a deep breath, her gaze not leaving Flora's face.

"I know that I've been strict with you on our travels; perhaps _overly_ so at times. I think I've spent more time lecturing you during this past nine months than I did in four years at the Circle. And I did so because… I was afraid that you were not ready for the burden of the Blight to be placed upon your shoulders: I saw at first only a naïve little girl fresh from a Tower, supremely inexperienced and possessing a minor obsession with _fish."_

"Not _minor_ ," Flora corrected; the senior enchanter smiled and continued.

"I may be a stubborn old woman, but I'll readily admit when I'm wrong. Now, I don't know whether you call it grace, or _grit,_ or northern stoicism – but you've borne yourself with great merit throughout all of this, child."

Wynne spread out her hands, somehow encompassing _all of it:_ the gathering of the armies, the Landsmeet, the final battle, the wedding and the crown that would follow; a golden band that would bind Flora to a public life for the rest of her years.

"I know you asked for none of it. But you've made me so proud, 'Flora Cove'."

The senior enchanter had clearly rehearsed these words alone in her chamber, so that any tears could be expended on the _practise_ and not the _actual._

"I was glad to have you lecture me, because you're so wise," replied Flora, immediate and heartfelt. "And I needed you to be strict, because sometimes I _was_ silly and naive. You've been like a mother to me, Wynne, and I'll always be grateful for it."

"More like a _grandmother,"_ Wynne corrected, in a vain attempt to suppress the surge of emotion that followed. "You're too young to be my daughter."

During her rehearsals, the senior enchanter had envisioned what Flora might reply - but _this_ was certainly nothing that she had predicted. It was too late: the tears had broken free and were trickling down the senior enchanter's face.

Flora looked about her for a cloth- there was certainly no room for _pockets_ on her dress – and finally just used her thumbs to gently brush the liquid away from the older woman's cheeks. Wynne took a deep breath, steeling herself and envisioning Gregoir's stern and un-amused expression.

"Floss?"

Fergus approached on the saddle of a lofty chestnut mare, the Highever colours hanging down in silken tassels from its bridle. The horses had finally been assigned correctly; the retainers who would go on foot were whispering excitedly to one another.

Flora gazed at her eldest brother, putting up a hand to shield her eyes from the overhead sun. Fergus grinned back at her, removing a leather riding glove and reaching down a hand.

"Ready to go?"

Ser Gilmore approached with eyes professionally lowered and arms outstretched. Flora let herself be picked up, grateful for the respite on her bare feet. Fergus leaned down, receiving his little sister from the knight's arms and settling her in the saddle before him.

"Comfortable?" he said in her ear, sliding one arm around her stomach as he had seen Alistair do. "More importantly: _secure?"_

Flora nodded, leaning back against her brother's chest. She noticed Ser Gilmore trying his hardest not to look at her exposed leg as it dangled by the horse's neck. The skirt of the dress fell in such a way that it revealed her thigh, and she remembered suddenly the _purpose_ of the dress' design.

 _Not just to remind the audience that we're descended from the Alamarri. But to remind them that I survived the assault of an Archdemon's soul._

She dropped a finger to trace the white starburst-shaped mark on her outer thigh, large as a man's spread hand. There was a similar one on her abdomen, though this was hidden by the dress, and smaller silvered marks on the flat of her palms. The largest scar was on her back, between her shoulder blades – the aftermath of the Archdemon tearing through her body in a frantic attempt to gain purchase had utterly obliterated her _Peraquialus_ freckles.

Before mounting her own grey mare, Leliana advanced forward with the same dark sable fur that she had draped around Flora in the Guerrin manor. The bard passed the fur up to Fergus, who wrapped it carefully around his sibling's bare back.

Feeling the heavy weight on her shoulders, Flora gazed up at the encroaching midday sun and then cast a plaintive look down at Leliana.

"I'm going to sweat like a pig!"

"Think of _cool_ things," Leliana instructed, sternly. "Think on Herring. The wind, the waves…"

 _The unfriendly locals, the depressing stone huts, the relentless drizzle,_ the bard continued, mentally.

Flora nodded mutedly, clutching the fur around her chest and shifting position on the saddle. Suddenly, she was grateful for the exposed back, shoulders and leg of the dress; the gaps in the leather would hopefully allow for some air to circulate.

"Right," announced Fergus, raising his voice. "Let's get my little sister married, eh?"

There rose a cheer from the gathered retainers, and Finian let out a cackle that echoed to the lofty crenelated towers above.

"It's only taken nine Ages to get a Cousland on the throne. Better late than never!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: So I don't know if I ever mentioned this or not, but I envisioned the Royal Palace entrance hall as looking like the only bit of the castle that you get to see in game – the bit with the blue carpeting.

Elethea – who Finian compares Flora with – is actually a Cousland ancestor. She was the Alamarri teyrna of Highever who led an army against Calenhad in an attempt to resist the unification of Ferelden. It was actually super fun to write about Flo getting all dressed up for a change, since- for pretty much the entire time I've written her – she's been wearing Alistair's shirts, plain tunics, ratty old wooden jumpers. I also thought the kaddis thing on the face was a nice Alamarri-esque touch (reminiscent of the whole Celtic warriors woad facepaint thing) though it's just headcanon, lol.

Flora Cove is of course the name that Flora went by in the Circle, named after the little cove that Herring was located on.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	56. En Route to the Grand Chantry

Chapter 56: En Route to the Grand Chantry

As Fergus nudged the mare gently in the ribs with the toe of his leather boot, Flora felt a slow roll of fear in her stomach; curdling the carrots and porridge she had eaten for her breakfast.

 _What's wrong with you?_ she berated herself inwardly, furious at her own nervousness. _You've faced down hordes of Darkspawn, assassins – and demons in the Fade. Why are you scared of this?_

The Cousland procession made its way down through the palace hunting grounds; which seemed far sparser after its trees had been taken for reinforcement scaffolds and siege weaponry during the last weeks of the Blight. As they neared the boundary walls, the sound of the city bells grew louder, rising into a tangled metallic choir of pealing. Loudest and deepest of all, the Grand Chantry bells rang out an imperious summons.

 _Florence Cousland, your king and crown await you._

Flora swallowed, feeling her pulse surge in her throat like a runaway horse.

 _I wish you were still here,_ she thought miserably, knowing that her spirits were unable to hear her – if even they still _existed. I don't know if I can be brave without you._

Palace guardsmen and soldiers from the Royal Army were lining the route ahead, the crowds having flooded out of the taverns and onto the streets to catch a glimpse of the bride. As soon as the first Cousland retainers came into view, a cheer went up; the people clustering as close as they dared to the side of the road.

Finian, who openly delighted in the attention, grinned and raised his hand to acknowledge the cheers. Leliana, who also enjoyed the attention but was more graceful in her reception of it, let a mysterious smile play over her lips; bowing her head demurely as she guided her mare with an expert hand.

Flora was grateful for the natural neutrality of her face; she had become so renowned for her solemn demeanour that not even the crowds were expecting her to smile. She turned her head from side to side, looking at the frantically waving crimson ribbons, while children threw flowers and tiny pink seashells into the road before the horses. Their iron-clad hooves crunched the delicate curlicues of calcium into fragments; the sound reminded Flora of when the Waking Sea flung a great wash of sand and shale against the reef in furious temper. Fragments of shell – from broken barnacles and conches – would be strewn over the rocks, along with fragments of driftwood and clumps of blackish-green seaweed.

As a bead of sweat broke out on Flora's forehead, she decided to take Leliana's advice and _think on Herring._

She could not close her eyes to summon the memory, so instead opened her mouth and let the salt-edged Denerim air linger on her tongue. The seagulls called out mournfully overhead; in her mind, she envisioned a harsh northern edge to their tone and added the other birds of the Storm Coast: cormorant, gannets and silver-backed terns.

 _The gulls are fatter and tamer here in the city, used to feasting on gutter run-off and the deluge of rotting waste from the fish-markets. In Herring, they have to fight for every scrap and bone; too slow, and they'll get a swift kick from an irate fisherman. When I was too young to go out on the boats, I used to chase them away from the lobster pots._

 _How many lobster pots were fastened to the reef? We could never build piers and jetties like those here that extend out into the sweet-natured Amaranthine Ocean. The Waking Sea would chew them apart in an instant and hurl their remains onto the beach in contempt._

 _Sixteen, I think. Was it sixteen?_

 _It was sixteen. The last two were fastened to iron rings bolted right at the end of the Hag's Teeth. I used to clamber over the reef barefoot to empty them, avoiding the patches slick with weed._

 _I was always barefoot, wasn't I? I don't think I started wearing shoes until the Circle Tower. Even then it took about two years before I grew used to them. The Templars kept shouting at me to put my boots on._

Flora looked down at her bare feet – her toes extending out beneath the soft, rich brown sable fur - and felt oddly comforted.

 _I remember the drizzle always coming through the roof; every building in Herring leaked like a sieve. No one had rugs or carpeting – it would have rotted away in weeks – just planking, or compacted wet sand. You grew used to being always damp and cold, no matter the season; I bet it's raining in Herring now, even as the sun shines down here. The sky would be a muddy wash of cloud, darker in patches where storms were brewing._

 _What else do I remember?_

The answer came as a crashing resonance in her mind, echoing with the sound of prevailing winds and the lash of rain. The waves hurled themselves against the confines of her skull, relentless in their assault. The Waking Sea was far from the largest ocean in Thedas; it was narrow and vicious as a snake, perpetually furious and ready to wage war on those who dared venture onto its waters.

 _I spent ten years living in the thrall of your almighty wrath; in defiance of your frenzied storms and treacherous tides. You chewed up entire fleets like toothpicks, spitting out the wreckage of galleons and men onto our rocks and beaches. How many times did I press my lips to the mouths of drowned men, trying to breathe some life back into them? Most of the time, you won; you claimed their lives in watery tribute._

 _But, not always._

 _My Herring-dad went out on you every day in a boat no larger than a bathtub. I lived my childhood chasing the waves, collecting driftwood and emptying rock-pools. I don't know how many nights I spent roped to the Hag's Teeth with golden light surging outwards from my skin; until the ships turned away from the deadly reef and back into the safety of the open water._

 _I wasn't scared of you, although I was a child and should rightly have been terrified. And the reason why I wasn't scared, wasn't because of my spirits. It was because my dad wasn't scared. He was from Herring, after all; and the people of Herring have seawater in their veins and coarse sand in their hearts. They don't frighten easily._

Flora looked down at the plump white pearl on her finger – _Mairyn's Star –_ and knew that at the centre of its lustrous beauty lay a tiny fleck of grit; without which there would be no jewel at all.

 _I might be Bryce Cousland's daughter and the lover of Ferelden's newest king, but I'm still a Herring girl. There's coarse sand in my heart, too._

A moment later, she realised that her anxieties had dissolved like salt in water; her stomach settled and her heart beating at its normal, sedentary rhythm.

 _What was I even scared of? Come on, now. There are harder things than walking down an aisle and having something placed on your head._

The horses came to a halt with a stutter of hoofbeats and Flora startled as though awakened suddenly from a deep sleep. They had reached the Square of the Bride – emptied of crowds by the guards – and the Grand Chantry loomed above them like the shadow of the Maker Himself. The pealing of the great bells in the lofty towers had reached a crescendo, the sound resonating between the Chantry offices and Templar headquarters that flanked the Square.

The Cousland retainers immediately busied themselves with the horses, their faces bright with excitement. After the murder of the old teyrn and teyrna, and the general slaughter at Highever; this wedding seemed to confirm the triumphant resurrection of the bloodied but unbroken Cousland family.

Fergus slid down onto the cobblestones, the golden band on his forehead glinting in the sun. It was a few minutes before midday, and the Square was bathed in a mellow, cloudless light. He reached up to help his sister from the saddle, gazing down at her with a touch of anxiety.

"Are you alright, Floss? You didn't say a word on the way here."

Flora smiled up at him, realising that she _was_ alright; that the nervousness from earlier had evaporated, leaving a steely resolution in its wake. The fur sat snug around her shoulders; no longer hot or overly weighty.

 _I have to get this right. Not just for Leliana, but for Alistair, and for Ferelden. If we get this right, it sends a message across all Thedas._

Before she could reply, Leliana herself swept forwards; the Chantry headdress already pinned in place over her braided auburn locks. The bard gave the young Cousland a quick once-over, purring in approval as she rested her fingers against Flora's forehead and felt the coolness of the skin.

"Good girl – I _told_ you that you wouldn't sweat! Now – are you ready?"

"Herring girls are ready for anything," Flora replied, immediately. "A Hurlock could pop up from behind Andraste's flame and I'd _take it out_ with Alistair's royal skarp- skorp – _spork."_

" _Sceptre,"_ corrected Leliana, with a little laugh. "And I doubt that scenario is likely, but it's good to know that you're prepared for it nonetheless."

The bard reached up to add the final touch to Flora's entrance garb – a sheer black veil, lined with a hundred tiny ivory pearls.

 _Remember how we practised the disrobing of this and the fur last night,_ the bard's eyes reminded her silently. _A dozen times with the pillowcase and bedsheet, until you had mastered it._

Flora nodded: she remembered.

Once the horses had been led to the Templar stables nearby, the others prepared to take their leave. They would not be ascending the fifty four basalt steps that led up to the Grand Chantry's great oak doors; but instead travel a short distance around the west face of the building, entering the cathedral by a side entrance to take their seats. Wynne and Leliana departed arm in arm with Zevran and Finian in their wake; the elf blowing a kiss over his shoulder as they left. The rest of the Cousland retainers followed soon afterwards, and eventually Fergus and Flora were left alone in the shadow of the Chantry towers.

"Are you alright going up all these steps?" asked the teyrn as they approached the dark basalt stair, eyeing Flora's bare feet and the heavy fur wrapped around her shoulders. "I'm not built _quite_ on the lines of your future husband, but I'm reasonably sure that I could piggy-back you up to the top."

Flora gave a little cackle, the sound slightly muffled behind the dark veil; proving her capability by doggedly plodding her way up one step at a time. Focusing on planting her bare feet on each sun-warmed ledge in turn, she barely noticed Fergus quicken his pace to catch her up.

"Flossie?"

"Mm?"

Halfway up the stone flight of steps, Flora stopped and turned to face her oldest brother; her elder by ten years. He was gazing down at her, expression conflicted and grey-blue eyes clouded. Fergus had more the look of Eleanor than Bryce; the Cousland colouring diluted somewhat by his maternal heritage.

"You – this _is_ alright with you, isn't it?"

"Eh?"

Fergus flashed her a brief, rueful smile, one hand lifting up to rub at the back of his head in a way that triggered a faint flicker of memory in Flora's mind.

 _I think my father used to do that. My Highever father._

"All this," he muttered, not quite meeting her gaze. "It feels a little as though – you've not had much _choice_ in the matter. The wedding happening so quickly, becoming queen- I know it must be overwhelming."

Flora gazed thoughtfully up at him through the dark veil, seeing the sincerity behind his surface awkwardness.

"I won't have you forced into anything you don't want to do," her brother continued, determinedly. "So – tell me now, Floss, if you don't want this to happen. I'll stop it, I'll stop it all. And I can protect you from any repercussions, so…. don't worry about that."

"But everyone has come from all across Thedas," Flora said, watching his face closely. "The Landsmeet are all here. You'd be in so much _trouble_ if you stopped it _._ And – Finian said it earlier. The Couslands have waited nine Ages to put someone on the throne."

Fergus flushed slightly, but his reply was steady and even.

"You're my little sister. I failed at protecting you once; I won't let it happen again. Everybody else be damned."

Flora stood up on her bare toes and put her arms around her brother's neck, pressing her lips to his bearded cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered, smiling at him as she withdrew, settling back down on her heels. "You're a good brother to me. But I promise: I'm ready for this. I can do it."

"You're certain, pup?"

Flora nodded earnestly, laughing at the look of relief that swept over Fergus' face.

"Thank the Maker," he commented, exhaling loudly as they resumed climbing the last dozen basalt steps. "Alistair would most likely have attainted me on the spot; right after the Grand Cleric's excommunication."

Flora smiled sideways at him through the veil, wondering idly how grubby the soles of her feet were going to be. Fergus made another light-hearted comment, but this was drowned out by the deafening pealing of the great bells directly overhead. The belfry was located at the highest point in the Chantry's central tower, five hundred feet above.

They came to a halt outside the vast oak doors that marked the main entrance into Denerim's Grand Chantry. Unable to talk to Fergus due to the joyful exuberance of the bells, Flora gazed at the scarred wooden surface of the doors, vaguely remembering a legend that Leliana had told her at Revanloch.

 _Wasn't there a siege here once, during the Orlesian occupation? Sixteen Fereldan knights barricaded themselves within the Grand Chantry; managing to resist an entire battalion of chev – chavolors – chevoolers -_ Orlesian knights _for a week before succumbing._

The ancient doors were littered with dents and gouge-marks; Flora wondered if there was any truth to the old story. The baby gave a little nudge inside her belly, waking up after a long nap. She dropped an idle hand to her stomach, sliding her fingers inside the fur to rest on the form-fitting calfskin.

 _Almost ready to go and see your papa. I hope you're prepared for your role in all this._

Beside her, Fergus shifted from foot to foot, a bead of sweat rising to his forehead. Flora realised with a small twinge of astonishment that her confident older brother was _nervous;_ perhaps worried on her behalf, perhaps reminding himself of the role that he had to play in the ceremony. She withdrew her hand from the fur and placed it on Fergus' elbow, giving it a little squeeze of reassurance. He reached out to clutch her fingers in place on his arm, lines of tension carved out around his mouth.

" _It'll be fine,"_ she mouthed as his anxious eyes slid down towards her. _"Don't worry."_

Just then, the bells overhead stopped ringing; arrested in their movement by the timely grip of a rope. Their silence was unexpected and somehow deafening, and even Flora's own breath suddenly seemed loud. Moments later, as though the Grand Chantry belfry had issued some sort of signal, the Chantry towers across the city fell silent; the bells that had been pealing since dawn finally granted some respite. An electric, anticipatory quiet settled over the city, as though its people had inhaled collectively.

Fergus glanced down at his younger sister, his own breath catching in his throat. Beneath the dark, beaded veil Flora was staring at the oak doors as though she could see straight through them, her jaw set with the usual graveness and her stare as steely as silverite.

"Ready, Floss?"

She nodded wordlessly, long past talking; her entire body posed in readiness.

 _Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol I promise the actual wedding will take place next chapter! If there's one thing you've learnt after reading over a million words of my crap, is that I like to draw it ooooout, hehhe.

Flora still carries out her internal dialogue, except without the spirits answering back! It's just an ingrained habit, since she spent so much time talking to voices in her own head while growing up.

I like the bit with Fergus here – I thought it would be a nice parallel. The teenage Fergus ratted his little sister out as being a mage, which led to her being sent away to preserve the Cousland reputation. Now, fifteen years later, he's willing to stop the wedding – which would destroy the Cousland reputation – to protect the wellbeing of the same sister. As a reminder, being attainted was the worst punishment that could befall a noble – it was the stripping of the family name, land and title.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	57. The Royal Wedding - The Coronation

Chapter 57: The Royal Wedding – The Coronation

The Grand Chantry doors swung inwards, pulled simultaneously by a pair of strong-armed Cousland retainers. The great open space of the Chantry billowed out and up before them; vast, ancient and hewn from basalt. The light pouring down from the high windows was a lustrous greenish-gold, tinted by great, long skeins of Highever laurel. Every standing candelabra trailed crimson ribbons beneath fat beeswax candles, and each pillar was decorated with a hanging standard. Yet the decorative augmentations paled in comparison to the stark splendour of the architecture itself. The vaulted ceiling arched overhead in an intricate dance of stone beams and flying buttresses; the complexity above drew the eye upwards from the brutal simplicity of the basalt flagstones.

The pews on both the ground level and the upper gallery were filled beyond bursting point; many retainers relegated to standing against the walls. Never before had such an extensive spectrum of colour been witnessed with Ferelden's Grand Chantry; the most luxuriant fabrics that Thedas had to offer wrapped around some of its most notable – and notorious – personages.

As Ferelden's closest trading partner, the men and women from the Marches had been placed immediately behind the members of the Landsmeet. They wore a clashing riot of colours that reflected their divided houses; there were three separate dynasties present within their crowd. The Orlesians – silently annoyed at being placed behind the Marchers – were grouped either around the _Grand-Duc_ Gaspard or Madame du Fer, a mage of impeccable elegance, according to their own factional preference. Due to their predilection for expensively weighty silks, the Orlesians rustled in their seats whenever they moved; a miasma of perfume rising from their collective mass.

The Pentaghasts of Nevarra were similar in feature – richly tanned skin, sable-dark hair – and wore matching shades of mustard and black. They were seated near a cluster of Antivan trade princes, one of whom had spent the past ten minutes sweating frantically after catching sight of Zevran. Templars had been posted ostentatiously near the contingent from Tevinter. The magisters wore long jewel-toned robes in shades of violet and crimson, cut to show off swathes of oiled olive flesh. Several of them were twitching nervously after being divested of their staves on entering the Chantry.

Few who had been sent an invitation had declined: it would have been fascinating enough to witness this new son of Maric and long-lost Cousland daughter take the throne, but the fact that they were both former _Grey Wardens_ who had almost single-handedly raised an army and defeated a Blight with unprecedented swiftness, added to their allure. The bride slaying the Archdemon while reportedly with child was additionally enthralling – although most present had no idea _how_ heavy with child she was, assuming it was only a handful of weeks at most.

The congregation rose to their feet, turning as one to greet the bride and her brother as they made their entrance. Three hundred of the most prestigious faces in Thedas turned towards the slight figure draped in dark sable fur, her face and hair covered by a modest black veil and her hand placed on the elbow of the Teyrn of Highever.

 _I thought she would be taller,_ was the collective thought of the foreigners present. _This is the one who slew a dragon._

Beside her, Flora heard Fergus take a deep breath, lifting his chin and summoning every inch of their late father's commanding presence to chase away the last tell-tale fragments of nerves.

Flora, on the other hand, could not feel more at ease. Any remaining anxieties had evaporated the moment that she had set eyes on the broad-shouldered figure standing near the altar; a head taller than those positioned at his side. Although the space between them was too far to discern any details – the aisle was five hundred feet in length – Flora knew that Alistair's eyes were focused unblinking on her; his fingers twitching impatiently at his sides in readiness to take those of his former sister-warden.

 _Though our blood-bond is broken, our fish-rope is stronger than ever._

Alistair was clad in soft tan leather, the supple material cut to emphasis his warrior's frame and edged with gleaming silverite trimmings. Fur lined his collar, cut high around the neck, and the facial hair that Alistair had so determinedly cultivated since becoming king granted him both maturity and authority. Eamon, as Chancellor of Ferelden, stood at his side clad in Redcliffe finery; nearby, the Grand Cleric Elemena took advantage of the congregation's distraction to surreptitiously adjust the angle of her lofty hat.

The flagstones were cold beneath Flora's bare feet as she shifted her weight onto her stronger leg, waiting for the agreed signal. She could feel the prickling of hundreds of curious eyes – from the pews extending out before her, from the gallery overhead – and ignored them; her own veiled stare fixated on her best friend as he stood awaiting her arrival.

Without warning, the slow and stately drumming began from both sides of the Chantry, the measured beat echoing up to the vaulted ceiling. Fergus, anchoring his sister's fingers tightly to his elbow, began the first few steps down the aisle. Flora trod dutifully at his side with her veiled head cast down demurely; for all purposes, a shy young bride. Before them, a half-dozen Chantry sisters proceeded with swinging censors, leaving behind perfumed trails of incense in the cool, shadowed air.

"The elf said that you wanted to _jog_ down here during the rehearsal," the teyrn murmured out of the corner of his mouth, the words disguised by the steadily increasing vigour of the drumming.

Flora couldn't help but let out a little snicker, grateful for the veil covering her face. More drums had joined the first pair, the drumming building in volume and intensity until a great, thunderous roll echoed up to the laurel-draped flying buttresses.

"I also stopped for a snack halfway down the aisle," she whispered back, spotting the _grand duc_ and his Orlesian retinue in a lustrous crowd of silver and periwinkle blue.

"I _heard_ about that," Fergus replied, his pace slow and measured at her side. "I hope we aren't getting a repeat performance today."

"Have you _seen_ this dress?" Flora retorted without moving her mouth, keeping her gaze fixed on Alistair. "There's not enough room for an extra _button_ , let alone a hidden snack!"

The congregation turned slowly to follow the bride's progress down the aisle; curious stares moving from the sheer dark silk covering her face, to the thick sable draped over her body. Many had already noticed that she was barefoot beneath the fur, more than one eyebrow rising into a finely plucked hairline.

It took a full three minutes before Fergus and Flora arrived at the wide swathe of stone steps that led up to the main altar, where king was stood waiting with the Grand Cleric of Ferelden at his side. The copper trough filled with Andraste's eternal flame blazed behind them, casting a mellifluous golden light across the flagstones. The great statue of Andraste Gloria loomed up at the rear of the transept; one stone palm held out to receive the Maker's blessing.

From the corner of her eye Flora could just about glimpse a host of familiar faces gathered in the pews at the front – she had already spotted Leonas Bryland's study frame, the general having arrived clad in full armour. Near him she caught sight of a silverite breastplate adorned with a familiar griffon emblem; with great difficulty, she managed to stop herself from turning to look.

 _Focus, Flora. You have to get this right._

Her tall brother Finian was clear to discern, his lofty autumnal head rising above the squat figure of her own Herring-dad. Pel was awkwardly dressed in borrowed garb, and looked extremely uncomfortable.

 _You and me both._

Flora had already seen where Leliana was standing, tucked discretely to one side amidst a row of similarly-attired lay-sisters. The bard's face was caught in a tangle of pride and nervous anticipation; the reflection of Andrastian flame flickering across her ivory robes.

The king, who had not taken his eyes off Flora since the doors had opened and she had entered, continued to stare at her with an unmatched intensity. They were now only feet apart, separated by three shallow steps and centuries of rigid protocol. Flora lifted her eyes to gaze back at him through the sheer filmy fabric of the veil.

The drumming stopped as abruptly as the bells had earlier; their last echoing rolls absorbed by the cool basalt of the Chantry walls. The silence that followed felt almost tangible; anticipation humming in the air like the cicadas of the south. Flora could feel the heat of three hundred stares, the congregation behind her blurring into a singular, scrutinising mass. Halfway down the neat row of lay-sisters gathered near the altar, Leliana gazed out steadily ahead; the bard's sweaty fingers wound into her robes.

 _Don't worry, Leliana,_ Flora thought to herself, taking a deep and steadying breath of air. _We practised this next bit with pillow-case and bed-sheet last night for an hour. I'll do it exactly as we rehearsed._

Eamon took a single step forward, his face grave and portentous. The last echoing beat died away as Fergus reached up about his sister's shoulders to retrieve the fur; ready to enact the traditional Andrastrian ritual before their fascinated guests.

 _It feels more like an audience than a congregation,_ Flora continued internally, ensuring that her loose mass of hair was still strategically caught into the collar of the fur. _I suppose we are putting on a show._

 _Just like at the Landsmeet._

"' _And then Maferath said O! give my wife covering from our own stores. Scent of our scent and blood of our blood. So that she may be fully a Part of our House.'"_

The Grand Cleric's sonorous voice rang to the very heights of the vaulted ceiling as she began the wedding ceremony with the traditional recitation. Elemena had compensated for her two decades of hearing loss by gradually increasing the volume of her own words; until every sentence was almost a shout.

Fergus, at the Grand Cleric's cue, removed both fur and dark veil from his younger sister in a single gesture. As planned, the dark-red bulk of Flora's hair – carefully twisted into position beneath the collar, was swept to the side; she reached up a quick hand to draw it over her shoulder.

 _Just like we practised._

With fur gone and hair pulled to the side; those gathered in the Cathedral were able to set eyes fully on that which had been the source of so much rumour. They had hoped to gain a glimpse of the old god's rumoured residue on the lady Cousland's body – perhaps a hint of silvered flesh at the neckline of a gown, or a quick peek at a scarred palm – but now it was displayed before them; in all its strange, otherworldly glory. The leather dress dropped to the base of Flora's spine – an inch lower and it would have been inappropriate even for a _Fereldan_ Chantry – and left her back entirely exposed to the eyes of Thedas.

Flora could feel the incendiary heat of their stares, the mass rustling of fabric as the audience shifted to get a better look; the barely restrained whispers and fascinated hisses. She knew well enough what they could see – the silver-white markings across her shoulder-blades, one branching arc extending up the column of her neck and the other to the base of her spine. It was remarkable and ironic how alike the branding appeared to the Chantry sunburst – the similarity was remarkable.

 _One. Here's the proof,_ Flora thought fiercely, in-between counting laboriously to ten. _I survived an Archdemon._

 _Two, three, four._

 _It tried to take my soul and failed._

 _Five, six, eight - no,_ seven.

 _And I killed it._

 _Eight, nine, ten._

 _So I dare you to try and take Ferelden from Alistair and I._

After counting to ten, Flora turned on her heel, not quite facing the enthralled congregation; giving them a full profile view of her swollen stomach. The realisation that this was no babe fresh in the womb – that it appeared to be well into its third term – was enough to send a ripple of shock through the crowd.

 _That's right,_ Flora mused defiantly, resting a hand on the restless baby for emphasis. _Our fierce little creature survived the Archdemon too. Good luck ever trying to ooze – uzle – usurp this one in the future!_

 _Ouch, thank you for kicking me in the kidney. Great timing._

Having unleashed both _back_ and _belly_ in quick succession on the reeling audience, Flora now let loose the final weapon in her arsenal. Lifting her chin and letting the dark red mass of hair fall loose about her shoulders, she let a haughty stare sweep across the crowds; discharging the full intensity of her imperious Alamarri beauty, with no cosmetic enhancement save for the painted _kaddis_ mark on her cheek.

Pale grey eyes - cold and shifting as the Waking Sea - moved across the spectrum of faces, barely bothering to register livery or emblem.

 _I don't care if you're a pirate-prince from Antiva or the Grand Duc of Orlais. Any ill designs on our country can be dashed right now on the hard flagstones of this Chantry. Alistair rules in Ferelden, and I am with him._

Flora let her eyes linger momentarily on her companions, who – as veterans of the Fifth Blight – had been afforded a prime position in a front pew. Wynne was nodding slowly, fully aware of Leliana's instructions; Oghren was unashamedly leering at Flora's bodice-boosted cleavage; Zevran's face was arranged in careful neutrality. The elf clearly had one eye on her and the other on the congregation, and Flora felt a surge of gratitude towards her former Crow for his ever-present watchfulness.

Nearby, she could see Finian trying not to grin – the Orlesian part of her brother adored a good _show –_ and at his side stood her Herring father. Pel, who conversely had no time for theatrics, was busy eyeing up the _Grand-Duc's_ lavender mask in faint, incredulous disbelief.

The last face that drew Flora's eye before she turned back to her husband-to-be belonged to none other than Loghain Mac Tir. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden – accompanied by his female counterpart – stood to one side dressed in full griffin-augmented regalia. They were accompanied by a gaggle of junior Wardens that Flora did not recognise, and with a small pang she realised that they must have been new recruits.

Loghain caught her gaze for a moment; one greying eyebrow rising. To his credit, there was no bitterness there – although he must have remembered standing within the same Chantry nearly ten years prior when Anora had married Cailan. Instead, the corner of his mouth flickered ruefully – having noted the calculated display of _back, belly, beauty_ – and he gave her a grudging little nod.

Finally, Flora turned back to face the Grand Cleric, Alistair and Eamon. She had been so focused on following Leliana's instructions to the letter that she had not yet noticed Alistair's reaction to the leather gown. He was staring as though she had revealed herself to be _naked_ underneath the fur; the pupils in his hazel eyes blown wide with a combination of disbelief and raw desire.

Eamon reached out and took Flora's hand in the same manner as they had rehearsed with Teagan the previous day. She clutched his fingers, letting him guide her up the three shallow steps towards where Alistair was waiting.

The king reached a hand behind him, seamlessly receiving a wolf pelt cloak from a Chantry clerk. Stepping forward, the desire in Alistair's eyes melted into soft, bruised affection as he wrapped the cloak about his mistress' bare shoulders. As he tied the strings loosely across her chest, he leaned forward to murmur in her ear.

"I need a moment to catch my breath, darling. Leliana should have given me some _warning_ about that outfit."

Flora smiled up at her best friend, the first time that her grave expression had dissolved since entering the Grand Chantry. He smiled back down at her, and for a moment it was as though they were naught but a stable-boy and a fisherman's daughter plighting their troth in the local chapel.

The Grand Cleric had meanwhile decided that too much time had been spent gazing at the bride and her _dubiously appropriate_ attire; clearing her throat.

" _The Maker receives all ye who chose absolution into His arms; represented in corporeal form by this dwelling of stone and wood,"_ she bellowed, indeed compensating for deafness with volume. _"It is the Maker and the Maker alone who grants us redemption for our sins; the Maker and the Maker alone who can offer salvation and eternal peace at His side; the Maker and the Maker alone who can join two souls in sacred union."_

Flora stood before Alistair, head dutifully bowed, gazing thoughtfully at her own feet. Thanks to Leliana's scrutinising eye, even her _toenails_ were clean – something which Flora did not believe had ever happened before. She could feel Alistair's eyes, bright with adoration, boring into the top of her head, and resisted the urge to return his gaze.

 _I can't stand around smiling all day. I have to look stern and resolute: Leliana's instructions._

"Now will you confirm your _full_ names for the scribe?" the Grand Cleric commanded, drawing a deep breath as she paused in her monologue. "So that it may be writ down in both sacred and secular record."

"Alistair Theirin," replied Alistair immediately, the words emerging with strident resonance.

Flora eyed her former brother-warden, proud at how confidently he had announced a name that he had once spurned. There followed a pause, and she realised that the Grand Cleric had turned expectantly to her.

 _Make sure you at least get this part in the right order. Remember: 'fish can't poach rabbits'._

"Florence Chastity Popelyn Ragenhilda," she replied solemnly, then quickly added "Cousland," at the end.

The Grand Cleric nodded ponderously, stretching out her robed arms like a great, ivory-winged bat. Elemena was used to presiding before members of the Landsmeet, but she had never before had the chance to pontificate before such a vast collection of Theodesian notables.

"Florence Cousland, do you come here of your own free will and accord?"

"Yes," replied Flora, impressed by the height of the priestess' lofty hat.

"And who has presented you here with their blessing and offerings?"

"I, Fergus Cousland, Teyrn of Highever," her brother said on cue, raising his voice so that it echoed to the laurel-draped ceiling. "And Highever will offer the house of Theirin a dowry of twenty thousand sovereigns, the northern island of Wickway, quarrying rights in Mentmore, fifty Fereldan steeds and five hundred sheep."

Flora did not dare to look at Alistair for fear that she would burst out laughing. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Zevran in silent contortions in the front pew; his fingers clamped on Finian's elbow. _Five hundred sheep!_ the elf was mouthing gleefully to Flora's brother.

"Alistair Theirin, do you accept this nuptial offering?" the Grand Cleric prompted, her beady black eyes settling on the king's face.

"I accept it," replied Alistair gravely, resisting the comedic temptation to demand _more sheep._

"Now," continued Elemena, raising her voice once again and letting the sonorous tones ring about the thick pillars and side-chapels. "The Maker desires those bonded in His purview to pledge their devotion aloud and in the presence of witnesses. Alistair Theirin, speak now your vow."

Alistair took a deep breath to steady himself, his eyes fixated on Flora's face as though welded there by some blacksmith's forge. Flora blinked, staring up at him with sudden, absolute absorption; the rest of the audience suddenly utterly inconsequential. When her best friend spoke, it was as though he were speaking to her and her alone.

"I vow to you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine," he said, soft and resolute. "Yours will be the name I cry out at night, and the eyes I smile into in the morning. I shall be the shield for your back; blood of my blood and bone of my bone. I pledge to you my spirit and my body."

 _My sister-warden, my partner in all things. Light of my days, mother of my child. The love of my life._

Flora felt a lump rise in her throat and she swallowed it; the words of Alistair's earnest, heartfelt promise echoing in her chest. He smiled down at her, his hazel gaze warm and certain.

"Florence Cousland," instructed the Grand Cleric, her strident voice echoing to the rafters. "Speak now your vow."

Flora had practised her vow on Leliana eleven times the previous night; the words inscribed in blazing letters on the inside of her skull.

"You cannot possess me, but I give you all which is mine to give," she replied, grateful for the natural evenness of her northern tongue. "You cannot command me, but I shall serve you in the ways you require. And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand. I offer myself to you in every way."

 _Brother-warden. We were welded together by the events at Ostagar; nothing can break a bond forged in the heat of an Archdemon's flame._

The Grand Cleric waved her wrinkled hand imperiously to one side, gesturing for Eamon to step forwards. The arl did as instructed, lifting his palm to reveal a glint of gold.

"Alistair Theirin, if it is your wish, take the ring and place it on the finger of this woman."

Alistair reached out, choosing the smaller of the two rings from his uncle's outstretched palm. Flora let him take her hand; his blazing eyes not leaving her face.

"Maker knows it's my wish," he murmured, sliding the ring onto the fourth finger of Flora's left hand. "My greatest desire."

Flora looked down at the ring, her breath catching suddenly in her throat. It was forged from old Fereldan gold – the same as her own Cousland band – and made up of two twisted strands; weaving harmoniously about each other. A quick glance confirmed that Alistair's band was the same, albeit on a larger scale.

 _It looks like a rope,_ she realised, suddenly. _It's meant to be the fish-rope. How did they know– oh, of course._

 _Teagan organised the rings. If anyone was going to arrange this, it would be him. He's known us the longest out of any noble here._

Gently removing _Mairyn's Star_ from its temporary relocation on her other hand, Alistair pushed it gently atop the twisted golden rope of the wedding band; a sudden, bright gleam in his eye. Flora gazed up at her best friend, wishing suddenly that she could put her arms around his neck.

"Florence Cousland, if it is your wish," continued the Grand Cleric, portentously. "Take the ring and put it on the finger of this man."

Flora dutifully plucked up the larger ring, running her thumb over the burnished metal. From the front pew, she could hear the sound of damp sniffling, and wondered idly who it could belong to.

 _Maybe Wynne?_

"It is my wish," she replied confidently, reaching out to take Alistair's large, warm hand. The king still practised for two hours with blade and shield every day; but now Flora was unable to heal the calluses left in the wake of the cloth-bound grips.

She could feel a faint tremor in her best friend's hand as she held it; Alistair was clearly trying his hardest not to let his emotions show before their audience of hundreds. Flora gave his wrist a little, surreptitious squeeze, before sliding the ring onto his fourth finger.

Alistair stared down at the marriage band sitting bright and burnished below his knuckle, then reached up unprompted to cup her cheek in his palm, a thumb gently tracing the dried mark of the _kaddis._

"Sweetheart."

The Grand Cleric cleared her throat pointedly, nostrils flaring, the leather strap already gripped in her lined hands. Flora reached up to slide her fingers through Alistair's own, linking them together in the familiar _fish-rope;_ incorporating their own private ritual in the midst of Fereldan tradition.

The priestess began to wind the leather strap around their conjoined hands, reciting the old verse from the Chant with sonorous solemnity.

" _And the Maker smiled down upon His Bride and said Now let us never be parted. Sit at my side in the Black City and know eternal happiness.'_

Elemena stepped back to display her work, showing the congregation the leather-bound hands of king and former mistress. Taking a deep breath, aware that every word was being recorded for posterity, she projected her declaration up to the vaulted ceiling.

" _With the blessing of the Maker, I name you man and wife!"_

The nobles of Ferelden and the Marches – who shared many ancient customs – began to drum their feet against the floor, a thunderous roll of leather boot against basalt flagstone. This wordless salute lasted until the leather strap had been unwrapped from the hands of both parties; then abruptly ended as the Grand Cleric raised her arms once again.

Flora could see a discernible gleam on Alistair's cheek as he gazed damply down at her, a single tear having made a break for freedom. She reached up in a parallel of his own gesture, using a gentle thumb to brush his cheek dry. The baby, having slept through the vows and ring-exchange that made it _legitimate,_ woke up and stretched its limbs; pressing against the confines of her belly.

"Alistair Theirin," announced the Grand Cleric, stepping back hastily to get out of the way. "You may _greet_ your wife."

This was the part of the ceremony that needed no rehearsal. Alistair stepped forwards, one hand spreading across the small of Flora's naked back as he drew her towards him. She tilted her face upwards with the smooth ease of familiarity; the two coming together with a much-practised rhythm. Ducking his head and leaning down to close the foot difference in height, Alistair pressed his mouth to hers, lips parting with an involuntarily surge of desire. His tongue slid brief and tantalising against her own, the need palpable.

Feeling a pulse of inappropriate lust deep in her belly, Flora was half-tempted to put her arms about his neck. Just in time, she remembered the location and audience; Alistair came to a simultaneous realisation, and withdrew with obvious reluctance.

 _More,_ his languid hazel gaze promised as his palm lingered on the small of her back, fingers brushing the bare skin. _Later._

The Grand Cleric swept forwards – eager to reclaim centre-stage - and this time she was not alone. By the time that Alistair had reluctantly released Flora from his grip, Ferelden's most esteemed priestess had been joined at the altar by the nation's most eminent nobles. Fergus, as the sole remaining teyrn, was joined by the arls of Redcliffe, Amaranthine, South Reach, the West Hills and Edgehall. These men would represent the Landsmeet during the upcoming proceedings. Each one was clad in the full regalia afforded by their station, faces grave and purposeful.

The nature of the ceremony took on a distinctly different tone. Now that the marriage had been legalised and recognised, it remained only for the king and his new queen to be formally crowned.

"The Maker, in His infinite wisdom, desires for His creations to be steered in their mortal lives by a ruler both just and wise," intoned Elemena, her eyes raised to the lofty ceiling. "The throne of Ferelden currently lies empty. Who, men of the Landsmeet, do you desire to take up this position of great responsibility?"

Fergus stepped forwards, eyes moving affectionately over his sister before focusing themselves on the man at her side.

"The lords of the north desire Alistair, son of Maric, as king of this nation," he replied, the words emerging clear and sonorous.

Leonas Bryland was the next to step forward, clearing his throat before responding.

"The lords of the east desire Alistair, son of Maric, as king of this nation."

As the general withdrew, Flora shot a surreptitious glance sideways at her once brother-warden; now _husband_. Alistair was gazing straight ahead, chin raised and naught but steady confidence could be found in his face. Self-assurance – boosted by the golden ring he now proudly wore on his fourth finger – radiated from him like an over-fuelled hearth. It was accompanied by a distinct tinge of impatience, and not because Maric's youngest son was ill-at-ease with the formalities of the ceremony.

Alistair Theirin had long since accepted that he was king of Ferelden, had _ruled_ as king since the end of the Blight, and was fully aware that this coronation was more for the audience than it was for any practical purpose.

"The lords of the south desire Alistair, son of Maric, as king of this nation."

Eamon returned to his position, head bowed respectfully. The Arl of the Western Hills, who had been one of the first nobles to join their cause at Radcliffe Castle, strode forward with an equally purposeful expression.

"The lords of the west desire Alistair, son of Maric, as king of this nation."

There followed a long drumroll from a single drummer, intended to represent the assent of the voiceless freemen of Ferelden. The Grand Cleric turned with an imperious expression to Alistair; the old priestess clearly revelling in the attention.

"Alistair Theirin, do you accept the nominations of the Landsmeet?"

"I accept them," Alistair replied without a beat of hesitation, his voice strong and confident.

"Do you accept the mantle of kingship?"

"I accept it."

The Grand Cleric raised her arms once more, the ivory silk sleeves of her robe hanging down like great wings. Inch by inch, she rotated on the spot until she was facing the eternal flame and statue of Andraste. The Maker's Bride loomed at the back of the transept, thirty feet tall and wholly unamused; her sightless basalt eyes staring out over the heads of the congregation.

"Those who rest upon the throne of Ferelden must show due deference to Our Lady and submit themselves to the Maker's Will. Do so now."

Alistair shot a quick glance at Flora, who was gazing ahead with the usual ambiguous neutrality. This was the part of the ceremony that he had been most unhappy with – but it was an essential part of the coronation ritual, and its omission was unthinkable.

Turning as a pair, Theirin and Cousland turned to face the great, stern statue of Andraste. Together, they sunk down onto their knees on the cold basalt; bowing until their foreheads touched the stone.

Bent uncomfortably over her swollen stomach, Flora gritted her teeth and hoped that she wasn't going _too_ crimson as the blood rushed to her head. The Chantry chill teased up the soft, downy hairs on the backs of her arms, and she could feel her strapped knee giving a petulant throb of protest at such artificial contortion. The only pleasure Flora could find in the whole display was that she had managed to manoeuvre her hair to one side as she knelt; revealing her Archdemon-branded back once more to the congregation. As before, a ripple of fascination ran through the audience and she heard the rustling of expensive clothing as many shifted to afford themselves a better view.

 _I hope Leliana is proud of all this._

Flora was aware of Alistair peering sideways at her, the corners of his mouth pulled unhappily taut. He had not wanted her to kneel on the cold basalt tiles, but it was an inexorable requirement of the ceremony.

"Having shown due reverence to our Maker and His Bride, _you may rise,"_ intoned the Grand Cleric, growing more mystical and exaggerated in mannerism by the moment.

Alistair immediately reached out to grip his new wife's left arm, while Fergus stepped forward to reach for her right. Together, husband and brother aided Flora to her feet; while, Flora thought privately that she could have managed adequately enough on her own.

 _Though, to be fair, it would have been far less elegant._

Just as they had rehearsed the previous day, both he and she turned together to face the congregation as another slow and steady drumbeat arose from the back of the cathedral. This hollow rhythm was soon joined by a second and a third, and then more chimed in until a single, thunderous pulse emanated up to the vaulted ceiling like the heartbeat of a slumbering Titan.

Flora extended her hand blindly to the side, and felt the cool, metal length of the _sceptre_ being placed into her palm; Eamon's shadow falling across the flagstones. It was heavier than the stick that they had practised with, and she felt the muscles in her forearm tauten. At her side, Leonas passed Alistair the Orb of Fionne, a black onyx sphere caught in a delicate golden filigree web and crested with a Chantry symbol.

With the seamless, fluent synchrony of a pair who had rarely been further than an arms' length apart for the past year; the sceptre and Fionne's orb were exchanged with barely a mutual glance. Alistair was staring straight ahead, trying not to glare directly into the masked visage of _Grand-Duc_ Gaspard – whom the king still resented for his ill-advised marriage proposition to Flora several weeks prior.

Flora let her gaze settle on her fisherman-father; suddenly desiring the familiarity of _Herring_ amidst all the formality and ritualistic splendour. True to form, Pel was barely sparing her and Alistair a glance – instead, he was gaping with incredulity and suspicion at the rainbow silk ensembles of the Orlesian contingent.

In contrast to the unimpressed fisherman, the majority of the congregation were gazing avidly at the pair standing at the nave of the Grand Chantry. Each guest there was aware of the unconventional background of both figures; yet it was hard to reconcile this awareness with the smooth self-assurance on display at the front of the church.

Alistair Theirin, bearing an uncanny likeness to his father, took the sword from his bride with fluid ease; the honed muscle of a warrior's body clearly apparent behind the form-fitting leather of his garb. Likewise, his new wife had commandeered the attention of the congregation the moment that she had unveiled herself at the front of the Chantry, deploying the well-honed edge of her traditional beauty in conjunction with the roundedness of her belly and the branding of the Archdemon's soul upon her body. The sword had been long and weighty; she had needed two hands to lift the blade while Alistair took it with a single arm. He gave her the caged wren in return, she clutched the handle of the cage without blinking; neither of them needing to look at the other to know what their partner was doing.

The Grand Cleric moved behind them, her arms extending once more as she turned her face upwards to the bright glass window above the rear doors. This final part of the ceremony had been impeccably timed to coincide with the gradual cresting of the sun over the Chantry towers. The drumbeat stopped abruptly, its final echoing vestige reverberating between the thick line of pillars that flanked the pews.

A lay-brother, his chest swelled with importance, approached the elderly priestess with the _coronal of Calenhad_ and _Mairyn's circlet_ resting atop a crimson cushion. These traditional crowns were used only during the coronation of newly appointed Fereldan monarchs, their golden filigree glinting in defiance of the Chantry gloom.

Simultaneously, Leliana stepped forward, her own moment of prominence finally arriving. She took a deep breath - filling her lungs with damp air - then began to sing one of the oldest hymns in the Chantry songbook. It was an ode of praise and reverence to the Maker, beautiful and melancholy; each word imbued with solemn purpose as it emerged from the bard's throat. Her soprano voice, clear and high, rose to the vaulted ceiling without need for artificial augmentation.

The sung notes flew like birds released from a cage, haunting and ethereal. The Grand Cleric lifted first the larger crown; a band of spiked gold crested with an onyx the size of a hen's-egg. Alistair gazed straight ahead, his hazel eyes still and utterly focused, as the coronal of Calanhad was lowered onto his brow. The coronation crown was weightier than the golden band he customarily wore, yet his head remained unbowed.

While Alistair gazed out above the heads of the audience, Flora let her pale, clear-water stare sweep over the assembled faces last time; cool and contemplative. Behind her, the Grand Cleric took Mairyn's circlet – a stepped tiara of gold and silverite – from the proffered velvet cushion, raising it high into the air before placing it atop Flora's head.

Flora felt the weight of the metal rest heavily against her ears and lifted her chin a fraction to compensate. Her eyes settled on the grey- bearded face of her Herring-father, who was staring up at her with a mix of pride and sadness.

 _Papa._

Leliana finished her verse and stepped back into the ranks of lay-sisters; Eamon striding forward to take her place with a triumphant note in his voice.

" _It is acknowledged and anointed,"_ he began, the words emerging with strident resonance. _"With the Maker's blessing, I present to you: King Alistair Theirin, first of his name, and Florence of Highever, Queen of Ferelden."_

Alistair, perfectly on cue, raised the sword with a strong warrior's arm. The Landsmeet led the roar of approval that followed; quickly joined by Oghren and the rest of the companions. The congregation rose _en masse_ to their feet, palms colliding in a thunderous cannonade of recognition. Scattered cries of _Theirin! Theirin!_ and _Cousland!_ rose up from amidst the applause.

 _Oh no,_ Flora thought, gloomily. _Do I have a new family name now? It took me six months to learn how to spell Cousland. I still can't write Theirin properly._

The drumroll began once more as Alistair lowered the sword, handing it off to a carefully studious lay-brother. The king turned to his new queen and peered at her, a thread of anxiety running through his hazel stare that was visible only to Flora.

 _I know you never wanted all this. I'm sorry._

Flora blinked back at him, the corner of her mouth flickering upwards in the shy, private smile that she usually reserved for when they were alone.

 _Don't be sorry. I'm happy to be your wife and I'm ready to be your queen._

He offered her his arm and she gripped it, letting her fingers curl into the leather of his sleeve. The congregation were still clapping; the raucous din of their applause blending into the thunderous roll of the drums. As one, they descended the three shallow steps that led down to the main aisle. The audience turned to follow the progress of king and queen as they traversed between the pews, arm in arm and with matching furs draped around their shoulders.

"At least that part is over," Alistair murmured under his breath as they passed a pew full of Marchers. "I lifted the sword at the right time."

"And I didn't drop the bird," Flora replied, gazing down at her fingers as they curled against Alistair's sleeve. _Mairyn's Star,_ plump and glossy, sat proudly atop the woven strands of gold that made up the wedding band.

A rumble of laughter sounded from within Alistair's throat and he squeezed her fingers affectionately.

"I think we both did Ferelden proud. Oh, and nice _outfit_ , baby. Can we go and consummate our marriage now? I'm _extremely_ up for it after seeing you dressed like that."

Flora bit back a cackle, shooting a little sideways glance at her new husband as they approached the sealed rear doorway.

"We have a seven hour feast to get through first," she replied, infusing her reply with solemnity. "And speeches. And then the Grand Cleric has to bless our _marital bed_ before we get in it."

"Maker's Breath! You really _were_ listening to Leliana's instructions, weren't you?"

"Mm!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol longest chapter ever? I felt bad about the cliffhanger outside the Grand Chantry yesterday, hehehe. Anyway, I've got my best friend's wedding in Wales coming up in a few days so I'm travelling back home – updates will be sporadic until I get back. So I wanted to deliver the wedding and coronation before I left. Sorry for any typos in advance, I had to edit this pretty speedily, hehehe.

It's like a Thedas who's who at the wedding! Spot the DA:2 and DA:I cameos! Hehehe. I'm writing the bit where they get formally introduced at the feast atm, it's fun to have Flo and Alistair meet the likes of Sebastian and the Vaels, the Pentaghasts, etc etc…

So there can't be a royal wedding without a DOWRY attached! Even in the aftermath of a Blight, tradition has to be upheld – and dowries were pretty standard for any marriage in Medieval times. When two children from important dynasties were wed, the dowries were pretty hefty. When Catherine of Aragon married Arthur (Henry VIII's older brother, who died shortly after their wedding), her dowry was 200,000 escudos! Obviously I just made up the details of the dowry for Flo, but I thought it'd be fun to include. The entire wedding ceremony and traditions are also just pure headcanon, I tried to make it a mix of Medieval Catholic and Celtic ritual (plus a big dose of IMAGINATION haha). The wedding vows are based on old Celtic vows (probably not authentic ones, lol).

Incidentally, Flora wouldn't be expected to actually use Alistair's last name despite joining his family– kings and queens rarely used their surnames anyway! The Tudors were the first dynasty in England to really do so!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	58. The Newlywed Royals

Chapter 58: The Newlywed Royals

The newly crowned king and queen of Ferelden paused before the great wooden doors at the rear of the Grand Chantry. These led out atop the high steps that descended into the Square of the Bride; where thousands of Denerim's cityfolk had now flocked to catch a glimpse of their newly anointed king and queen. Flora could almost _sense_ the great mass of people swelling on the other side of the wood, and shot a quick glance sideways towards Alistair.

Alistair gazed back down at her, more used to wearing the heavy crown atop his brow than she. With a gentleness that belied the strength inherent in his muscular frame, he reached out and adjusted the angle of the golden diadem as it rested amidst the cloud of dark red hair. That being done, Alistair dropped his hand to her cheek; stroking the angle of the high bone with his thumb.

"My precious girl," he breathed, candlelight catching the sudden gleam of tears. "Despite all this… _fuss_ , I swear I'm the happiest man in Thedas right now. My own sweet wife."

Flora reached up to cover his hand with her own palm, twining their fingers together in the ritual that had inspired the design of the wedding rings.

"I love you," she replied solemnly, and her northerner's lack of eloquence did not diminish the earnestness of the words.

Eamon and Fergus had manifested at their sides, Chancellor and teyrn having followed them at a respectful distance up the aisle.

"Ready to face the crowds?" Fergus asked in an undertone as two soldiers stepped forward to open the doors. "I believe half the city have come out to see you."

Alistair glanced down at Flora, who looked supremely unconcerned.

"Well, we've faced more intimidating things, haven't we, darling?"

"Yes," replied his new wife. "Like me facing down this _dress_ this morning _._ You know it's _sewn_ onto me?"

He laughed, giving her hand a hard, affectionate squeeze.

The soldiers pushed open the doors, and the sun spilled into the porch of the Grand Chantry, dust motes dancing in columns of mellow light. The breaking of sanctuary officially indicated the ending of the ceremony, and the congregation broke into excited chatter behind them; a variety of tongues melding together into a tangled polyglot that echoed to the laurel-draped, vaulted ceiling.

Yet this could not compare to the wall of sound that rolled forwards from the crowds below. The Square of the Bride was full of faces, packed with as many people as the wide expanse could contain. Only a channel through the centre remained clear, lined with shoulder-to-shoulder soldiers. Many of those present held aloft sticks decorated with crimson ribbon; waving them back and forth like a vast bank of seaweed. The roar that rose up when their crowned Theirin and his new queen emerged at the top of the high steps was almost physical in its force; a great storm-surge of sound that broke against the stone face of the Grand Chantry like waves against Herring's Hag's Teeth reef.

"Maker's Breath," muttered Fergus, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "I'd wager there's nobody left in the taverns."

Alistair squeezed Flora's fingers, feeling her return the pressure immediately. Having been faced with crowds whenever he had ventured out of the palace for the past month, he had grown somewhat used to them.

"Is this alright, darling?" he murmured, rubbing his thumb over each of her knuckles in turn.

"Mm," replied the stoic Flora, who was relatively sure that this crowd was no larger than the army she had addressed on the day of the final battle.

"Shall we close the door, my lord?" enquired the bolder of the two soldiers standing in the Chantry entrance.

"Leave them open," instructed Eamon, then added a quick aside to Fergus. "Let our guests hear just how _loudly_ Ferelden values their king and queen."

With Flora's fingers still tightly anchored in his own, Alistair stepped forwards, halting at the low basalt wall. The volume of the crowd escalated as they gained a clearer view of their Theirin and his bride. The sight of Flora in her Alamarri garb, full-bellied and bare-shouldered with her hair in an untamed fall of oxblood, met with intense vocal approval – the folk of Denerim were inordinately proud of their ancestral heritage, and recognised immediately the style of her dress.

Alistair raised one hand to acknowledge the cheers, the sunlight glinting from the spiked golden crown atop his head. The other went to cradle the rounded swell of Flora's stomach, proud and possessive. The king's symbolic claim of a babe that would now be born a _legitimate Theirin heir_ pleased the crowds beyond measure; the crimson ribbons waved with a new ferocity.

"Give her a kiss," hissed a new voice from behind them. Clearly, Finian did not want to miss an opportunity to make an appearance before the crowds. "That's what they're all waiting for."

Alistair glanced down at Flora, seeking silent permission for such a public display of affection. In place of a reply, she reached up and cradled his bearded cheek in the white-scarred palm of her hand. He smiled back at her and duly bowed his head, pressing his lips tenderly against her own.

Finian had been right: according to the roar of noise that followed, this was _exactly_ what the crowds had been waiting for. Alistair couldn't stop himself from grinning incredulously as he withdrew, one arm still wrapped protectively about Flora's naked back.

"My love," he said, and then trailed off, lost for words.

 _This is the strangest day of my life,_ Flora thought even as she smiled up at Alistair. _A year ago I was the most useless apprentice in the Circle; getting thrown out of class for being unable to light a candle and sneaking up to the roof to try and glimpse the sea. They called me the 'Vase' – nice to look at, but containing nothing of value._

The cheering did not abate even when they descended the steps into the vast courtyard; Alistair still keeping a tight grip on his new wife's hand. The soldiers of the Royal Army kept a careful watch on the people swelling in the Square, their pikes held out to keep the eager citizens at bay as they pushed forwards for a closer glimpse.

The horses were led out from the nearby Templar stables by carefully solemn-faced initiates; their external discipline not betraying the fierce competition that had resulted in their selection for such an important role. The proudest boy led a large, muscular bay mare to the king himself, the reins clutched in a trembling hand. The stable lads had been instructed to keep their eyes respectfully downcast, yet several could not help staring at Flora's Alamarri garb. The soft leather clung to the curves of her body, revealing far more flesh than was customary for a modern gown.

The king stroked the bay mare's neck, scratching it behind the ears with a familiarity honed during years of working in the Redcliffe stables. This was the same horse which had carried them unfalteringly along the crumbling city wall with the Archdemon in heated pursuit; she was far more passive and placid than her bulky appearance suggested.

Satisfied that the mare was not disconcerted by the cheering crowds, the king gripped his new queen gently about the waist and lifted her up onto the front of the saddle. Flora shifted into a more comfortable position against the pommel, feeling Alistair swing himself easily up behind her. One hand reached forward to take the reins, his other arm curling protectively about her belly.

"Ready, sweetheart?"

"Mm, I'm hungry."

The ride back up to the palace took nearly an hour - twice as long as it would have taken for a lone horseman. The speed of the procession was hampered by the crowds and their obvious delight at seeing the wedding party; and the reluctance of Alistair to ride at anything quicker than a leisurely amble.

Crimson ribbons tied to sticks were waved frantically, seashells were tossed onto the dusty thoroughfare before the slowly advancing horses, and flower wreaths hung onto the pikes of the carefully neutral-faced soldiers that lined the route. The cheering continued unabated, along with scattered cries of _Theirin!_ and _Cousland!_ The sun beamed down benevolently on the riders, the procession trailing back for nearly a mile as the other attendees in the Grand Chantry mounted their own horses. The people of Denerim gazed with unbridled fascination – and a hint of misgiving – at the brightly dressed foreigners, wondering at the oiled beards of the Antivans and the silken masks of the Orlesians.

Bringing up the rear were Loghain Mac Tir and Leonie Caron, the joint leaders of the Fereldan Wardens, accompanied by a select handful of new recruits. The brightly polished griffins emblazoned on their breastplates flashed in the sunlight; the distinctive silver and navy stripe of their tunics distinguishing them from the other guests. For the first time since his fall from grace, Loghain was not met with a chorus of jeers and booing. Instead, the people gazed at him with faintly suspicious eyes. The residual anger at the former general's betrayal was somewhat assuaged by his futile attempt to stay the Archdemon, which had scarred his face and cost him his leg. Rumours had also emerged in recent weeks that Loghain had once defended the lady Cousland against an ill-intentioned _maleficar._ Althoughthe people were uncertain of the _veracity_ of such a statement; it was clear that Flora herself no longer bore the general any significant ill will.

Meanwhile at the forefront of the procession, Flora was busy rubbing each of Alistair's knuckles in turn, her fingers tracing firm little circles on the back of his hand as it rested lightly on her stomach. Despite the height of the mare, which stood a full seventeen hands above the dirt and cobblestones, she felt secure and unassailable against her best friend's chest.

When passing through the public parts of the city, Alistair had put on the expected show – lifting his hand in acknowledgement of the crowds, grinning at their vocal enthusiasm. Now that they had reached the noble district, the streets were far quieter. The residents had attended the service at the Grand Chantry – and the guard were no longer needed to line the route.

Taking full advantage of the brief lull in activity, the king had parted Flora's thick fall of hair; nudging the dark red locks over her shoulder so that he could caress the back of her neck with his lips. His mouth meandered over her bare shoulder-blades, planting a series of kisses that alternated between desirous and affectionate.

"I can't believe I have to wait until tonight to bed you," Alistair murmured in her ear, a vein of frustration running through the words. "If we'd been married in a little chapel with just our friends in attendance, I could have _had_ you in the nearest tavern within _minutes_ of the ceremony ending."

Flora laughed, wondering idly how dirty the soles of her feet were after walking around shoeless all day. She wound her fingers more tightly in Alistair's, tilting her head back against his shoulder.

"But then you wouldn't have been able to put on this… this _show_ for the Orlesians," she reminded him, reasonably. "The point of all this fuss was to show them the strength of Ferelden's king."

Alistair let out a little grunt of acknowledgement, barely needing to steer the horse's head as it plodded instinctively towards the Royal hunting grounds.

"Still," he murmured, as the sawn-off forest of tree-stumps came into view; the formidable grey fortress of the palace looming at the top of the hill. "I'm definitely going to have words with Leliana. It's tantamount to _cruelty_ to put you in an outfit like that, then make you sit chastely next to me for the rest of the day. It's _torture."_

Flora snorted at his dramatics, shielding her eyes against the sun as they turned onto the final approach leading to the palace.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Just a quick little update! My friend's wedding is tomorrow (forecast rain all day: WALES 3) and I'll be at home with no laptop, so no update until prob about Wednesday! Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	59. The Departure of Flora's Father

Chapter 59: The Departure of Flora's Father

Once the Royal Procession arrived on the gravel forecourt before the imposing basalt façade of the Palace, Guillaume came out to greet them. He bowed very low, a smile curling upwards to meet the ends of his oiled moustache.

"Congratulations, your majesties," he murmured, watching Alistair bound expertly from the saddle and then immediately turn to reach up for his new queen. "I heard that the ceremony went _impeccably,_ and that all in attendance were much impressed."

"News travels fast," commented the king with eyebrows raised, lifting Flora down from the saddle. Recalling that her feet were bare, he refrained from lowering her to the gravel; instead keeping her suspended in his arms. "Leliana?"

"Aye," confirmed the chief steward, as the others dismounted in a flurry of excitable chatter; the lay sister herself arriving soon after on her grey mare. "Her raven left the Grand Chantry before you did. I'm at a loss as to how she manages it, but it's rather impressive."

Leliana slid down from the saddle with the skill of a consummate horsewoman. Somehow, she had also changed from her lay-sister garb; a silver Chantry amulet rested on a peach silk gown edged with bronze lace. Her face was alight with adrenaline, the excitement making her seem a decade younger as she strode across the gravel towards both former Wardens.

" _Félicitations, mes amis,"_ she declared, kissing first Alistair and then Flora on both cheeks. "I admit, I was rather worried after the rehearsal yesterday – especially after you _ate_ the replica Orb of Fionne, Flora – but you both were sheer perfection. I could not have asked for a better performance."

Flora smiled, delighted as her companions rode up to join them alongside other members of the Landsmeet. Oghren, who was astride a long-suffering stocky pony, dismounted with a loud crunch of gravel and let out a roar of congratulations.

"What's next, eh? At dwarven weddings, the bride and groom both get dunked in a vast vat of ale, which they then got to _drink_ their way out of."

"Certainly not _that,"_ the bard hissed in response, unable to hide how appalled she was at the very _notion_. "No, this is how events will proceed- "

Leliana went on to explain the next stage of the celebrations. The afternoon and evening would be dominated by a great feast; interspersed with musical performances, dancing, speeches and even a short pageant demonstrating Ferelden's victory over the Fifth Blight. The entire event would be fuelled by vast quantities of alcohol – barrels of honey mead larger than Qunari had been dusted off and brought up from the cellar, accompanied by hundreds of bottles from every corner of Thedas. Antivan port strained the wine-racks, alongside Orlesian brandy, Marcher ale and even a rare, extremely potent fire-whiskey from Rivain. The first part of the feast would see the guests all seated within the great hall, whereby Flora and Alistair would then enter and take their seats at the highest table. The more notable guests and foreign dignitaries would then file past for a formal introduction, simultaneously offering their congratulations.

Flora was only half-listening to the bard. The most stressful part of the day was over – the ritualistic ceremony in the Grand Chantry – and as far as she was concerned, as long as she managed not to spill soup down her front, the rest of the day would be a success.

Instead, she was craning her neck in an effort to try and see her Herring-father. Zevran, who had ridden up alongside Fergus, was chatting idly to the teyrn; disguising the dull ache in his heart by making a surfeit of jokes and witty remarks. Nearby, Eamon, Teagan and Leonas Bryland conferred in low voices, agreeing that the coronation itself – and Flora's Alamarri-inspired appearance – had been a definite success.

Yet there was no sign of Pel, and Flora felt her brow crease in confusion. This crease only deepened as she and Alistair were guided inside the Royal Palace; where they were greeted by the entire assembled castle staff – over a hundred in total. The gathered servants gave a lusty round of applause, pleased that the Royal baby would no longer have the shadow of bastardy looming over its small head. A legitimate Theirin heir meant stability and security; both for the future of their nation, and for their own employment within the castle.

Leliana guided Alistair and Flora quickly away from the public areas of the palace, aware that the guests would soon start to arrive. She led them down a narrow, well-appointed corridor and past a series of realistic Mabari hunting tapestries, finally leaving them alone in a small receiving chamber. The room contained a hearth, couch, candelabra and little else; the noise from the adjacent great hall filtering through the party wall.

Alistair eyed the couch with an appraising view, wondering if he could quickly consummate his marriage against the stuffed cushions and have a practice round with his wife without the unwanted audience. If Flora had not been distracted, a similar thought would have occurred to her – in fact, she would have already have bent herself over the arm of the couch, pulling her skirts impatiently to the side. However, Flora was anxious over the odd absence of her Herring-dad, who she had last seen seated beside Finian in the Grand Chantry.

The thought was soon driven from her mind as Alistair ran greedy hands over leather and bare skin; cupping her half-covered breasts in his palms with a low moan of desire. He had just tugged the bodice low enough to reveal her nipple when they heard footsteps and familiar voices in the corridor outside. Alistair let out a throaty grunt of frustration, unable to stop himself from flicking the tip of his tongue over the little pink peak before reluctantly tautening the bodice strings.

Moments later Finian entered with a slightly odd expression on his face; reaching up to run a nervous hand through his autumnal curls. The movement dislodged the thin golden arl's circlet, and he moved it back into place with an impatient grunt.

"Flossie, petal?"

Alistair shot a quick sideways glance at his former sister-warden, whose brow was furrowed in consternation.

"What's wrong?" she breathed back in response, knowing instinctively that all was not well. "Tell me."

Finian came to an abrupt halt, grimacing without meaning to; aware that he was about to be the bearer of bad news.

"I've tried to persuade him to stay," he began, velvet-clad shoulders rising in a helpless shrug. "Zev is trying to delay him right now. I'm sorry."

Alistair looked vaguely confused, head swivelling between the two Cousland siblings. Flora - who knew exactly what her brother was talking about - felt her stomach plummet, a sudden, sharp curl of nausea snaking its way through her belly.

"My dad's leaving," she said in a small voice, barely registering Finian's nod of confirmation. "Isn't he?"

Alistair's jaw dropped and he gave a quick, disbelieving shake of the head.

"No, Lo, that can't be right," he replied, immediately. "Why would he leave _today_ of all days?

But Flora did not stay to offer any response. With a rustle of leather she had stridden off down the corridor; bare feet making hasty progress against the cool stone tiles. Alistair and Finian exchanged a quick glance, then followed rapidly in her wake.

As she retracted their route down the corridor, Flora fought to suppress the nausea that rose with every step. These were servants' passages, mostly deserted since the majority of the castle was assisting with preparations for the feast. Occasionally, a dwarven steward or human maid would flatten themselves against the wall with a squeak of surprise, before quickly dropping into startled bows.

Questions kept breaking on the surface of Flora's mind like loose fragments of fishing net; she unsuccessfully tried to submerge them again.

 _You knew he wouldn't stay forever. He's already missed most of the summer fishing season. He has to go back to Herring._

 _But I'm not ready for him to leave._

 _You'll never be ready._

Flora inhaled unsteadily, pushing her way through a door and emerging, squinting, into bright sunlight. Knowing that her father would not want to use the main road leading up to the palace – not with the last few wedding guests still making their way in – she had headed instead for the back courtyard. This led to the palace's more discreet rear exit route through the apple orchard; the one that she had once taken with Riordan, Sten and Oghren.

Her hunch had paid off: her Herring-father stood in the middle of the gravel courtyard, a battered leather pack slung over one shoulder and his fishing rod resting against the other. His eyes were narrowed against the early-afternoon sun, a dubious expression on his face as he gazed at the slender elf stood before him. Zevran was clearly exercising his full powers of persuasion; yet all the Antivan charm and guile in the world could not wear down a northerner's obstinacy.

"Pa?"

It was a single word containing a book's worth of questions, the hurt raw and exposed as a fresh abrasion on the skin.

Pel raised his dark gaze over the elf's shoulder; a resigned expression setting over his lattice-wrinkled face. His mouth tautened behind the full, grey beard and he lifted his chin to silently greet his adopted daughter.

" _Lo siento, mi florita,"_ murmured Zevran as he stepped back with head bowed. "I tried my best to change his mind."

Flora stopped abruptly on the gravel a yard away from her fisherman-father, barely noticing the throbbing of her bare feet. The baby stretched sleepily against the confines of her stomach, and she ignored it.

"Papa," Flora repeated, her eloquence deserting her. Her thoughts were squirming like oiled fish in a bucket; she could not grasp one to enunciate it clearly.

"You've a husband now," muttered Pel, jerking his head towards where Alistair stood at Zevran's side, his face drawn and unhappy. "Don't need me to stay."

"I _do_ need you," Flora whispered, feeling the tears rising unprompted to her eyelashes. "You can't leave me here."

 _You're my Herring,_ the plea continued, unspoken but clear. _You can't take that away from me._

"What can I offer you to stay, ser?" the king asked, without much hope. Flora had learnt her stubbornness from her Herring-father, and Pel's obstinacy was honed over five decades. "Name anything, and it's yours. As much as it's in my power to give."

"I need t' get back t'north coast," muttered the fisherman, as Flora inhaled unsteadily. "Got to reinforce the tide-break barrier before summer storms set in. The beacon on t'Hag's Teeth needs repairin'."

Without warning Flora dropped to her knees before him on the gravel, Mairyn's circlet slipping sideways in her mass of hair.

"Please- " she wailed, as a horrified Alistair reached down to her. "You can't! You can't _go- "_

" _Flora Cove!"_

The voice emerging from the fisherman's tangled beard was as sharp as the Teeth themselves. Flora's head shot up reflexively; this was a tone that she was familiar with from her childhood.

"I didn't raise yeh to fall about _weepin',"_ Pel continued, harshly. "I raised a lass who gets a job done. You got a _new_ job to do, here- "

He waved a vague, weather-beaten hand that somehow encompassed crown, castle and throne; shooting her a stern look.

"So get on wi' it and stop this _blubberin'_. You're a _Herring_ lassie, ain't yeh?"

Flora stared numbly down at her own bitten-nailed fingers as they curled into the gravel; the plump white jewel of _Mairyn's Star_ catching her eye as it sat above the twisted golden loop of the wedding band.

 _There'd be no pearl at all without the grit at its heart,_ she repeated to herself, recalling her thoughts from the ride to the Chantry. _If you scratch away the fancy layers of finery, it's still just a speck of dirt._

She took a deep breath, drawing from the sandy grit at the centre of her soul; summoning every inch of the northern stoicism that had been embedded in her over the course of ten years. The tears arrested themselves on her eyelashes and she blinked them back, determinedly.

 _No matter how much they dress me up and call me majesty; I'll still have Herring sitting like a layer of silt in my heart. It won't ever leave me._

Pel squinted down at his adopted daughter, his suspicious stare searching her face. A white-faced Flora gazed solemnly back at him; faint tear marks on her cheeks the only trace of her distress. The next moment, she had taken Alistair's anxiously extended hand, heaving herself to her bare feet with a little grunt of effort.

"Sorry, pa."

"S'alright, lass," he mumbled, shouldering his pack before nudging his thumb brief and affectionate against Flora's damp cheek. "Don't chase after me, now."

With one more glance up at the imposing heights of the Royal Palace, Pel cleared his throat; directing his final words to both Alistair and Finian.

"Look after my girl, eh?"

The old fisherman turned abruptly, setting one foot before the other as he made his way across the gravel towards the apple orchard. Flora stood motionless, barely registering the blood trickling from her grazed knees; her eyes not leaving the broad-shouldered figure until he had disappeared between the trees and vanished from view.

She hung her head for a brief moment, then took a deep breath and lifted her chin. Reaching up, Flora adjusted the angle of the golden diadem on her head until it sat proud and straight once again.

"Sweetheart," breathed Alistair, his eyes bruised with concern. "I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry, my love."

"I _knew_ he wouldn't come to the feast," Flora said, in a small and dejected voice. "I knew he wouldn't sit next to all those… _fancified people._ I just didn't think that he would- he would _leave."_

Zevran gave a little grimace of apology as a seagull overhead let out an irritable caw; just having been threatened with violence from the sweating kitchen staff.

"I'm sorry, _carina._ My persuasive tongue rarely lets me down, but your old man is… well. He is very stubborn. I attempted to beguile him into staying, but to no avail."

"Thank you for trying," Flora replied, her pale eyes searching the elf's tattooed face. "And thank _you_ for coming to get me."

This second remark was directed towards Finian, who gave a wan half-smile of apology.

For a moment the four of them stood silently together on the gravel, the afternoon sun bearing down on top of their heads. A salt-edged breeze blew in from the ocean over the ramparts, and this breath of freshness seemed to give Alistair some new inspiration.

"Darling, why don't we take a detour on the royal progress to visit Herring? We can stop there on the way to Highever."

Flora's face immediately flooded with hope; she turned to her new husband, wide-eyed and astonished.

"We could do that? Really?"

Out of his sister's eye-line, Finian gave a wince of _sympathy_ : volunteering to visit the grimmest, sourest little village on the northern coast was a true act of love.

The king nodded, feeling a swell of pride in his gut at his new queen's transparent delight. Flora reached out her arms to embrace him; he drew her against his chest and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The baby, indignant at being ignored earlier, squirmed hard enough for both of them to feel. Alistair beamed, dropping a hand as he drew back to caress the leather-encased swell. The next moment, his eyebrows shot into his hairline with surprise.

"Maker's Breath, Flo! You're _roasting."_

"It's the stupid leather dress," Flora retorted, feeling a bead of sweat running down her forehead. "It's so tight, I feel like a sea-snake with two skins."

"Let's get back inside," Alistair replied, relieved that his bride seemed somewhat cheered. "I bet you ten silver that Leliana is having _conniptions_ wondering where we are _."_

Fortunately, the lay sister had been delayed with a minor incident over seating arrangements – the Vaels could not be sitting opposite the Trevelyans, due to a recent trade dispute. She arrived in the small chamber adjacent to the great hall minutes after the bridal couple themselves returned.

The sharp-eyed Leliana soon detected that something was amiss; not fooled by Alistair and Flora sitting innocently side-by-side on the velvet couch beside the hearth. Her eagle-like stare went straight to Flora's bloodied knee, sore feet, and slightly smeared _kaddis_ below her damp eyes.

"Créateur _!_ What on Thedas- "

No longer wasting any time with words, Leliana pulled two silk handkerchiefs from her sleeves with a jester's flourish, swooping forwards with steely determination. A handful of minutes later and the blood had been cleaned, the _kaddis_ refined and the eyes patted dry.

"There we go, _ma fleur,"_ murmured Leliana, drawing back to survey her work. "Now, are we ready to proceed into the great hall?"

Alistair, despite the ominous spectre of upcoming prolonged socialisation, beamed reflexively; squeezing Flora's knee gently as they rose to their feet in unrehearsed synchrony.

"I'm going to be the envy of every man in the room," the king declared, his gaze sweeping over his new wife from head to toe once again. "My wild beauty."

Flora smiled up at him, reaching out to entwine their fingers together in the familiar fish-rope ritual that meant far more than any of the Chantry traditions they had enacted today.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Thank you all for your patience! We now come back to your regularly scheduled programming, hehehe

OK I definitely want to bring back the archaic word STRIDDEN (another word for strode), lol. Flo still talks to herself in her head, an old habit from when her spirits used to respond to her.

Fabricant is French for Maker, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	60. The Grand-Duc And The Vaels

Chapter 60: The Grand-Duc and the Vaels of Starkhaven

Flora had gained a glimpse of the wedding feast preparations in the great hall during her nocturnal wanderings; but this would not have prepared her for the sheer transformation that the largest chamber in the Palace had undergone in the past few hours. The great hall's ceiling reached near sixteen metres in height, the ornate wooden scaffolding decorated with trailing banners a dozen feet long. There were so many pennants hanging from the rafters that the eaves had been transformed into a riotous assembly of colour; the emblems of all the great Fereldan houses represented. The flint and timber walls, decorated with meticulously arranged shields and weaponry, were lined with full-sized laurel trees in ceramic planters.

Long wooden tables lined three sides of the room, accompanied by chairs sufficient for several hundred people. The candelabras and blooming flower set-pieces were almost hidden by the massive quantity of food arranged in cauldrons, on platters, in little dishes and on tiered stands. The first course had been set out already – beef marrow fritters, miniature pastries filled with cod liver, cuts of meat in cinnamon sauce and eels in a spicy puree. There was a large space left between the arranged tables for dancing, and a small wooden stage had been constructed in one corner for minstrels.

At the far end of the hall was a raised stone platform, upon which the top table rested. In the centre, two large and ornately carved wooden thrones stood side by side, flanked by chairs of diminishing grandness. Overhead, a great green-and-white wooden table was hung on the back wall; this was allegedly the table at which Calenhad and the Alamarri tribal leaders had sat to discuss the unification of Ferelden. Nobody knew if there was any truth in the object's history, but it had become one of the nation's most revered relics regardless.

The guests were already assembled along the tables – men and women from all corners of Thedas; many of whom had travelled for several weeks to reach Denerim. Naturally, they were seated according to dynasty and nation, the colours of a hundred different liveries gathered in distinct groupings along the tables. The Valmonts were clad in blue and argent, clustered around _Grand-Duc_ Gaspard _;_ their expressions tactfully hidden by silvered face masks. The Pentaghasts of Nevarra were seated nearby in stripes of mustard and black, their richly hued skin and dark hair in stark contrast to the pallid, sun-shunning Orlesians. The Marcher families were seated according to alliance; green-clad Trevelyans at the opposite end of the table to the four redheaded attendees from House Vael. Flanked with a glowering Templar guard, a group of Tevinter magisters gossiped quietly at the furthest table; they had come solely for a glimpse of the Archdemon's markings left on the lady Cousland's body.

Flora's companions – as veterans of the Fifth Blight - had been afforded a table at the very front of the room, second only to the top table itself. They sat adjacent to the Landsmeet; Leliana's seat empty as the bard continued to orchestrate proceedings from behind the scenes. Oghren was already getting stuck into the free-flowing Antivan port, greeting Zevran with a hiccup as the elf slid neatly into his assigned place.

Finian also arrived late to the top table, where the members of the King's Council were already seated. Fergus shot his younger brother an enquiring stare from the corner of his blue-grey eye; nodding thanks to an elven servant who had just finished refilling his ale.

"Where've _you_ been?"

"Minor crisis," the middle Cousland sibling replied, taking his seat and exhaling. Leonas Bryland, who was sitting at the adjacent chair, gave a small grunt.

"What crisis?"

"Flora's _'pa'_ just left."

Nearby, Eamon abruptly broke off his conversation; leaning sideways across his brother to listen in.

"What do you mean, the man's _left?"_

"Gone, departed, _défunt,"_ explained Finian, with a helpless wave of his fingers. "Apparently there are _lobster pots_ in Herring that need repairing, or something along those lines. He's gone."

"He's missing the _feast?_ That's always the best part of a wedding!"

Fergus fell into a bemused silence, while Eamon and Leonas shared a mutual grimace. Teagan, who understood a little better why one might desire to spurn noble festivities, let out a soft sound of sympathy under his breath.

"Poor creature - is she alright?"

Eamon, meanwhile, had more practical concerns on his mind. Flora had played her role to perfection in the Grand Chantry; he did not want her bursting into tears at the sight of the jellied eels. Finian, who had learnt to read the face like a book during his tenure in Orlais, let the corner of his scarred mouth tug upwards in a wry smile.

"Don't worry. I highly doubt she's going to collapse weeping into her bowl."

Just then, the herald at the entrance gave a loud and resonant bellow, demanding the attention of those present within the chamber. There was a prompt clatter as tankards and flagons were downed, knives replaced on plates and general conversation paused.

" _All rise for their majesties, the king and queen of Ferelden!"_

There followed a scraping of chairs as those assembled dutifully rose; eyes turning to the vast archway at the far end of the room. The minstrels in the corner struck up one of Ferelden's most well-known patriotic songs, _'The Legend of Calenhad, First of his Name.'_

The king and queen of Ferelden entered the great hall a moment later. Instead of the bride resting a delicate hand upon the groom's arm in the customary manner, their fingers were wound together in a show of mutual support and joint strength. The king was more jovial than he had been when immersed in the sacred formality of the Chantry; at ease with the attention and inordinately proud of his new wife. Those older dignitaries present noted once more Alistair's resemblance to Maric; father and son possessed the same long-limbed, muscular warrior's frame, accompanied by honest and handsome features. They also shared the same tousled, burnished gold hair, which never quite rested flat despite liberal application of water and the weight of a crown.

His northerner bride still had not spared a smile for any other apart from her husband, her pale grey stare sweeping quickly across the audience as though finding little worthy of resting her eyes on. The haughty, finely-hewn features were undoubtedly beautiful, but as unapproachable as her cool gaze. Those who knew Flora were aware that this grave stillness was just the natural set of her face; that the solemnity was a mask that she used to disguise her nervousness; that the coldness of the limpid, dark-lashed eyes was utterly misleading considering the kind-hearted character of the girl within.

Eamon let out an inward sigh of relief on seeing no crack in Flora's stony exterior. If Alistair was bright, burnished gold; she appeared the steely silverite that added strength to the alloy.

Alistair and Flora proceeded hand in hand across the space left clear for dancing, the length of his stride carefully tempered not to out-pace his barefoot wife. Flora could feel the heat of several hundred pairs of eyes; no surprise, since the Alamarri garb was cut to show off the ripe curves of her fecund body as well as the Archdemon's traces on her skin. This did not bother her overmuch – she was used to being closely observed in varying states of dress from her tenure at the Circle.

King and queen made their way steadily up towards the top table. Flora passed her companions seated at a prominent table near the front; she turned her head to the side and smiled at them, her face lit like sunlight dappled across seawater. Wynne smiled back at her wryly, trying not to chuckle. The senior enchanter knew full well that Flora thought this whole charade ridiculous – _why did she and Alistair have to proceed formally into the hall together? They'd already proceeded out of the Chantry! Why can't we just walk into the room with everyone else?!_

Zevran and Oghren were also trying to stifle snickers as the couple _proceeded to proceed_ up to the thrones at the top table. The dwarf had just made his hundredth lewdremark of the day; this time wondering if Flora remained so stern and straight-faced in the bedchamber.

"Trust me," the elf replied, with the over-familiar air of the consummate _voyeur._ "She doesn't."

To Flora's dismay, the two wooden thrones were the most _uncomfortable_ seats at the top table. They were astonishing pieces of craftsmanship, carved with Fereldan hunting scenes – his had a pair of Mabari tussling over the corpse of a _halla,_ while she had a hunter atop a horse with a hawk perched on his arm. The carven hawk was protuberant enough to stick directly into the base of her naked back.

There came a few moments of noise and bustle as those standing took their seats once again, following the leads of king and queen. Fergus, who was seated at his sister's side, noticed her shifting uncomfortably in place.

"What's wrong, Floss?"

"Nothing," she said hastily, not wishing to cause a fuss before the assembled audience.

Now that the king and queen had arrived, the eating could resume. The guests gratefully picked up spoons and knives once more, setting into a banquet that had taken two dozen cooks a full week to prepare. The minstrels struck up a jovial melody of Fereldan folk-songs; many of which Flora recognised as native to her beloved northern coast.

"You're going to have to eat in sporadic bursts," Eamon murmured quietly in Alistair's ear. "The formal introductions will begin in just a moment, and they'll last quite a while."

"How long?" Alistair asked in mild dismay, having already placed an entire wheel of cheese and several thick slices of rye bread onto his platter.

"Until the soup course," chimed in Teagan from the far end of the table, passing down a flagon of Antivan port. "At least."

Alistair grumbled under his breath, forking a defiant mouthful of sharp Fereldan cheddar into his mouth.

Meanwhile, beside him, Flora let out a little squeak of recognition. She nudged Alistair in the ribs, her face lighting up.

"Alistair, listen to what the musicians are playing! Do you recognise it?"

Alistair obediently canted his head to the side and listened. The minstrels were playing a haunting, beautiful melody with an echoing refrain that raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

"It's a pretty tune but I don't think I know it, darling."

Flora drew her eyebrows together at him in disapproval, nudging him a little harder.

"It's _Bones in the Sand,_ the traditional Herring wedding song. I've sung it a hundred times, you should have recognised it!"

Alistair mouthed for a moment, unsure how to explain that Flora's dissonant caterwauling sounded nothing like the sweet, lilting melody currently drifting to the rafters of the great hall.

"Ah, I think I must be tone-deaf, my love," he said kindly after a moment. "Of course it is."

"I'm not surprised he didn't recognise it," chimed in Finian, who had already ingested half a pint of Orlesian brandy. "Floss, your singing sounds like a drunken dwarf passing a kidney stone."

Finian then immediately redeemed himself by leaning sideways with the low cushion from his own chair, sliding it behind Flora to act as a barrier between carved bird's beak and bare back. Just then, the herald made everyone jump and drop their knives by bellowing across the echoing expanse of the great hall.

" _The Grand Duc of Verchiel, Gaspard de Chalons!"_

The first guest to climb the three stone steps onto the elevated platform was the _Grand-Duc_ Gaspard. The Orlesian noble had been staying within the noble district since his unsuccessful proposition of Flora, and had spent the fortnight gathering information on the strength of Ferelden's new leaders.

Now dressed from head to toe in the cornflower blue and argent of House Valmont, Gaspard advanced along the table and came to a halt before Ferelden's newly crowned monarchs. He bowed, removing his elaborate mask in the same seamless gesture. The members of the Landsmeet bristled slightly; Teagan shifting in his seat and double-checking that his dagger was in its sheath.

" _Félicitations, vos majestés,"_ the _duc_ murmured in his distinct Val Royeaux accent, the clever blue eyes moving from Alistair to Flora in turn. "That was a very… _unique_ ceremony."

Alistair bowed his head in acknowledgement, jaw stiff with the effort of maintaining a neutral demeanour.

"I pass on the _congratulations_ of my niece, the Empress Celene, also," Gaspard continued; the corner of his mouth curving upwards superciliously. "I am sure that she will be writing to you soon to express such in her own words."

"Well, I await her correspondence with baited breath," Alistair replied drily, taking a gulp of ale. "I'm sure it'll make great bedtime reading."

The _duc_ nodded and made to continue along to the end of the platform; the next moment he paused, unable to resist throwing one final jibe.

"But one query – forgive me – I thought that the ceremony was to be held in Ferelden's _Grand_ Chantry? What made you change your mind and hold it in a… _lesser_ church?"

Alistair tightened his jaw at the none-too-subtle implication that Ferelden's most important Chantry somehow did not deserve the prefix _Grand_ – not like the famous Great Cathedral in the Orlesian capital. Eamon sighed under his breath; at the far end of the table, Teagan let out a dark mutter.

"I don't think the Maker cares much about gilded tiles and expensive mosaics," the new queen offered quietly without looking up, having heard Leliana's description of the Cathedral at Val Royeaux many times. It was the first Flora had spoken since commenting on the minstrel's tune earlier. "Andraste worshipped Him under the naked sky while kneeling in the dirt clad in rags, and He loved her no less for it."

She raised her pale, cool eyes to the _duc_ , unimpressed by his snide remark. Gaspard gazed back at her and then smiled, relenting with calculated graciousness.

"Very true, _ma reine. Congratulations_ once again."

He bowed as much as his Valmont pride would allow; replacing the silver domino on his face and advancing to the end of the platform to descend the steps.

Flora speared a piece of smoked cod with her knife, and then nearly dropped it as Alistair gave her a little nudge of delight. He looked about to say something, then simply grinned and kissed her on the cheek; lips lingering against the skin.

" _Lord Vael of Starkhaven and his sons!"_

The Marcher family wore matching red and tan checked tartan, their ceremonial daggers sheathed on their belts. Each member possessed rich auburn hair – though Lord Vael's shoulder-length locks were beginning to fade with age - and the same shade of startlingly vibrant blue eyes.

"Well met, your majesties," declared the Lord of Starkhaven, the Chantry amulet around his neck dropping low as he bowed. "May I introduce my heir and younger sons – Corbinian, Gideon and Sebastian."

The two eldest Vael sons made identical bows, murmuring their polite congratulations. After a deep bow, the youngest – Sebastian – reached out to anchor Flora's hand in his own, kissing the back of her fingers with deliberate reverence.

"You remind me of a famous Marcher poem, your majesty," he said, each word coated with the distinctive Starkhaven burr. _"Lips pink as the blush of a maid, hair red as the sunset in Solace."_

Flora, who did not understand the purpose of poetry, stared at him blankly. Alistair appreciated neither the over-familiar tone of the young prince - nor his reference to Flora's _lips -_ and narrowed his eyes.

Lord Vael, sensing an impending diplomatic incident, swiftly cut over his youngest son.

" _Sebastian!_ Any more of that nonsense, and I'll have you sent to the Alistair, may I just say how _strongly_ you resemble your father?"

The next few minutes were spent in harmless conversation about Maric, during which Flora subtly ate another mouthful of smoked cod and Sebastian sulked alongside his brothers.

As the Marcher lord and his sons retreated back to their own table, Finian leaned behind his brother's chair and poked Flora in the arm. She looked at him through a mouthful of jellied eel, eyebrows raised.

"What did you think of the oldest son? His father had plans for you and he to be married!"

Fergus, who had not told his sister of the proposals he had rejected on her behalf, kicked his brother promptly under the table. Flora, who had no idea what Finian was talking about, swallowed her jellied eels and smiled vaguely.

"Well, we'd have had lots of redheaded children. I barely understood a word he was saying, though, with that accent."

"Not necessarily a bad thing for a marriage," replied Finian, with a little snicker.

* * *

OOC Author Note: So we've got some Trevelyans, Pentaghasts, Kirkwall nobles and Antivans to meet next chapter! I like doing these little cameos. They're actually pretty unrealistic – in real Medieval times, national leaders would have sent envoys and ambassadors in their stead, since travel was so dangerous and lengthy. But let's just ignore that because I like name-dropping all these characters from DA2 and DA:I, hehe.

I envision the great hall as looking like the great hall in Winchester (even down to the green and white table, although that has (false) Arthurian origins). It's easily google-able if anyone wants a mental location to envisage!

The food sounds ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING – but is all authentic to Medieval banquets, haha. Jellied eels, cod liver, beef marrow… eeeeghhhhh.

I mentioned that Teagan knew what it was like to not want the noble lifestyle - this is based on him initially not wanting to leave the Marches and take up the position of Bann of Rainesfere (which he did so reluctantly, on the request of his brother). Based off his DA wikia page!

Sebastian's eyes freak me out so much! Why are they SO blue? They remind me of toilet cleaner/bleach.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	61. The Crow and Claudio Valisti

Chapter 61: The Crow and Claudio Valisti

The next man to make his way up to the Royal table did so at a leisurely pace, with a smirk playing across his features. He had olive skin and a curling dark beard, scented with a pomade so strong that it overwhelmed the odour of roasted meat rising from the platters. A golden hoop hung from his left ear, and matching rings decorated his calloused fingers. He was clad in a spectrum of gaudy colours; a mustard yellow shirt, forest-green breeches and an eye-catching crimson waistcoat. As he strolled along the platform, there came a sudden metallic clatter from the lower tables, as though someone had abruptly dropped their knife.

" _Claudio Valisti of Antiva!"_

"Your majesties," murmured the Antivan trade-prince, dropping into an ornate bow. "May I pass on the gratitude of all Antiva for your role in vanquishing the Fifth Blight; which would surely have come to threaten our shores in time."

Alistair nodded while Flora gazed at the man in slight awe, having never seen before such a rainbow of riotous colour on one man.

"As you can see for yourself, Ferelden is free from Blight," Eamon interjected politely, his green Guerrin eyes fixing themselves on the merchant-prince's tan face. "So there's no need to maintain the quarantine on our ships. It's in both of our interests to lift the embargo and open the trade routes up again."

" _Sí,"_ murmured Claudio Valisti, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "It would seem that the quarantine is no longer necessary. We will have to discuss terms before I return to Antiva, _si lo desea_."

For no reason other than the merchant-prince had spoken in his native tongue, Flora let her gaze slide downwards to where her own Antivan companion was sitting. To her alarm, Zevran was visibly quivering behind the table; rigid as a board and white as a winding-sheet, the rich, stewed-tea colour of his skin entirely drained. His eating-knife lay on the floor – it had been him who had dropped the utensil – and Leliana was hunched at his side, whispering urgently into his ear. As Flora watched in alarm, the elf rose silently to his feet and slipped out through a side-entrance, pale and insubstantial as a ghost flitting through the Veil.

"Anyway," continued the merchant-prince, a gold tooth glinting as he smiled. "Let us not discuss _business_ on such a joyous occasion. _Felicitaciones_ on your nuptials, King Alistair. Your wife is a flower in all meanings of the word. The flower to which all the butterflies flock."

"She is," agreed Alistair, slightly gruffly. He was not one for grandiose metaphors, but was readily prepared to agree with anyone who praised his best friend's beauty.

The merchant-prince bowed his head, his dark Antivan eyes sliding sideways to Fergus.

"Speaking of beautiful women, I must give my commiserations to the teyrn. Oriana Orsini was a jewel, stolen from us far too soon. I dined with her father a fortnight ago - he was gratified to hear of Howe's death, yet distraught that he could not pursue his own _vendetta_ against the treacherous _bastardo_."

Fergus had half-thought that his wife's family might attend the coronation, and did not know whether he was disappointed or relieved at their absence. He gave a small nod, not quite trusting himself to give a verbal reply. The loss of his son was still far too near a tragedy to speak of in public; especially when the most important eyes in Thedas rested upon him.

Claudio Valisti retreated to his seat with another elaborate bow; Flora noticed that Zevran had still not returned to the table. Her stomach gave a slight roll of trepidation – she had never before seen the elf so visibly disconcerted, not even when confronted with demons or Darkspawn. She was about to nudge Alistair, when the steward announced a pause in the formal introductions to allow the next course to be served.

This was clearly going to be a lengthy process – servants flooded in from every available doorway, exchanging empty plates and tureens for freshly-prepared platters. Whole geese stuffed with aniseed and other spices were escorted by freshwater fish and capon and olive pastries. Great cauldrons of broth with bacon accompanied slabs of herbed venison, blackberry and veal tartlets, and roast bream with darioles. Giant pots of leek and chicken stew were carried between pairs of sweating servants.

"I need to use the privy," Flora whispered in Fergus' ear, patting her swollen stomach as an excuse. "Sorry. Can I get out?"

Alistair's head swivelled as his new wife made to leave, fingers extending to rest on her bare wrist.

"Darling?"

Flora put her mouth to his cheek in the pretence of kissing him, instead directing a whisper into his ear.

"Zevran went as white as a fish belly when he saw that man, then ran off. I'm going to see what's wrong."

Unable to resist, she then planted a real kiss on her husband's bearded cheek; wishing that she could sit in his lap and embrace him properly.

Alistair gave a little nod, reaching out to touch her chin affectionately with his thumb.

"Take Leliana,"he murmured, dropping his hand to grip her fingers, then bringing them up to his mouth and kissing them. "I won't have you wandering the palace alone with all these strangers."

Flora nodded, clambering to her feet. To her astonishment, there followed a cacophonous scraping of chairs as the entire banquet hall hastily rose to their feet in a show of respect; heads swivelling towards her.

 _So much for my stealthy exit,_ Flora thought to herself with a little grimace, raising her chin and heading towards the same exit that Zevran had darted out of a short while earlier. After receiving a pointed stare from Alistair, Leliana dabbed her lips with a linen napkin and padded softly in the queen's wake; drawing far less attention to herself.

Zevran had exited the room through a servants' passage, which was fortunately limited in its choice of destination. With Leliana on her heels, Flora ventured down the torch-lit corridor; avoiding the chattering servants as they carried empty platters and piles of tankards back to the kitchens.

"Why did he leave?" Flora asked over her shoulder, the flagstones cold against her bare feet. Leliana gave an elegant shrug, her pale blue eyes darting behind them to ensure that they had not been followed.

"You will have to ask him, _ma petite._ Here, try this way – I doubt he's gone as far as the kitchens."

The bard gestured to a wooden door on the left, tucked away beneath a discreet archway. Flora nudged tentatively at the door, which gave way into a vaulted storage chamber. Rows of wooden shelving stood empty apart from the occasional cracked bowl or tarnished silver platter. It was lit by high windows set into the wall overhead, dusty afternoon sunlight filtering in through half-opened shutters.

At the far end of the chamber, the elf perched with feline elegance on a low wooden bench. He was gazing unseeing at the cobwebbed stone wall before him, fingers running compulsively over the linen-wrapped handle of his blade. Another knife lay across his thigh; the silverite gleaming like arcane fire in the filtered sunlight. Although he must have heard them come in – Zevran had the hearing of a bat – he remained motionless, dark eyes fixed on nothing.

" _Zevran!_ Why are you hiding back here?" Leliana demanded, aware that the second course would not take forever to set out. "What's wrong, _cherie?"_

The elf made no reply, though his fingers shivered on the blade's handle. Flora sat beside him on the bench, her knee relieved at the sudden lack of pressure; and methodically removed each of the knives from Zevran's person, placing them carefully to one side. Next she lifted the crown from her head, letting Mairyn's ancient circlet rest gently beside the blades.

Sharp objects now removed, Flora put her arms about the elf, reaching about his lean torso to embrace him. She did not need a spirit of Compassion to tell her that her friend was in pain; it was writ naked across his richly-hued face. For a moment Zevran remained rigid in her arms and Flora loosened her grip, giving him the choice whether to pull away or return her embrace.

Ultimately he chose the latter, drawing her arms more tightly around his chest. Ironically enough for one who had been raised without much physical affection, Flora had a natural affinity for giving it. She rested her cheek on Zevran's shoulder, letting one palm smooth gently up and down the lean muscle of his back. From this angle she could see each fine line snaking its way outwards from the elf's eye; intersecting with the faded pigment of his tattoos.

Zevran inhaled against her unruly mass of hair for several moments, breathing in the remnants of Chantry incense and Leliana's violet perfume. It was a rich and heady scent, and it took some measure of willpower for the elf to draw back; pulling in a quick gulp of mildewed storage-chamber air to ground himself.

"I am sorry, _carina,"_ he murmured, sensing Flora's anxious grey eyes searching his face. "Give me but a moment to compose myself and we shall return to the feast."

Flora nodded, without making further enquiry. As a native of Herring, she knew that prying open a locked container would often damage its contents; whereas if it were left to sit out for several weeks in the wind and saltwater spray, it would yield in its own time.

As it turned out, Flora did not need to wait weeks. She had just dropped her gaze to her bitten fingernails when Zevran spoke, his carefully measured words echoing about the hollow storage chamber.

"Three years ago, Claudio Valisti took out a contract with my Crow house-master, Eoman Arainai. The contract was on a bastard daughter of Prince Estefan, who was accused of plotting against the throne. A woman by the name of- "

" _Rinna,"_ breathed Flora, remembering a conversation in the Brecilian Forest six months prior.

The elf gave a single nod, a flicker passing across his dark eyes.

"I claim no innocence in the matter, Taliesin and I carried out the contract on her life. Only afterwards did I learn that the evidence was a fabrication; that it was merely a ploy by my House father to demonstrate how _worthless_ each Crow was. That our lives did not matter, and that bonds of friendship were merely illusory."

Flora stared at her friend for a moment, then reached out and took his elegant, long-fingered hand in her own, squeezing their palms tightly together.

"What do you want to happen?" she mumbled, bringing their conjoined hands to her throat and clamping them beneath her chin. "Alistair can have him thrown out of the palace. Then I can deliver some Herring-style _street justice."_

Zevran smiled as Leliana paled, bowing his head in response to Flora's offer of vengeance.

"Ah, _mi florita,_ I wish for no diplomatic incident to arise from my actions. Though I appreciate the offer, _nena_."

Flora gazed at her friend a moment more, still anchoring his fingers with hers. Zevran continued on, his voice gaining steadiness by the minute.

"No, _amor,_ I _will_ take down Claudio Valisti - but it will be on my own terms, at a time of my choosing, and it will be the culmination of a meticulously planned operation. I will not throw your wedding day into chaos with an impulsive, ill-thought dagger thrust."

Leliana exhaled in relief, wiping away a bead of sweat from her forehead. Flora leaned forwards, tilting the elf's face towards her with a palm and pressing a kiss against the faded tattoo on his cheek.

"Want me to go and throw some jellied eels at his head, then?" she whispered solemnly, only half-joking.

The elf laughed, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crumpling. Reaching for the stepped golden crown, he slid it gently back into Flora's hair, straightening it with the shrewd eye of a perfectionist.

"Ah, _novia,"_ he murmured, leaning back to survey her with a touch of wistfulness. "I hope Ferelden realises how fortunate it is."

Once back in the great hall, Flora returned to her seat; eyeing the audience with slight wariness as they rose dutifully to acknowledge her entrance. Alistair also rose to his feet, reaching towards his wife and touching her bare arm as she lowered herself down onto the cushion. It was good timing; the last platters of the course were just being brought out and soon the formal introductions would be resumed.

"Is Zev alright?" the king murmured into her hair, rubbing the callused ball of his thumb around the shell of her ear.

"Mm, I'm not sure," Flora replied, smiling gratefully up at a servant as they brought her a flagon of apple-flavoured water. "That Antivan – Claw, Claws – _Claws Velocity –_ is evil."

Alistair's eyebrows shot into his gilded hairline as he blinked; trying to decipher this latest piece of Flora-speak.

"Eh? Who? Oh – _Claudio Valisti?_ Wait, what do you mean _he's_ _evil?"_

"I'll tell you later," Flora whispered back, restraining herself from tipping the entire platter of crab tartlets directly down her throat.

Alistair grimaced unhappily, but there was no time for further questioning. The steward had risen to his feet once more, preparing to announce the next set of formal introductions.

" _The Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, and his daughter Beatrix!"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: OK, hopefully I'm not butchering lore too badly here, hehe. I took the Claudio Valisti information from his DA wikia page! I also made up a generic maiden name for Oriana Cousland, seeing as it's not listed anywhere that I could find.

Anyway, I thought there was a nice parallel in this chapter – several chapters ago, Zevran tried to persuade Flora's Herring-father Pel to stay (thus preserving an element of her past); and now Flora is looking after Zevran as he deals with an unwelcome aspect of his own past (Claudio).

Next chapter – it's the Inquisitor! In baby form, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	62. An Assortment of Notable Guests

Chapter 62: An Assortment of Notable Guests

" _The Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, and his daughter Beatrix!"_

The Marcher Bann turned out to be a middle-aged man with a kind, weary face; a necklace of Chantry symbols rattling around his neck as he bowed dutifully before king and queen. His adolescent daughter had dark hair twisted up into a tight bun, and unusual mauve eyes. Like her father, she wore the Chantry symbol prominently around her neck.

"The Maker smiled upon Ferelden when he set the burden of Blight on your capable shoulders," the Bann murmured, fingers rising to touch the Chantry symbols reflexively. "He must have had great faith in you both, praise be."

Alistair smiled politely, recalling the terrible, chaotic days immediately after the tragedy at Ostagar. With his sister-warden lying senseless in a witch's hut in the Wilds, his commander and his king dead in a Darkspawn-overrun valley, and the rest of his Order obliterated – it had not _felt_ as though they had been specially chosen by the Maker. He had attributed their survival to some random twist of fate, since only a cruel god would have placed such a burden on two inexperienced young recruits.

"Weren't you afraid for the health of your child when you fought the Archdemon?"

This question was from the bann's daughter, and was directed towards the queen. Those at the tables closest to the raised platform pricked up their ears, curious to hear the response.

Flora lifted her pale eyes to meet Beatrix Trevelyan's curious, plum-coloured gaze.

"Well, if I _hadn't_ fought the Archdemon, we would mostly likely be dead anyway," she replied, softly. "And the child has a warrior's spirit, like it's father."

Alistair grinned sideways at his wife, leaning over to spread his palm proudly over the swell of Flora's leather-clad belly.

"And like it's mother," he added, loyally. "Bann Trevelyan, I remember being told once that Ostwick was protected by a double wall. Am I confusing it with Ansburg?"

"No, your majesty, you're not mistaken," replied the old bann, reaching up compulsively to touch the Chantry symbols around his neck once more. "We are renowned for our double wall throughout the Marches and beyond."

Alistair sat up a little straighter, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Much of our city wall was damaged during the battle with the Archdemon. I'd be interested in hearing how your engineers built a double-wall foundation on marshy land."

As king and bann engaged in conversation – with occasional interjections by Teagan – Beatrix Trevelyan fixed Flora once more with her peculiar, mauve stare.

"The markings left by the Archdemon on your body look like the Maker's symbol. What could that _mean,_ I wonder?"

Flora looked down at her hands, nonplussed. The white scars across her palms did indeed bear some resemblance to the Chantry sunburst; as did the other scars scattered across her torso.

"I think it's just a coincidence," she replied, hoping that the inquisitive bann's daughter would leave it at that.

This was clearly not a satisfactory answer, and Beatrix Trevelyan's dark eyebrows drew together in chagrin. Fortunately for Flora, Alistair and Beatrix' father had just finished their conversation on the city walls, and the bann was preparing to take his leave.

Trevelyan bowed once more, with a promise to add the health of king, queen and royal baby to his nightly prayers. His well-trained daughter matched her father's genuflection; throwing a final curious glance over her shoulder as they returned to their seats.

As the steward prepared to announce the next guests Flora leaned towards Fergus and nudged his navy, velvet-clad shoulder.

"Why are you giving Alistair five hundred sheep for me? Is it a _bribe?_ You should be paying him in fish. I've never associated with any _sheep._ "

Fergus laughed, reaching over to pat her cheek.

"Not just _sheep,_ pup _._ Twenty thousand gold coins, and an island, and – _anyway_. It's a dowry, it's expected whether you're a princess or a peasant. Do brides not come with dowries in Herring?"

Flora shook her head, her brow furrowed.

"Do you get anything in return from Alistair? In exchange for me?"

Fergus replied in the negative with a smile to hide the faint regret in his tone; but his sister was perceptive and detected the rueful edge to the words. She blinked at him with a question in her eyes, watching her eldest brother take a long draw from his tankard.

"It… feels a little as though Finn and I are losing you to the Theirin," Fergus murmured after a moment, replacing the tankard on the table. "And we've only just found you again. I suppose I just – I just wanted you as a _Cousland_ for a little longer."

Flora opened her mouth to say something, then realised that there was nothing that she could say; Fergus had spoken truly. This period of the three Cousland siblings coming together was brief and would not last much longer – she would soon be leaving on a royal progress with Alistair, while Fergus and Finian headed off to govern Highever and Amaranthine respectively.

The steward's call echoed out over the feast, indicating that the next noble guest was ready to be presented.

" _Lord Halward Pavus, lord of Asariel!"_

A Tevinter magister rose to his feet, resplendent in rich crimson with a golden trim. He was accompanied up to the top table by two grim-faced Templar; Flora was delighted to see Chanter Devotia as one of the pair. The Chanter inclined her head slightly to acknowledge Flora, even as the magister made a bow towards king and queen.

"Congratulations, your majesties," the Tevinter lord murmured, streaks of silver adding a venerable air to his dark, slicked-back hair. "I apologise for the unplanned absence of my son and heir. Dorian has been most _wilful_ of late – it is… disappointing."

Fergus sat up a fraction in his seat, narrowing his eyes. House Pavus had made a tentative enquiry regarding a marriage alliance between Flora and the aforementioned _disappointing heir,_ Dorian. The proposal had been hastily retracted once news spread that the lady Cousland had lost her connection with the Fade, as a consequence of the fight with the Archdemon.

"Your majesty," the Tevinter magister repeated, turning to Flora and reaching out expectantly.

Realising that he wanted to kiss her hand, Flora obediently extended her fingers. Lord Pavus took them and bowed his head; they all were treated to the scent of the fragrant pomade in his beard. After pressing his lips to Flora's knuckles, the Tevinter lord swiftly turned her hand over to look at her palm. His dark pupils constricted with enthralment as he gazed at the silvery markings standing out stark against the pale skin. Flora blinked, momentarily taken aback.

" _Fascinating,"_ he breathed, eyes moving over her palm. _"_ I should like very much to _inspect_ the other marks on your person."

Alistair bridled like a provoked tiger beside her, nostrils flaring as he prepared to snarl a most undiplomatic retort towards the presumptuous Tevinter magister. He was not alone in his indignation; Halward Pavus' suggestion had caused a ripple of consternation along the table.

Flora let the man inspect her palm for a few more moments and then withdrew her hand; lifting a stare cold as the Waking Sea to meet the man's honey coloured gaze.

"Well, _I_ should like very much to see a Rivaini basking shark in its natural habitat," she replied quietly, the softness of her words in stark contrast to the steeliness in her eyes. "Tragically, I've resigned myself to the fact that it will _never happen."_

The Tevinter magister could infer well enough Flora's meaning and withdrew with an abrupt little bow. The Templars escorted Halward Pavus back to his seat, with their scowls ingrained even more deeply than before.

Beside Flora, Alistair was still prickling with indignation, directing furious whispers in Eamon's ear.

"Audacious, insolent _son of a –_ he's not staying in the palace, is he? I don't want him within a mile of Flo."

"Lord Pavus is staying in the noble district, under the supervision of the Templars," Eamon replied in placating tones.

"Well, I want the Templar guard on him doubled," hissed Alistair, not prepared to relinquish his outrage just yet. "The bloody _cheek_ of the man _–_ wanting to _inspect_ my wife. _My_ wife!"

Flora had already mentally moved on from the presumptuous magister, heroically trying to gulp down an entire bowl of vegetable broth before the next guests were introduced.

" _Lord Marlowe Dumar, Viscount of Kirkwall and his son, Saemus Dumar!"_

The Viscount of Kirkwall was a stately, dour-faced man clad in dark velvet from head to foot. A black iron spiked crown rested atop his balding head, and he had the tired expression of a man under the thumb of some greater force. The son, a dark-haired and less world-weary copy of his father, appeared a fraction friendlier.

"Congratulations, your majesties," the Viscount murmured with a bow. "On both your marriage, and the vanquishing of the Blight. Does this mean that the stream of Fereldan refugees into Kirkwall will abate? The city is at bursting point."

"Most of those refugees left under Loghain's residency," Eamon countered, swiftly. "When it appeared that the government was ignoring the threat of the Darkspawn. Believe me, Marlowe, we desire the tide stemmed as much as you."

"We can't rebuild a nation with half of our people disappearing across the Waking Sea to the Marches," Alistair added, wryly. "So if any Fereldan refugees fancy making the journey back, please encourage them."

The Viscount snorted, his eyes drifting ruefully out of focus for a moment.

"There's _one_ troublesome individual I'd particularly like to see the back of," he murmured, almost to himself. "Unfortunately, him and his family seem… _well-entrenched."_

Dumar's son spoke up tentatively, after casting a final look around the crowded tables.

"Excuse me, your majesties," he enquired, shy but determined. "I was under the impression that you had a _Qunari_ with you on your travels. Is he not here?

"Big social occasions aren't really Sten's cup of tea," Alistair replied, just about refraining from adding that _they weren't really his cup of tea, either._

"Oh," replied Saemus, slightly disappointed. "That's… that's a shame. I'd been hoping to see him."

The Viscount shot a little sideways glance of warning towards his son, then took a deep breath and rapidly changed the topic.

"Eamon, we must meet tomorrow about re-opening the trade channels across the Waking Sea. The dressmakers of Kirkwall are complaining for want of Ferelden wool."

"And we sorely need more Marches lumber for our rebuilding efforts," Eamon replied, steadily. "We'll work out the particulars tomorrow."

"Aye, business has no place at a wedding," agreed the Viscount, with a courteous bow towards Alistair and Flora. "King Alistair, you're a fortunate man indeed. Your wife is very beautiful."

"And her _bravery_ is equally impressive," Alistair countered, valiantly.

A short while later, the Viscount and his son made their way slowly back down to their table. The next course was ready to be brought in; the servants were clustered in doorways with trays and platters, waiting for the formal introductions to be finished. Fortunately, they did not have much longer to wait – the final family to offer congratulations to the king and queen were making their way up to the top table in a mass of mustard and black silk. One of them – an old, plump man with slender fingers and a shining bald egg-like head, was escorted by two Templars; indicating his mage status.

" _Here come the death cultists,"_ Alistair breathed in Flora's ear as the Pentaghasts proceeded up the three steps to the royal platform. "Do you think they've resurrected some corpses to add their numbers?"

Flora almost choked on her spoonful of vegetable broth, hoping very much that Alistair was joking.

"The honourable Vestalus Pentaghast, leader of the _Mortalitasi_ ," the steward announced as the bald-headed man glided forwards with surprising elegance considering his bulk. When Vestalus spoke, it was in the hushed, reverent tones of one who spent most of their time in the depths of a necropolis.

"Your Majesties," he whispered, bowing even as he gestured the rest of his family forward. "I am honoured to meet you both. May I introduce my relatives- "

Several near-identical young Pentaghasts were introduced, each of them sharing the same tan skin, dark hair and hawk-like features. Finally, Vestalus gave a particularly aggressive beckon, and a young woman clad in the garb of a Chantry soldier stepped forward. Her features were as keen as a blade, and she looked _thoroughly_ disapproving. Her bow was perfunctory and mechanical, resentment visibly emanating from her demeanour.

"Congratulations."

"I apologise for my niece, Cassandra," the Mortalitasi murmured, flapping elegant fingers in contrition. "She takes her duties as a _Seeker of Truth_ very seriously. It took much persuading before she agreed to attend today."

"We were in the middle of investigating a nest of Templar deserters near Ostwick," Cassandra retorted, bluntly. "They'll have gone to ground by the time I get back."

"Right," said Alistair, somewhat nonplussed. "Well, then. I'm sure they won't get far, with experts like _yourself_ on their trail."

Flora had meanwhile been eyeing each of the Pentaghasts in turn, now reasonably certain that Alistair had been joking about the Mortalitasi's necromancy practises. They all looked healthy enough, though in the midst of her scrutiny, she noticed that Vestalus wore an ebony skull in place of a belt buckle. Flora stared at it for a moment, then realised that it appeared as though she were gazing intently at the Nevarran's crotch. Hastily, she raised her eyes once again; fortunately, the squat man was still focused on Alistair.

"Tell me, your majesty, what kind of arts do the Fereldan people engage in? I have seen little in the way of portraiture since my arrival. Are there few artists in this part of Thedas?"

Flora was confused for a moment, not knowing that Nevarra was the cultural capital of Thedas, widely renowned for its festivals of art. Most citizens thus had some vested interest in culture; though the wealthy tended to invest in art rather than dabble in it personally.

"In Ferelden, we carve much of our art from stone," replied Leonas, gruffly. "Sculptures."

"Aah," murmured the Mortalitasi, in the strange, soft voice of the necropolis. "Do you not find the finished results a little…. _rough around the edges?"_

"Perhaps," retorted Leonas, dark Bryland eyes flashing. "But they last far longer."

The Pentaghasts returned to their seats in a cloud of mustard and dark livery, murmuring to one another in their native tongue. Alistair, relieved that the formal introductions were now over, slung his arm around Flora's shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

"I'm counting down the hours until we're alone, baby," he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Me, you- "

"A Chantry mother, a member of the Landsmeet," Finian reminded him, with an evil cackle. "Probably Zevran hiding in the rafters."

Alistair grimaced; he had been trying very determinedly to forget about their upcoming audience. Downing the remainder of his tankard, he immediately topped it up once again – clearly deciding that some _liquid courage_ was needed to get through the evening. Flora, who grew nauseous at the full un-distilled toxicity of alcohol on her tongue, was unable to use ale as a similar coping mechanism, and fell into a slight sulk.

The sun was beginning to dip itself leisurely into the horizon. Servants moved discreetly about the hall, tugging on long ropes that pulled down the shutters over the high windows. Any candle which had burnt to its base was replaced with another expensive beeswax length; elongated wooden tapers were used to light the spiked iron candelabras hanging overhead. The great hall was soon bathed in a warm, flickering glow, muted candlelight cast over the faces of those sat at the benches. Belts were being loosened and top buttons undone; still more food was being brought out on silver platters. The cooks of the Royal Palace were determined to lay the rumour of _bland Fereldan cuisine_ to rest with their offerings.

Pears soaked in warm red wine were brought out in vast silver tureens, followed swiftly by candied rose and violet petals. Rabbits, birds and Mabari had been cunningly sculpted from marzipan and arranged in natural poses atop the bronze dishes. A custard tart the diameter of a cart-wheel was brought out on the shoulders of two sweating cooks. Finally, curls of sweetened ginger imported from Antiva were nestled inside small terracotta bowls and placed carefully into gaps on the clustered tables.

Oghren appeared as though he had been taken straight to the halls of his Ancestors, eyes expanding like saucers as the desserts were placed on the table before him. Even Zevran managed to summon a smile at the ginger from his homeland; savouring the rush of memory that followed the first bite.

Up on the top table Alistair, who did not have a sweet tooth, was busy getting acquainted with the cheeseboard. Flora - who used to relish the rare occasion that she would get a sweet morsel at the Circle - found to her dismay that her tastes had changed with the growth of the babe. The sugar now tasted bland and oddly metallic in her mouth; despite this, she bit off the head of a marzipan rabbit and chewed it defiantly.

A plate newly set before her contained a number of small cheese-cakes, each one topped with a residue of strange, gold-coloured curls. Flora prodded at one little cake experimentally with her knife, then nudged her brother.

"Fergus, what are these things?"

Fergus swallowed a mouthful of wine-soaked pear and swivelled his head in the direction of her pointed knife.

"Oh, those are _Orlesian fancies._ A favourite from Val Royeaux. Cook probably wants to prove to the _grand duc_ that he can make them as well as any _pâtissier."_

"What's the yellow stuff on top?"

"Gold leaf, pup."

Flora asked him to repeat his response, unsure if she had heard him correctly. When Fergus confirmed that the gold-coloured curls were _indeed_ made from gold; she gaped at him incredulously.

"Made from METAL?"

" _Very thin_ pieces of metal, but – yes."

Flora fell silent for a moment, her brow furrowed.

"No one who eats _metal_ can make fun of me for chewing on wooden things anymore," she said at last. "Huh."

A few minutes later, Alistair finished demolishing a piece of strong Marcher cheddar and glanced sideways at his wife. The next moment, his eyebrows shot into his hairline in a combination of surprise and puzzlement.

"Darling, what are you _doing?"_

Flora had fought off Finian to commandeer the entire platter of Orlesian cheese-cakes. She was surreptitiously and determinedly scraping the gold leaf from each one; creating a little pile of metallic shavings at the side of the plate.

Seeing the vertical motion of Alistair's eyebrows, Flora put down her knife and leaned over to explain into his ear.

"I'm going to donate this _precious gold_ to the Gwaren Restoration Committee," she whispered, earnestly. "Instead of into my _stomach_ , it can go into the fund for a new fishing wharf."

Instead of laughing, Alistair gazed at her for several long moments. Inch by inch, the puzzled grin contracted into a tender smile; his eyes softening like bruised apples. Reaching down to snare her fingers, the king bowed his head to his new queen.

"My – sweet - hearted - girl," he breathed, interspersing his words with kisses pressed to her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. "I don't know about gold leaf, but anything you want for Gwaren - you'll have it. I swear to you, my love. You have my full support."

The delighted Flora kissed him back hard on the mouth, full of gratitude. Alistair's hand went to caress her hip even as his lips parted hers with lazy languor; his tongue already intimate with the curve of her mouth.

" _Honestly!"_ Finian hissed from Flora's right, sounding eerily like the lay-sister Leliana. "If you want dessert, Floss, try eating the rest of those _dissected_ cheesecakes!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: It's like a who's who of Thedas! Hehe.

Flo is right, the scars being in the shape of a Chantry sunburst is just pure coincidence, lol. There's not much on the characteristics of the wider Trevelyan family on the DA wikia, apart from the fact that they are very religious – so I just went with that, hehe.

When I was younger, our grandmother took me and my sister to a fancy restaurant and the desserts were covered in gold leaf in the shape of leaves! I remember thinking how ridiculously opulent it was to EAT gold (even though it's not actually worth a lot in gold leaf form, you can buy like 10 sheets of it on Amazon for a fiver haha)… so I wanted to include a little reference to it, haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	63. Three Native Dances of Thedas

Chapter 63: Three Native Dances of Thedas

To everybody's relief, the speeches were few and short. There was nobody present who could speak at length on the lives of either bride or groom – Alistair had spent much of the past ten years in a monastery, while Flora had been isolated in Herring and then the Circle respectively. Instead, Eamon spoke on briefly on how the legacy of Maric was forged anew in his like-faced son; with strong emphasis on Alistair as a _warrior-king_ who – like his father - had fought to defend Ferelden from the enemy (here, the Orlesians muttered amongst themselves, not liking the implicit comparison of themselves to the Darkspawn.)

Leonas then gave an equally brief but earnest speech on Flora's summoning of the armies and of her symbolic leadership of the first truly united Fereldan force in the nation's history. It was a calculated ploy designed to remind the assembled Theodesian leaders that the girl sat beside the king may have been slight in build and youthful in years, but she had brought together a force of ten thousand soldiers in less than a year – and could do so again, if the need arose.

Not listening to the effusive praise being heaped upon her, Flora grasped Alistair's hand as he rested it on her bare, leather-strapped knee; sliding her thumb back and forth over the twisted strands of the wedding ring. It sat snug on his fourth finger, just below the callused knuckle; bright and burnished even in the shadow beneath the table.

"Do you remember where I first told you the _fish-rope_ story?" she whispered, taking advantage of the general hubbub as the servants came in to clear away the dessert platters.

"Of course, my love," Alistair murmured back, swivelling on the throne to angle himself towards her. "We were camping just north of Lothering, on our way to Redcliffe. You'd had a nightmare – it was one of the first times you'd seen the Archdemon in your dreams- "

" _The_ first time," Flora corrected, resting her fingers atop Alistair's and wondering at the contrast in size between their hands.

"The first time," Alistair repeated, turning his hand over so that they were palm to scarred palm. "My poor darling. You got so hot and worked up in your sleep that I was terrified you were being possessed – I was already nervy about sharing a tent alone with a _girl_ – and so I woke you up."

"You _shook_ me until my teeth rattled like fishhooks in a bait-bucket," Flora added, eyeing him beadily.

"I thought that some Fade demon was trying to take you from me, and I – I couldn't lose my sister-warden too, not after all we'd lost at Ostagar." Alistair paused for a moment, a brief flicker of sadness passing across his face. _"Anyway_ , to cheer me up, you told me the story of the brother and sister transforming themselves into fish to escape the nets, tying their tails together with a rope so that- "

" _Not even the tide could part them,"_ Flora finished, solemnly. "And then I said that we brother- and sister-warden had an invisible _fish-rope_ that would always connect us, even through the Veil."

Alistair nodded, the green flecks in his hazel eyes suddenly standing out clear and bright. A tear ran down his cheek, vanishing into the neatly trimmed hair covering his jaw. Flora reached to intercept the second tear with a finger, smiling up at him.

"Stop, or I'll cry too," she whispered, earnestly. "And Leliana has given me three permitted facial expressions for the day: vague contempt, haughty superiority and FERELDAN DEFIANCE!"

Alistair laughed out loud, the tears drying up.

"Go on then, baby, show me _Fereldan defiance."_

Flora focused on one of the Vael sons, lifting her chin and letting her cold grey eyes bore into him with such ferocity that the unfortunate heir dropped his knife and wondered in alarm what he had done. To assuage the young man's panic, Flora then flashed him a broad smile; which was equally disconcerting for its rarity. By the time that he had been both glowered and grinned at in rapid succession, the red-headed Vael heir was quaking in his seat.

As the evening drew on, the feast continued; with only a brief pause before more food was brought out on platters. However, the guests seemed more interested in watching the entertainment whilst simultaneously sampling the Denerim speciality of _wild honey mead._

A group of girls – typically Fereldan in appearance with pale, freckled skin, pink cheeks and ruddy hair - performed a series of native dances for those assembled. Flora recognised several of the dances as originating from her own beloved northern coast, and had to restrain herself from joining in. She had always enjoyed dancing, and it had been many months since she had last had the opportunity to dance to music from her home.

The next moment Flora reminded herself sternly how _ridiculous_ she would look with her swollen belly beside this slim bevy of beauties. Sulkily, she slumped down a fraction in her seat and then yelped as the carved bird's beak at the base of the throne promptly poked her in the spine.

Alistair, meanwhile, was watching the dancers with an air of studied politeness. Startling at his wife's yelp, he reached out a concerned hand towards her arm.

"Sweetheart?"

"It's this stupid bird," Flora complained, casting a baleful eye at the ornately carved throne. "Ouch."

Alistair shot a quick glance down at their guests. With the formalities over, there was a far more relaxed atmosphere within the great hall. Many were watching the dancers, others busily fitting as much food into their mouths as possible. Quite a few younger sons were focused on getting drunk – one inebriated Vael was mimicking the prancing of the dancers from the side-lines, until he received a swift cuff from his father. Meanwhile, Oghren was taking full advantage of the honey mead on tap; it seemed that his weeks of sobriety had not managed to resist such free flowing alcohol. Wynne was talking to Zevran, the senior enchanter under instructions from Leliana to keep the elf away from Claudio Valisti.

Several of those seated at the top table had broken off to speak with the guests below. Finian was chattering away to Saemus Dumar, the two having met on several prior occasions. Eamon had made a beeline for Saemus' father, keen to discuss the Fereldan refugee situation.

"Come and sit on my knee, Lo," Alistair instructed, leaning back against his larger throne and parting his legs obligingly. "You _are_ my new bride, after all."

Flora obediently manoeuvred between the thrones to perch on his strong thigh, settling back against his chest. Alistair wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she turned her head to kiss him on the bearded cheek.

"There's only _so_ much adherence to protocol they should expect from us," he murmured in her ear, softly. "After all, they did willingly put a stable-boy and a fisherman's daughter on the throne."

Flora glanced about her, suddenly feeling the heat of a hundred eyes on her back. At first she thought that the attention was due to her position on Alistair's lap – but then realised that the stares were swivelling between them and Loghain. The disgraced general was methodically making his way up to the top table, with only a slight limp betraying the false limb.

Loghain's betrayal of Cailan was now infamous across Thedas, and there was no guest present who was not aware of the treachery displayed at Ostagar. There were many who believed that he should have been executed for such abandonment of his king – and son-in-law – while others secretly admired his blatant attempt to usurp power for himself. The story of Loghain's futile, desperate last attempt to stop the Archdemon had spread across Thedas after the Blight ended, which did repair his reputation somewhat. However, the majority of guests eyed the new Warden with expressions ranging from mild suspicion to open hostility.

" _Traitor!"_

The cry came up from the Marcher group, thin and slurred with ale. It was repeated by several more voices, though barely discernible beneath the music. To Loghain's credit he only paused for a moment before continuing up to the top table; his expression carefully neutral.

Flora nudged Alistair gently in the ribs; he gave her a slight nod in response and cleared his throat. Leliana had prepared them for this possibility, and the opportunity that it presented.

 _We can't let it be believed across Thedas that there's a division between Ferelden's Wardens and Ferelden's crown. We need to present a united front._

"Come and sit with us, Loghain," said Alistair after a moment, nodding to Flora's empty throne.

Loghain, the corner of his mouth curving upwards at the irony, took a seat and immediately grimaced as the bird poked its beak through a gap in his Warden-garb.

"They've brought out the old thrones from storage," he commented in the usual dry, northern tones. "Rowan used to complain nonstop about that bloody bird. I thought she'd had its beak filed off; clearly I was mistaken."

Alistair and Flora both gazed at him with equal solemnity; Alistair's eyes laced with a greater degree of suspicion. Loghain stared back at them for a moment, then picked up a tankard and raised it to them both with a wry smile.

"Here's to your marriage and a healthy babe," he said, and there was no disingenuity in his tone. "I hope for both of your sakes that it's a happier union than that of my daughter and Cailan. Alistair, did you spend last night down the Pearl in the company of ladies with _dubious_ virtue?"

"Uh," said Alistair, slightly taken aback. "In a _brothel?_ No. No, I went to see Flora, and then Teagan, Finian and I played Wicked Grace until Finn fell asleep in his cards."

"Then your marriage is off to a better start than your predecessors'," Loghain replied, taking a long swig of the tankard that he'd used to toast them.

"Loghain Mac Tir," Flora said, not quite ready to use Duncan's title of _Warden-Commander_ with this new incumbent.

"Florence Chastity Popelyn Ragenhilda Cousland," he replied, then let out a small snort. "What a mouthful. If you're thinking about shortening your name, I'd drop the _second_ part. It's quite clearly not applicable."

Alistair almost laughed, then abruptly arrested the chuckle in his throat, eyeing Loghain beadily. Flora swivelled her gaze towards the group of Warden recruits clustered in a crowd of silver and navy stripes at the end of a lower table. Her eye was drawn particularly to a scruffy man with pale hair, who looked strangely familiar. He appeared to be in a drinking contest with a squat, capable looking female dwarf who had short, dark hair and distinct black patterns inked across her face. Nearby, a blonde female elf crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes with a supercilious expression remarkably similar to that of Morrigan.

"You've found some new recruits?"

"Aye, we've assembled a… _motley_ crew," Loghain replied, forgetting about the bird's beak and leaning back against the throne. "Ah, this bloody chair – I'll introduce you to them tomorrow. Anyway, Flora – your bard wrote to me saying that you had a new potential recruit? I've brought down some vials of Darkspawn blood."

Flora shivered reflexively, remembering her own Joining. She still lit a candle for Daveth and Jory without fail each time she did one of her _sessions of remembrance_ in the Chantry.

"I do have a potential recruit," she said, forcing the memory back into the rear of her skull. "It's…"

She glanced down at the tables in search of Oghren. The dwarf was contorted beneath one of the vast barrel-stands at the side of the room, the tap fully open and a stream of golden mead pouring directly into his mouth.

"It's…a SURPRISE," Flora finished, as Loghain narrowed his eyes at her.

"'It's a 'surprise'?" the northerner repeated, flatly. "A _surprise."_

"Yes, a surprise," retorted Alistair, immediately coming to his best friend's defence. "You know, like when you're expecting the Royal Army to back you up and then _surprise!_ they're not coming!"

" _Oooh…"_

Flora's mouth made a little _o,_ her eyes expanding like silver saucers. Loghain let out a long, faintly exasperated exhalation, eyeing both of them with an air of resignation.

"Alright then, _your majesties,"_ he murmured, bowing his head once more. "I eagerly anticipate the revealing of your ' _surprise' recruit tomorrow_ morning."

With a grunt of effort, Loghain manoeuvred his wooden leg out from beneath the table and rose to his feet; tramping back down to where Leonie Caron and the rest of the recruits were sitting. After being witnessed in what appeared to be civil conversation with the king and queen; there were no more cries of _traitor!_ accompanying Loghain to his seat.

Alistair anchored his arm more tightly around Flora's waist as she shifted on his thigh. Glancing at her face, he noticed her biting anxiously at her lower lip and reached up; rubbing his thumb over the full, wide softness of her Cousland mouth.

"My love?"

"I hope Oghren's Joining goes well tomorrow," she whispered, Daveth's bulging-eyed face rising to the forefront of her memory once again. "Alistair, what if – what if- "

"He'll be _fine,"_ Alistair replied, firmly. "I've seen the dwarf down a bottle of fire-whiskey in less time than it took to uncork it. He's got a stomach lined with iron."

"You think so?"

"Of course, sweetheart." There was so much confidence in Alistair's reply that Flora found herself reassured; she leaned her head against his shoulder and he pressed a kiss to her cloud of dark red hair.

When the Fereldan girls had finished their set of native dances, they withdrew – blushing with delight - to loud applause and slightly drunken cheers. Silver coins in small lace pouches were tossed towards them, which they stopped to collect with squeals of delight.

Meanwhile, Eamon had returned to the top table smiling, having secured a lucrative lumber deal with the Trevelyans. He took his seat beside Alistair, refilling the king's tankard with ale and the queen's smaller cup with apple-water.

"Eamon," Alistair murmured, leaning towards his chancellor while keeping a tight grip on his wife. "Who's going to be the Chantry sister in with me and Flo tonight?"

"Do you really want to know?" the arl replied, taking a long gulp from his own tankard.

"Not the member of the Landsmeet,"Alistair said, hastily. "Just the sister. It's not going to be Grand Cleric Elemena is it?"

"No," said Eamon, a wry smile curling behind his silver beard. "The Grand Cleric would sadly be useless for this particular purpose; she's deaf as a post _._ "

The _implication_ of this comment saw Alistair go a fraction paler. The king reached for his tankard and downed it with a haste that Oghren would have admired. Flora, who was utterly nonchalant about their upcoming audience, sipped at her apple-water and eyed her husband with mild trepidation.

Just then, there was a ripple of surprise and anticipation through the audience; who were growing merrier and less bothered about old rivalries as the strong Denerim mead took its effect.

The cause of their delight soon became apparent. The delegation from Rivain had brought along a group of native dancers, a sextet of handsome women with dark hair in oiled curls. Their noses and ears were decorated with gold, and their bodies were covered by _very little._ They began to dance to the languid piping of the accompanying musicians; wrists twirling and golden brackets rattling.

"Maker's Breath!" hissed Alistair, rapidly averting his eyes to the ceiling. "Eamon, I thought this was going to be a _family friendly_ evening."

Eamon was openly laughing while trying not to look too closely, knowing that Isolde would be glaring at him from where she was sitting with Bann Reginalda and Leonas' daughter, Habren.

"I knew that they were bringing _entertainment,_ I didn't realise quite what _sort_ it would be."

"But I'm a _married man_ , now," replied Alistair, in the tone of a particularly prudish Chantry sister. "I shouldn't be witnessing ladies in states of… _undress!"_

Eamon snorted, and then received a dagger-like stare from Isolde. Paling, the arl excused himself and went to appease his wife.

Flora, conversely, was eyeing the golden piercings speckled across the women's bodies. Her own body had not tolerated any piercing while under the jurisdiction of the spirits – the holes would simply close back up – but she was fascinated to learn _how many_ parts of the human body could be punctured.

"Like what you see, _carina?"_ purred a familiar voice from over her right shoulder. Zevran had slunk his way up to the top table and was now lounging in Fergus' chair; eyes not moving from the dancers' undulating bodies.

Flora reached out and touched the elf's right ear, where a golden hoop identical to the one he had given her dangled.

"I knew you could have holes put in your ears," she breathed, fascinated. "I didn't realise you could get one in your _nose._ Or your _tongue."_

"No, I don't imagine there's much of that going on in Herring," Zevran murmured, dark eyes twinkling. "Look, that one has a chain through her _belly button."_

"That must have hurt!"

"Not as much as the piercing sported by the lovely lady on the far right." The elf gave her a little nudge, snickering.

Flora followed his finger and her eyebrows rapidly shot into her hairline. She elbowed Alistair – who had been gazing determinedly at his wife's swollen stomach for the duration of the dance – and gestured for him to look. He did so, and then let out a strangled squawk.

" _Maker's Breath,"_ Alistair croaked, ducking back down like an arrow had been shot at his head. "Well, that is _definitely_ out of the question for you, Lo. The baby needs to _feed_ off those!"

Flora and Zevran cackled in unison, the elf reaching out to run his slender fingers affectionately down Flora's bare arm.

"Piercings aside, I think you would look delicious in the Rivaini style of dress," he purred, watching Alistair's face closely.

Flora shot him a slightly incredulous look, head swivelling between the taut, glistening muscle of the dancers' exposed stomachs, and her own bloated belly.

"Delicious? I'd look _ridiculous,"_ she said, plaintively. "Oghren said I had the mass of a mid-sized pony earlier. He wasn't wrong!"

"You're the most beautiful creature on Thedas, Lo," Alistair replied, immediate and earnest. "The dwarf was probably half-intoxicated."

Delighted, Flora put her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"Once my body gets back to normal," she whispered in Alistair's ear, absentmindedly rubbing the fur of his collar between her fingers. "I'll wear anything you want. Even a _Rivaini belly-dancer outfit."_

Alistair, who had been in the middle of gulping down his fourth flagon of mead, spluttered and spilt the remainder down the front of his leather tunic. Fortunately, it was dark enough that the stain was only visible at a close distance.

" _Flora,"_ he groaned, replacing the tankard on the table with an unsteady hand. "You can't _say_ things like that while sitting half-naked on my knee."

"What did she say?" demanded the elf, who had been distracted by a servant dropping a tray of empty tankards. _"What did she say?"_

Fortunately, the divisive Rivaini dancers soon made their exit, undulating across the flagstones. Half of the Landsmeet had emptied their pockets; many of the guests still seemed speechless. The highly religious Vael clan had their hands over their eyes, under strict instruction from their patriarch.

Next came to the forefront a nervous looking young man with Marcher colouring and unkempt straw-like hair. He wore the colours of House Trevelyan but lacked the luxuriant trimmings of the bann's immediate family – this was perhaps some minor relative. The gangly youth cleared his throat; a distinct tremor in his voice as he directed his words to the ceiling of the great hall.

"This dance is dedicated to _Florence the Fair,"_ he announced, with equal parts nervousness and pride. "It is a dance from my home village, called _The Fish Dance."_

An intrigued Flora swivelled herself to face the audience; shuffling forwards as far as she could go on Alistair's knee and leaning her elbows on the table. Fergus, who had taken Finian's seat on seeing that the elf had sprawled himself across his own, looked genuinely disconcerted.

"The _fish_ dance," the teyrn repeated, incredulously. "I've never heard of such a custom. What do you think- "

A lively jig sprung up from the minstrels in the corner as eight men positioned themselves in geometric formation on the flagstones. With a single cohesive shout, they produced a fish in their right hand and held it high in the air.

" _Hey, hey!"_

With a resounding _slap_ against the plump, scaled bodies of the fish; the men then threw them into the air and caught the descending fish of their neighbour.

" _Hey, hey!"_

Finian, whose Orlesian-trained etiquette was not able to cope with the strain of appearing neutral when faced with the _fish dance,_ nearly fell off the lower bench in hysterics; eye patch sliding out of place. Leliana –the true master of Orlesian etiquette - smiled with polite interest, while muttering under her breath to Wynne. Up at the top table Zevran was oddly enchanted; his eyes glued to the leather-clad posteriors of the Marcher men.

Flora, still perched on Alistair's knee, eyed the unfortunate fish as they were slapped thoroughly before being thrown into the air. Despite the fact that she had been personally responsible for the deaths of _thousands_ of fish during her tenure at Herring; at least their deaths had been meaningful – rather than for _comedic antics._

"Is this the sort of thing they do in Herring, pup?" Fergus asked her, his eyebrows fully elevated.

Flora wrinkled her nose, trying to envision her taciturn father and his brethren throwing the day's catch through the air while prancing merrily around on the rocky beach.

"No," she said after a moment, solemnly. "No, it is not."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol Flora was fully about to tell Loghain that Oghren was the proposed Warden candidate… then she sees him passed out drunk on the floor and is like ABORT MISSION "IT'S A SURPRISE!" instead, hehehe.

This was a fun chapter to write! Poor Alistair is taking being a married man _very seriously_ when it comes to looking at half-naked dancers, hahaha. We'll have to see how well his resolve fares when Isabela swings back into town, lol. The fish dance is inspired by my memories of doing Welsh dancing when I was younger – there was one dance called jac-y-do (jackdaw), and another called ceiliog rhedyn (grasshopper), and another called robin ddiog (lazy robin). SO WHY NOT FISH? Hahahaha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	64. Like Iron to a Lodestone

Chapter 64: Like Iron to a Lodestone

The men from the Marches continued to jig around in the centre of the great hall, tossing the fish between them while slapping their leather-clad thighs, heartily. Despite her inherent disapproval of the fish being _wasted_ instead of consumed, Flora still approved of the hail to her Herring upbringing.

 _We're surrounded by the colours and emblems of the Couslands,_ she thought to herself as she slithered off Alistair's knee, rising to her feet as the music came to a halt and the dancers bowed deeply. _Yet there's nothing of Herring here, save for myself. And Herring is what made me, not Highever._

The chattering around the hall faded away as the guests broke off their conversations and stared at the queen as she made her way down the steps, padding barefoot over the flagstones towards the dancers. The Marcher youths – who were indeed minor members of their house, brought along to squire for more important Trevelyans – were frozen in place, wide-eyed.

Flora halted before them and smiled, her pale gaze moving from one to the other in turn.

"Thank you for showing me your _fish dance_ ," she said, soft and earnest. "I enjoyed it a lot. Is it a local custom from your home?"

One of the youths mouthed for a moment, trying frantically to grasp at the words like a slippery bar of animal-fat soap. The rest of the great hall had fallen silent, watching the exchange between queen and awestruck entertainers.

"Yes, m-m-ma'am – _your majesty,"_ stammered the tallest youth, who had ginger curls falling to his collar. "It's from our home village, Monteith. Near Ostwick."

"Is that on the coast?"

"No, my lady – on Lake Osterling. Deepest body o' water in the Marches."

This was enough to fascinate Flora, her eyes expanding like saucers.

"The deepest – _oh!_ Do you – do you _fish_ in it?"

"Aye, ma'am."

"Tell me what kind of fish live in the deepest lake in the Marches!"

Flora stayed with the awestruck youths for the next half-candle, withdrawing to the chairs at the side of the room and listening avidly. They were hesitant at first, mumbling only brief responses to her prompted questions. However – once they had overcome their fear of her haughty, cool-eyed beauty – they realised that her interest in their pastime was genuine. Soon after, their answers became longer and more enthused, faces flushed and gestures animated. Flora was so fascinated that she barely registered the end of the organised entertainment; couples taking to the open space between the tables to dance.

The Fereldan musicians, eager to re-stake their claim, struck up a series of familiar folk dances. Many lords led their ladies out to dance – and vice versa. The courteous Fergus rose and went to Leliana, offering her his hand gallantly. The bard accepted with decorous gratitude, stepping out onto the flagstones alongside the teyrn. Fergus could feel the eyes of several dozen men burning into his tunic; the lovely Leliana had captured the slightly inebriated attentions of several minor banns over the course of the evening.

Eamon also rose to his feet and went to join Isolde after she shot him a pointed look - though he only led his wife onto the floor after a slower number had begun. They were joined by Finian and Wynne; the latter following the former's lead with surprising agility and grace considering her advanced years. The senior enchanter soon proved herself to be an elegant dance partner, with a knowledge of step and rhythm that impressed even the Orlesian-trained Finian.

Loghain was as likely to join in the dancing as he was to declare allegiance to Orlais and the Empress Celene. He sat beside Leonie Caron – who at least was tapping her toe to the beat of the music – and inspected the bottom of his tankard with a slightly irate expression. Zevran leaned against a pillar at the side of the room, flirting casually with one of the Rivaini dancers. Despite the elf's apparent dedication to the ebon-haired beauty before him, his gaze kept flitting about the chamber; continuously on the lookout for threats.

The elf was not the only one keeping an eye out for potential trouble. Alistair was still seated on the throne at the top table, his powerful frame leaning forward with knees wide apart; gaze focused keen and hawk-like on his former sister-warden and new wife. Flora was still seated amongst the men of the Marches, listening enthralled to their tales of deep-lake fishing. Despite knowing that no person in the room save for the soldiers (Zevran and Leliana too, undoubtedly) were armed; Alistair could not help but see the vulnerability of Flora's slender, naked back, the delicate line of her neck exposed as she pulled her hair thoughtlessly over her shoulder. The swell of her stomach, full of a babe already starting to outgrow the petite frame of it's mother, only seemed to make her an easier target.

Unable to stop these intrusive thoughts, Alistair scowled to himself; wondering if he should send a pair of Royal Guard to stand nearby, ready to intervene if necessary.

"Relax, son. She's the _Hero of Ferelden,_ ender of the Fifth Blight. There's not a man in the room who wishes her harm."

The voice belonged to Teagan, who had noticed Alistair's deep-set glower and taken it upon himself to sit in Eamon's vacated chair. Alistair blinked, startled, turning his head to gaze at the man whom he viewed as an uncle.

"Plus, she's with child. No man would dare risk his place with the Maker by bringing harm to an unborn babe."

"Thomas Howe did," muttered Alistair, not entirely reassured by Teagan's comment. The bann gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, his green Guerrin eyes settling on Alistair's anxious profile.

"Aye lad, but his was a personal grudge. There's no one here that claims similar against the lass."

"What about the other Howe brother?" countered the king, swiftly. "Nathaniel. He's still out there, somewhere."

"But not _in here,"_ murmured the bann, placing a comforting hand on Alistair's leather clad elbow. "Try and relax. She's _fine."_

Alistair nodded, then took another long gulp of ale; making a conscious effort to calm himself.

"You're right, uncle. Who's _that?"_

Despite his uncle's earnest attempts to reassure his nerves, the king could not help but bristle as a bearded man clad in mustard yellow approached Flora with a confident stride. The noble appeared to be in his early thirties, one signet-ringed hand rising to push auburn hair away from his smiling face. As he bowed deeply before the new queen of Ferelden, Alistair recognised the handsome features as belonging to Arl Myrddin; a young, outspoken member of the Landsmeet.

"That's Myrddin, of the southern Bannorn," Teagan explained, simultaneous to Alistair's realisation. "He opposed Loghain from the beginning; you can trust him."

Alistair narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly.

"I know him," he said, a note of outrage creeping into his tone. "He - he _fancies_ Flo!"

Teagan coughed, directing his gaze up to the ceiling.

"There are many who harbour such feelings for _your wife,_ Alistair," he said, deliberately emphasising the last few words to help embed Flora as such in his own mind. "She's kind, brave and beautiful. Most of the Landsmeet would have married her if she'd not been – you know. Bound to you."

"Myrddin wrote her a ridiculous love letter when she was staying at Revanloch. She had no idea what it said; I had to _read it for her,"_ Alistair complained, clearly not having listened to a word. "What does he want _now?"_

It soon became apparent what the young, confident arl wanted. With a smile spread across his bearded face, Arl Myrddin made a gesture towards the dance floor; then raised his eyebrows towards Flora, one hand held out. Flora gazed back at him, her own brow furrowed, then returned his offer with a polite smile and a small shake of the head.

After a few more unsuccessful attempts to cajole her into a dance, the handsome arl bent to kiss her hand and made a dignified retreat. Flora returned her attention to the fishermen from the opposite coast of the Waking Sea.

" _I_ was going to ask Lo to dance," Alistair hissed in outrage to his uncle, fingers clamped around the neck of his goblet as though ready to hurl it across the room at Arl Myrddin's ginger head. "I was just waiting for the right song."

A short time later, Flora was still listening, fascinated, to the men of the Marches. They were in the middle of describing one particularly strange catch – a tentacled creature with the face of a man – when they came to a simultaneous halt; clambering to their feet with heads bowed. Flora glanced curiously over her shoulder, only to see Alistair approaching at rapid pace over the flagstones. Those on the dance-floor drew to the side to let him pass, sneaking quick glances at Ferelden's new king as he strode determinedly towards his wife.

Flora smiled reflexively on seeing her best friend approach. The candlelight caught the gold of the crown, the bronze of his hair and warmed the olive tones of Alistair's skin; gleaming like something taken fresh from the forge. His kind hazel eyes – which balanced the natural arrogance of his Marician face – were focused on her, bruised with affection.

"My love," he murmured, and then held out his hand beseechingly. "Will you dance with me?"

Although Flora felt a small twinge of nervousness – _so many people! so many judgemental eyes on her unwieldy body!_ – she would never deny Alistair anything before such a crucial audience. She beamed up at him, reaching out to twine her fingers with his.

As Flora rose, Alistair drew her tenderly against his chest, steering her in a gentle meander out onto the flagstones. The space between the tables cleared; guests hastily making room for the newlywed royal couple. The musicians, after a pointed glare from Leliana, segued into a sweet, melancholic ballad with a strange and shifting melody; written in the familiar cadence of the northern coast.

"Thank you, Lo."

Flora gazed up at her former brother-warden, bemused. He was holding her gently by the waist as they rotated on the flagstones, the movement slow and intimate.

"Eh?"

"I remember seeing Eamon dance with Isolde when they got married," Alistair replied softly, the haze of reminiscence clinging to the words. "I was helping the kitchen staff clear away empty tankards. The music started and he led her out into the middle of the room - I'd never seen the arl look so proud in his life."

Flora reached up, broaching the foot of space in their heights to touch her husband's bearded jaw.

"I know our wedding day has turned into a bit of a spectacle," Alistair muttered, a slight flush rising to his cheeks as he turned her with exceptional care. "But I… I wanted to dance with you, just once. Because I _am_ the proudest man in Thedas, with you at my side."

As Flora came around to face him once more she beamed, at once made shy and delighted by his comment. Alistair gazed down at her for several moments, intense and purposeful; and then smiled back, the grin lighting up his face like sunrise breaking over the city walls.

As the king of Ferelden manoeuvred his new queen carefully around the flagstones, both seemed unaware of the eyes of Thedas fixated on them. Despite the ever-present undercurrent of factional division, old tensions and national rivalries; the assembled guests could not help but feel benevolent towards the handsome young Theirin and his full-bellied bride. The cool disdain that Flora had worn earlier (one of Leliana's permitted expressions) had melted away in the warmth of her husband's naked adoration; she basked in his gaze like a crimson-furred cat, arching herself towards his touch.

At the side of the room, Zevran leaned against a stone bust and ran his fingers compulsively over the hilt of his dagger.

"They look very well together, don't they?"

Leliana smiled at him from the other side of the bust, the bard's mouth curling upwards lazily. Despite having spent the past hour dancing with a selection of Thedas' most powerful men and women, she was still wholly composed; not a single hair out of place.

" _Eh, amor?"_

"Our two Wardens. _Former_ Wardens. They are well-matched."

Leliana canted her head towards where Alistair had drawn Flora against his chest, swaying gently from foot to foot like a fishing boat moored in shallow waters. As they watched, the king pressed a tender kiss to the top of his queen's head.

"He looks a grown man already," agreed Zevran, eyes sliding rapidly away towards the trestle tables. "And her beauty will only grow as she leaves behind adolescence and… becomes a woman."

Leliana reached out and placed her fingers gently on the elf's elbow, her limpid eyes bright with concern.

"Are you alright, _mon chéri_?"

The elf paused a moment before replying, his expression caught somewhere in the no man's land between regret and reminiscence.

"Following _mi florita_ was the first choice I ever made of my own free will," he said, softly. "Ironic, that I now find myself a self-made prisoner; trapped by my own sentiment."

Out on the centre of the flagstones, Flora tilted her face expectantly up towards Alistair. In response he obediently bent his head towards her, letting her whisper something into his ear. A few moments later he laughed out loud, one hand dropping to caress his wife's bare back.

"She was always meant for him, wasn't she?" Zevran continued quietly, a note of resignation in his words. "There would never have been any chance for me."

Leliana did not reply immediately, since it was most likely true. The bard had known Alistair and Flora almost the longest of all the companions – second only to Morrigan. The perceptive woman had picked up almost immediately on the magnetic undercurrent between brother and sister warden; long before they themselves did.

" _Oui_ : like iron to a lodestone," she agreed, eventually.

Zevran inclined his head with a rueful smile, and made to set towards the ale-barrels.

"Zevran!"

The elf looked over his shoulder at her, white-blond head turning leonine and elegant.

"There are many types of love," the bard murmured, quiet and meaningful. "But each type is precious."

He nodded, gave an odd half-smile, and disappeared into a crowd of whispering Nevarrans.

Once the sweet, simple melody came to an end Flora put her arms about Alistair's neck and embraced him, curling her fingers into the fur sewn around his collar. Alistair rested his hands on her hips, fingers moving compulsively over the form-fitting leather. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach; he had caught sight of Eamon's pointed stare across the flagstones.

"I think the time has come for us to be temporarily parted, my love," he murmured into Flora's ear, hoping that his words were not wavering. "I'll… see you in the bedchamber. Along with our _audience,_ of course."

Flora was not fooled by the light-heartedness in Alistair's tone, and she shot him an anxious little glance from beneath her eyelashes.

"It'll be alright," she whispered, seeing Leliana approach with a determined expression. "See you in a bit."

There was a brief moment of uncertainty in the great hall as the newlyweds were led towards separate archways. The _ending_ of the wedding day was common tradition across Thedas – the placing of a virginal bride in her marital bed, the escorting of the groom into the bedchamber – but since _this_ bride was heavily weighed down with her husband's child, the ritual seemed a little redundant.

However, the atmosphere had changed by the time that Alistair and Flora reached their separate exits; he accompanied by the men of the King's Council and she by Leliana and several noblewomen. Despite the queen quite clearly _not_ being a virgin, it was still an impending _consummation;_ and thus some of the traditional bawdiness was expected.

Alistair, his teeth gritted, was escorted from the chamber with comments such as _enjoy your ride on the crimson mare!_ and _best wishes for your stay in Highever!_ echoing behind him. As the king left, he took hold of a fortifying bottle of Antivan brandy, not bothering with the accompanying tankard.

Flora – whose status as a Hero of Ferelden granted her some additional measure of respect beyond that of generic royal bride – was spared a plethora of over-familiar remarks. This was also due in no small part to Fergus' narrowed grey-blue stare sweeping across the assembled guests; silently warning them off making overly lewd comments on the act itself. Instead, the audience offered merely some lascivious advice to the bride as she passed between their ranks.

" _Lie back and think of Ferelden, your majesty!"_

" _I hear the Theirins are well-hung, my lady. Care to confirm or deny?"_

The confused Flora was unsure how to respond and so simply ignored them, lifting her chin and allowing Leliana to lead her from the great hall. They were accompanied by several noblewomen, including Isolde Guerrin, Bann Reginalda and Habren Bryland; the latter two chattering in low, excited tones.

They travelled along one of the wide stone passages that ran down the side of the great hall, a lofty corridor with great spiked-iron rings blazing with candlelight high overhead. The Royal Guard flanking the corridor passed their pikes from hand to hand in respect; eyes lowered in deference to their new, young queen.

The noise of the revellers gradually faded away, absorbed by the thick stone walls of the castle. Clutching Leliana's dry, scented palm Flora padded dutifully in her wake; trying not to limp too extensively. The long day had taken its toll on her strapped knee, and it was voicing its protest through a combination of twinges and sharp, jabbing pains.

Once they had reached the great stained glass Calenhad window, Leliana noticed that her accomplice was lagging behind. The bard paused for a moment, moonlight filtering through the crystallised glass and casting her face in a wash of colour. Flora came to a halt, her flushed cheeks puffed out with effort. Behind her, Bann Reginalda, Isolde and Habren Bryland also stopped in a rustle of velvet and ruffled silk.

"You've done very well today, _ma petite,"_ Leliana murmured, her voice soft and affectionate. "Not much longer now."

Conscious of Flora's sore knee, the bard slowed her pace a fraction. She took the stone staircase leading up to the Royal Corridor one red-carpeted step at a time, letting Flora have a rest halfway up.

"I always felt sorry for the poor deer," Reginalda murmured, squinting her lined, clever eyes up at the hunted _halla_ tapestry that hung at the end of the royal passageway. "Why don't you ask Alistair to replace it with something a bit more _cheerful_ , my dear?"

Flora followed the bann's stare up at the moth-eaten tapestry, her gaze moving from the snarling Mabari to the terrified, cringing _halla._

"Hm," she replied, vaguely. "Maybe."

"One would never find such _crude_ displays of art in Orlais," Isolde retorted, unable to stop herself from showing off her knowledge. "At Redcliffe Castle, we have a beautiful pair of stained-glass windows imported from Val Royeaux, depicting a black and a white swan facing each other."

"Did they survive the carnage caused by your son's demonic possession?" Habren Bryland asked sweetly, her dark eyes flashing.

Isolde let out a little huff of displeasure, a faint flush blossoming on her cheeks.

"Redcliffe Castle looked beautiful when it was decorated for Satinalia," Flora offered, feeling sorry for Arl Eamon's wife. "Will you help to decorate the Royal Palace for Satinalia this year?"

Isolde blinked and then stammered a quick, pleased assent, the flush on her cheeks deepening.

Leliana squeezed Flora's palm briefly, leading her down the wide corridor past the laurel-painted doorway leading to the Cousland quarters. Guilluame, the chief steward, was waiting patiently beside the thick, studded oak doors that made entrance into the Royal bedchamber. On seeing Flora, he bowed very low; twirling the ends of his oiled moustache.

"Congratulations, your majesty," he murmured, returning upright with a wry smile. "It is good to see you take your rightful place at the king's side."

Flora gave a little nod, wondering if their audience already lay in wait behind the sealed oak doors.

"The king will be along in a half-candle," Leliana informed the steward briskly, conscious of the waning minutes. "Is all prepared within?"

"Yes, my lady" confirmed Guillaume, with a small inclination of his bearded chin. "All is laid out and set up according to the traditional guidelines."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol it seems so disrespectful to shout crude remarks at the bride and groom – but it was totally expected at a Medieval wedding, lol. The only vestiges of that lewdness found in today's weddings is probably the rude stories in a best man's speech, haha.

I just imagine Flora getting this love letter from the admiring Arl Myrddin (who's a minor NPC from the DA tabletop RPG) – she can't read his writing and has no idea what it says, so poor old Alistair has to translate it for her, raging inwardly all the while, lol. LITERACY PRACTICE!

Sooooooooo next chapter – THE WEDDING NIGHT! Finally! Hahaha, poor old Alistair – I'm not sure taking the entire bottle of Antivan brandy was a good idea…

Oh, btw a lodestone is a naturally magnetised piece of stone, lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	65. The Wedding Night

Chapter 65: The Wedding Night

The guards hastened to open the doors, and Leliana promptly led the way into the Royal Bedchamber. There were no other people present within the stark, rustic space, yet clearly the servants had been busy – like the entrance and great halls, the room had been embellished with additional decoration. _Unlike_ those previous chambers, there were no Cousland and Theirin emblems plastered about the walls; these augmentations were for a older, more primitive purpose.

Hazelnuts strung onto threads had been hung at the windows and above the door frame; bushels of young green corn stalks stood in bronze containers at the corners of the room. Long, perfumed branches of freshly-harvested hazel had been placed on top of the mantelpiece and on the window bench. Pine cones had been scattered amidst the animal furs lying across the bed, and sprigs of mistletoe strewn over the cushions.

Flora came to an astonished halt, her eyes moving about the chamber. She was so distracted by the vegetative decoration that she barely paid heed to the privacy screen, made from delicate, translucent vellum stretched across a willow frame; and the two wooden chairs placed discretely at its side.

"It looks like a garden in here," Flora breathed, lifting the crown from her head and grimacing as several long strands of hair rose with it, tangled within the intricate curls of gold. Habren Bryland stepped forward, rather shyly, and helped Flora to disengage her hair from the diadem.

"They're fertility symbols," replied Leliana briskly, closing the door in an overeager guard's face and rummaging about in her sleeves. Then, when Flora shot Leliana a slightly bemused look – one hand on her full stomach - the bard let out a little chuckle.

"It's traditional, _ma cherie._ Anyway, think of the _future_ children that you and Alistair will be producing!"

" _Future children?"_ Flora replied, slightly dazed. "More? More than this?"

Bann Reginalda – who had deliberately pursued a lifestyle that would result in no heirs – snorted, rummaging in her pocket to retrieve a vial of glimmering water.

"Let the lass concentrate on the babe in her belly," she commented wryly, uncorking the sacred tincture and heading over to the bed. "She's got decades to worry about producing a litter of Theirin pups."

" _A litter?"_ repeated Flora, her eyes wide. "How many in a litter?"

"Six to eight?"

" _Gah!"_

Meanwhile, Isolde was taking advantage of this rare access to the Royal Bedchamber to scan her surroundings; taking careful note of every decorative detail. Although privately she thought Fereldan design to be crude and primitive compared to her native Orlais; she still desired to be abreast of the Royal taste in fashion. Her pale blue eyes noted the bearskins spread over the bed, the maroon and white patterned blankets and the tan murals daubed across the walls, appraising and analysing.

As Bann Reginalda sprinkled the blessed Chantry water across the marital bed, humming a tuneless rendition of _Bones in the Sand;_ Leliana withdrew a thin, wickedly sharp blade and advanced towards Flora.

"Hold your hair atop your head, keep still," she began, eyeing the dark leather clinging to the queen's skin. "And _don't breathe._ This blade is sharper than Wynne's tongue."

Flora obediently took a gulp of air and held it, twisting up her mass of hair into a thick bundle and holding it above her ears. Leliana crouched beside her and began, very carefully, to slice the leather from around her hips. The blade cut through the tiny stitches like butter, and – piece by piece- the Alamarri wedding gown fell away in swathes of dark calfskin. The bodice came away last and Flora inhaled slightly in relief, standing naked and barefoot amidst a pool of cut leather. It was a testament to Leliana's skill that she had not left a single nick on Flora's skin, despite the tenacious adherence of gown to flesh.

"It's almost a shame that the dress is ruined now," commented Reginalda, capping the holy water briskly and tucking it away. "You looked like something from an old legend clad in it, Florence."

"Weren't you embarrassed about – about how _revealing_ it was, in front of all those people?" Habren asked, curious. Leonas' daughter was also astonished at Flora's utter nonchalance at being unclothed in front of three noblewomen who were relative strangers. Flora's ambivalence was a legacy of cramped quarters and communal dormitories; privacy of one's body was an unknown concept in both Herring and the Circle.

"Eh. No, not really."

Flora gave a little Herring shrug, shaking her head as she wandered across to the mantelpiece; her hair falling in a tangled mass of dark red to her hips. She picked up a hazelnut and pressed it against the stone edge of the mantel to crack it, popping the raw fruit into her mouth with a slightly mindless expression.

" _Ma crevette_ , don't eat too much, or you'll _bloat,"_ instructed Leliana, disposing of the scraps of leather by booting them swiftly underneath the bed.

Unsure if she could resist the temptation to eat every _fertility-boosting_ food item in the room, Flora turned away and padded barefoot across the flagstones. Isolde and Habren were tucking what appeared to be silver Chantry symbols between the blankets of the bed. Once this was done, Habren leaned across the cushions and tied the leather strap that had hand-fasted the royal union in an elaborate bow around the bed-post.

Whilst the noblewomen were busying themselves, Flora sat down on the cushions of the bench beneath the recently-widened window, peering down at the moonlit estuary below. The Denerim main canal seemed far more crowded than usual, with several dozen tall ships anchored at its docks. Clearly, many of the wedding guests had taken advantage of the favourable summer climate to sail from their native lands to the shores of Ferelden. The city itself still blazed with torchlight despite the lateness of the hour, and Flora imagined that the taverns were doing a roaring trade. She was suddenly glad that she and Alistair had shared their wedding day so openly with the public – Denerim was in sore need of reason to celebrate after the distress and fear of the past year.

"Usually, lass, we ladies would be mentally preparing you for the _delights_ of marital conjugation with your new husband," Reginalda commented dryly, taking a long swig of whiskey from a hip flask as she stepped back from the bed. "You know; traumatise the blushing bride with a few horror stories. But a little bird tells me thatyou and Alistair are… _well acquainted_ with one another."

This was a delicate way of stating the fact that the entire Landsmeet and most of the city were aware that the young Theirin and Cousland were like a pair of insatiable little rabbits when it came to the bedchamber. Leliana, who read the latent meaning of the bann's comment, let out a feminine snort of affirmation. Flora, who had no idea what the bann was talking about – she certainly had no idea what _conjugation_ meant - smiled vaguely and hoped that this was response enough.

"Flora! Over here," commanded Leliana, whose nerves were beginning to wear thin from the sheer pressure of overseeing the bride from dawn to dusk. _"Ma belle fleur._ One more outfit change for the day, and then it will all be over."

 _Over for you,_ Flora thought, eyeing the two chairs and privacy screen set to one side of the bed as she passed by. The baby gave an insistent kick to her kidney and she flinched, trying to appease it with a pat.

" _Your bridal nightgown!"_ declared Leliana triumphantly; holding up what appeared to be a mass of sheer, beribboned material, festooned with gauzy flowers and an excess of frills. A slightly alarmed Flora came to a halt before the lay sister, her expression wary.

"I… thought I'd just wear my usual night things," she said, letting Leliana wrap the gauzy nightgown around her shoulders. "You know, the striped pyjamas. Or the tunic with the Mabari hound stitched on the front."

"On your _wedding night?"_ demanded Leliana, loosely knotting strands of pink ribbon into a bow to close the front of the gown. _"Non!"_

Flora eyed herself in the long mirror beside the hearth, immediately hating every silky, frilly beribboned inch. Even she would not dare to venture down the corridor on a nocturnal wander clad in _this_ skimpy offering. It was transparent enough to show her swollen breasts, plump belly and the cleft of her legs; even the leather strap around her knee was visible. She felt more naked than if she were _actually_ naked, like a prize pig dressed incongruously in pink ruffles.

"Congratulations, lay-sister," commented Reginalda dryly, as Leliana raked brutal fingers through a yelping Flora's hair to remove a day's worth of tangles. "You've found the only gown in Thedas _more_ revealing than the one the lass got married in."

"Is this type of thing what the Alamarri brides would have worn?" Flora croaked, grimacing as the pearl-edged collar was pulled tight around her neck.

" _Non,_ they would have gone naked," replied Leliana, giving up on the fingers and going to find a hairbrush. By the time that she had turned back to Flora, the new queen wore nothing but her bare skin and a mulish expression; the ruffled silk pooled at her feet.

"Then _I'm_ going to go naked too," Flora declared, face alight with the Herring stubbornness that manifested on carefully selected occasions. "I'm an Alamarri bride today. You can have that frilly _thing_ as a present."

Leliana eyed the young Cousland, recognised the stoic rigidity in Flora's pale stare; and did not bother to argue.

"Fine," the lay sister replied, wielding the hairbrush like a weapon. "Such a beautiful gown should be worn by one who truly _appreciates_ it. Quick, quick – into bed! I can hear the _menfolk_ approaching."

"Oh no! Not _the menfolk_ ," commented Reginalda, amused that Leliana had uttered the warning in the same panicked tones as she would warn of the approach of the Darkspawn. "Oh dear."

Sure enough, the sounds of a raucous group came echoing down the corridor. There was laughter and much clinking of tankards, accompanied by the heavy shuffle of leather boots against stone.

The new queen of Ferelden ambled across the flagstones and clambered into bed, dislodging several pine cones and Chantry symbols as she pulled back the blankets. Leliana swooped to replace the fallen items, while Isolde and Habren darted about to hastily extinguish the candlesticks. Soon, the only light in the chamber came from the great hearth; spilling in mellow ochre waves across the bearskin rug and casting the marital bed in a warm, inviting glow.

Sitting in the midst of the vast mattress, Flora tugged the furs up over her bare thighs. As voices sounded from outside the door, she pulled her hair over her shoulders to cover her breasts; leaning back against the cushions and lifting her chin in the direction of the room's arched entrance.

 _Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

The men of the Landsmeet spilled into the room like a pack of Mabari, laughing and jesting amongst themselves. They brought with them a miasma of ale, joviality and relief – the day had gone well, and Ferelden had made a strong impression in the eyes of their foreign guests. Regional accents were emerging more strongly in the wake of the free-flowing honey mead; backs were being clapped and gleeful anecdotes from the day exchanged. Several dogs tumbled in with them, barking excitedly as they picked up on the rambunctiousness of their masters.

"Where's the bride?" demanded the Arl of the Western Hills, a drunken slur to his words. "We've got a man here more than ready to warm his bride in the marital bed."

"The Queen of Ferelden is here," Leliana replied imperiously, drawing to the side of the room with the other women. "And she awaits her husband."

The men of the Landsmeet came to a halt in a crowd of leather, fur and Mabari hounds; gazing at the great four poster bed that dominated the chamber. As Leliana had announced, the queen was _indeed_ awaiting her husband. She was leaning back against the cushions, a fur draped casually across her bare thighs. Her dark red hair, in stark contrast to the creamy, fire-warmed pallor of her skin, fell over her shoulders; like tendrils of the fire had crawled out of the hearth and settled lazily atop her breasts.

She raised her solemn face, the wide Cousland mouth curled in its customary, sulky pout. The maroon _kaddis_ mark was still painted beneath her gold-flecked eye; her pale gaze moving thoughtfully from one face to the next. There was something strangely provocative in the contrast between the haughty refinement of the queen's face, and the lush wantonness of her exposed body; it's nakedness tantalisingly obvious beneath the flimsy veil of hair and blankets.

" _Maker's Breath."_ One bann's incredulous voice rose up from near the back of the crowd. "Look at that."

" _That_ – that'sh my wife!"

Supported by an apologetic Teagan, Alistair elbowed his way through the men of the Landsmeet; letting the empty bottle of Antivan brandy drop to the flagstones. Finian appeared behind him, halfway between giggling and frenetic apology, mouthing something incomprehensible to his little sister.

Thunderclouds began to settle over Leliana's face as she realised that Alistair had decided to self-medicate his nervousness with copious amounts of alcohol.

"The _mosht beautiful_ girl in … _hic!_ Thedas," Alistair declared, looking around in confusion for the bottle before taking an unsteady step forwards. "Isn't she, uncle?"

The king hiccupped, swaying slightly on his feet as he came to a pause.

"Aye, lad," replied Teagan, trying to direct the neck of a water-pouch to his nephew's mouth. "Take a swig of this."

Flora stared at Alistair, wide-eyed and astonished. Fergus rounded the edge of the crowd, approaching the bed and crouching down to whisper into her ear.

"Sorry, Floss – I tried to slow him down, but he necked the entire bottle in about six gulps. Nervous, poor sod."

"Flo! FLORA," said Alistair, loudly; the words running together like drunken patrons stumbling home from the tavern. _"It'sh_ a good thing you're already… _hic!_ Naked. Otherwise they'd be ripping off scraps of your dress and _shellin-_ selling them off. Meant to be _lucky._ It'sh another weird noble tradition!"

Alistair took a long gulp of water after Teagan's insistent prompt, a trickle running down into his closely cropped beard. Flora smiled up at him, slightly apprehensively. The king stared back at her, his gaze heated and desirous. When he spoke next, the lust coated his words like honey, thick, wild and sweet.

" _Maker'sh_ Breath, but you're _gorgeoush,"_ he mumbled, reaching up haphazardly for his crown and setting it precariously atop the mantel. "That face… that _body!_ I'll be there in a _jusht_ a moment, baby."

Heedless of the crowd still in the chamber, Alistair began to unbutton his leather tunic with clumsy fingers, tugging impatiently at the defiant buttons. Flora watched him with a combination of fascination and trepidation as Leonas Bryland hastily gestured for Habren to leave the room. His daughter did so with great reluctance, craning her neck for a glimpse of the king's muscled torso and broad shoulders, the olive skin marred with the occasional cruel reminder of battle.

"I'm ready to con- _conshummate_ my marriage," Alistair declared proudly to the fish painted above the mantle-piece, clumsily removing one boot and then the other. "Are _you_ ready, lovely Lo?"

"Yee-ees," replied Flora, somewhat dubiously.

Fergus grimaced, watching the king clumsily unbutton his breeches on the third attempt. He shot an anxious glance at Teagan, who stepped forward and placed a cautionary hand on Alistair's elbow.

"Your enthusiasm is admirable, son, just… take care with her, aye? She's with babe."

Alistair nodded like a Mabari at Teagan's gentle reminder, his eyes softening.

"The mother… the mother of my child," he repeated, breeches now thrust halfway down his thighs. _"I'm the luckiesht man in Thedash."_

The audience were now rapidly vacating the chamber, Leliana hissing angrily in Finian's ear. Two servants, struggling to keep a straight face, entered just as Alistair successfully managed to drop his breeches about his ankles. They manoeuvred the privacy screen into place before the bed; moments later, the two chairs were positioned on the other side.

Flora eyed the setup for a moment – the vellum screen was thin enough that vague shapes and outlines were visible in the light of the hearth, but no precise details could be discerned. The next moment, she was distracted as Alistair forgot that his breeches were still about his ankles; taking an eager step forward. He crashed face first onto the blankets and furs with a muffled grunt.

She reached out to caress the back of his head, gently stroking the rumpled bronze hair that curled at the nape of his neck. He let out a soft, indistinct sound of pleasure at the touch of her fingers, the muscles in his broad shoulders flexing as he pushed himself blearily upwards; face thrusting towards her own. She ducked her head to let their mouths brush together in a soft, exploratory kiss. The brandy was sweet and tart on Alistair's tongue; his breath warmed by the liquor as it whispered across her face.

The sound of the door opening softly interrupted their kiss, and both of them drew apart to listen. Flora heard two sets of footsteps enter – an elderly woman's shuffle, followed by a man's heavier booted stride. A moment later, there came almost simultaneous wooden squeaks as the two chairs were sat upon.

Flora sat up against the cushions, peering through the vellum screen. She could see two blurred, seated figures silhouetted against the light from the hearth; and realised that her own outline would be equally visible.

 _It must be some Chantry priestess and the noble from the Landsmeet. I wonder if I should wave to them?_

 _Probably not._

 _Come on, Flora, you have a job to do. You and Alistair._

Flora leaned back against the cushions and glanced sideways at her husband. To her alarm, Alistair was slumped face down amidst the furs; naked, golden and magnificent as a dozing lion. Her alarm was augmented as he let out a sound that was suspiciously like a _snore._

"Alistair," she hissed, hoping that her voice wasn't carrying to their keen-eared audience. _"Alistair. Wake up!"_

The only response was another snore, even louder. Flora gaped down at Alistair's broad shoulders, too stunned to even admire the taut muscle dormant beneath the battle-marked olive flesh. Immediately, her practical northerner's brain began to sort through the options available to her.

 _Roll him over and… improvise?_

Knowing that Alistair loved being awoken by his best friend clambering atop him, Flora gave his hip an experimental, hopeful nudge. The king lay there like deadweight, pressing down into the mattress against the furs and blankets. It soon became apparent that she would not be able to turn him face-upwards.

 _Fine. What about creating the sound effects of me and Alistair making love on my own?_

From her seated position Flora gave a little experimental bounce on the bed, but the resultant creak was anaemic and unsatisfactory.

"Oooh," she said, feeling ridiculous. "Mm. _Yes."_

"Are… are you _alright_ , your majesty?"

The tentative male voice came drifting around the thin vellum screen; to Flora's relief, it was familiar but not _overly_ so. Racking her memory for a moment, she successfully matched the voice to a face.

 _Arl Myrr- Murff- the one who asked me to dance earlier._

 _At least it's not Eamon!_

"I'm fine," Flora replied, leaning back against the cushions. Bringing one hand to her mouth, she chewed glumly on her thumbnail, wondering what to do

Beside her, Alistair gave a little yawn and rolled over like a warm, sleepy Mabari; one arm groping blindly for his wife. His large, calloused palm landed on her thigh and Flora leaned over, patting his bearded cheek gently with her fingers.

"Mnh," the king grunted, opening one bleary eye to squint at her. "My- my lovely Lo. _Why'sh_ there two of you? Did I marry you both? Bigamy'sh _illegal_ in Ferelden… _hic!"_

"It's not Arl Eamon watching us," Flora whispered, in the hope that this would calm Alistair's nerves. "Or Bann Teagan."

Alistair blinked at her, a faint spark of clarity igniting in the midst of his misty, mead-infused stare.

"Wha – what d'you mean _it'sh not Eamon_? Who is it? Leonas?"

"No. It's… Muffy," Flora replied, slightly uncertain.

" _Muffy?"_

"I don't know his name," she mumbled in an attempt to be discreet, aware that the arl and anonymous Chantry priestess were seated only yards away on the other side of the translucent vellum.

Alistair's wide, olive brow creased as his brandy-soaked brain laboriously went through the members of the Fereldan Landsmeet. He proceeded to whisper his guesses into Flora's ear, breath hot and sweetened by honey mead.

"Bann Mathuin?"

"No."

"Lady Morag?"

She grunted in the negative. Alistair frowned for a moment, and then his eyes widened imperceptibly in the fire-lit shadows; the green flecks standing out like shards of sea glass.

" _Not Arl Myrddin!"_

"Mm."

A fraction of clarity returned to Alistair's gaze as he stared at her; his thoughts writ raw across his face.

"I'm glad you're awake," she whispered solemnly, seizing the opportunity. "I thought I'd have to make noises and pretend you were- "

Before Flora could finish her sentence his mouth was crashing onto hers, the sweet-sharp scent of Antivan brandy tart on his lips. With soft yet inexorable insistence his tongue worked its way into Flora's own mouth, drawing an involuntary squeak from her throat. The kiss was no less potent for its lack of refinement; it was hungry, possessive and _demanded_ the immediate yielding of her mouth to his. She readily surrendered, arching herself towards him with both relief and desire.

Alistair pulled back suddenly to take a long draw of air, a ruddy flush rising to the handsome, ascetic olive cheekbones. Flora snuck a quick glance downwards and was gratified to see that which had previously lain heavy and dormant against his thigh was now standing proudly erect in its nest of soft, bronze curls.

"Take – take off your clothes, baby," Alistair whispered, stifling a hiccup. "I want to see that beautiful body of yours."

Flora eyed him – she was sprawled before him _entirely naked –_ then decided to play along, squirming around in the furs for a moment.

"Alright," she breathed, letting her fingers brush over her bare thigh for emphasis. "They're… all off."

Alistair stared down at her, mouth slightly open; the flush creeping down his throat and across the broad, golden-furred spread of his chest. His eyes were heavy-lidded with lust, pupils blown wide and dark; focused on her like the Mabari staring down the hunted _halla_ on the tapestry _._ His gaze meandered from her face, to her throat, to the mound of her breast; curved and pale as a goose egg.

Dropping further, his stare took in the swell of her stomach and then the cleft at the top of her thighs; an involuntary sound escaping his throat. Mesmerised, Alistair reflexively reached down to take himself in hand, sliding a loose fist in a languid, practised rhythm as he stared down unashamedly at her body.

Flora gazed up at him with benevolence at first, pleased that he seemed equally enraptured with her childbearing body as he had been with its slender equivalent. However, as the expression on his face became slightly dazed – the stare a fraction _cross-eyed –_ she felt increasingly less magnanimous. She watched the king pull mindlessly at himself in an alcohol-mired trance, as though she were some erotic painting in an Antivan brothel as opposed to a _living, breathing girl_ lying before him. Flora scowled to herself, peering ill-temperedly up at the ceiling.

The next time that she looked across at Alistair, he was flat on his back and snoring once again. Flora stared at him for a moment, feeling a slightly hysterical laugh rise in her throat.

 _Don't laugh, Flora! This isn't supposed to be funny._

Instead of a laugh, a tear emerged from the corner of her eye. Flora blinked in astonishment, her mouth falling open as she felt a second tear follow the first. Reaching up, she touched exploratory fingertips to her cheeks; they came away wet and Flora inhaled unsteadily.

 _Come on,_ she thought sternly to herself. _This is ridiculous._

Flora rolled over onto her side, one hand on the swell of her belly; facing away from Alistair so that she could hide her face in the bearskin. The thick fur brushed against her skin and she sneezed, wiping her nose on the back of her arm.

 _We haven't consummated anything,_ she thought to herself, feeling a sudden twist of alarm. _What does that mean in a noble marriage? Does it mean the marriage isn't legal? Is the baby a bastard again?_

The thought of the day's endless fuss, ceremony and ritual ultimately proving futile was enough to send more tears spilling over Flora's eyelashes. She put her hands over her face, pressing her thumbs hard into the corners of her eyes.

 _I don't want to go through all that again!_

The baby decided that this would be an excellent moment to harass its young mother, and sent a small foot directly into her kidneys.

It was a combination of Flora's resultant yelp and her absence from his chest that woke Alistair; his arms reaching blindly into the empty space of the mattress before his eyes had even opened. When it became clear that his new wife was not in her usual place curled against his side, he let out a muffled grunt of confusion, rubbing a sleepy hand over his face.

"Lo?"

The firelight from the hearth cast a flickering, burnished glow across the bed, the inconstant light creating a mottled patchwork of shadow and warmth. Alistair blinked into the gloom, realising that his best friend was huddled amidst the blankets on the dark side of the bed; the scar left by the Archdemon's soul glinting silvery between her shoulders. Her hair was a tangle of dark red seaweed spread across the blankets; she was hunched around her unwieldy stomach like a hermit crab.

Wriggling across the crumpled blankets, Alistair pressed his lips between her shoulder blades, directly over the pale etching of the Archdemon.

"Sweetheart?"

When Flora gave a sniff instead of replying, he leaned over on an elbow and gently angled her face towards him. She had her eyes tightly closed, the corners of her mouth turned down. With a sinking suspicion in the pit of his stomach, Alistair reached out and brushed his thumb gently against her lashes. His fears were confirmed when it came away wet and he inhaled in dismay; drawing her immediately against his chest.

"My love," he murmured in her ear, seeking out her fingers and wrapping them tightly in his own. "Why are you crying? My own… _hic!_ sweet wife. Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it."

Seeing no point in trying to obscure the cause of her dejection, Flora whispered the truth back to him.

"I'm _not_ your wife yet," she breathed back, miserably. "Not really."

"What do you mean? Of course you are, darling."

Flora peered up through the shadows; thinking on how handsome Alistair's bronzed features appeared in the firelight even when creased in confusion.

"All the ridiculous things we had to do today," she said, softly. "All the fuss, all the rituals and traditions and _processing around._ None of it matters, compared to _this. This_ is what makes us married. Me and you, together."

She reached up to brush his cheek with the back of her fingers, light and sad.

Sobering rapidly, Alistair stared down at her, understanding at last.

"You and I, together," he repeated, in a quiet and wondering voice. "You're right, Flo. And this – _this_ has more meaning than _anything_ we did in the Chantry."

Flora gazed up at him, tentative hope dawning on her tear-stained face. Alistair reached down to return the gesture, stroking his thumb down the line of her jaw.

"Ah, why was I even _worried_ about this?" he murmured, eyes warm and bruised with tenderness. "It's the best bit about the whole day. No Chantry rituals, no crowns, no thrones – just you, and I, together. The two of us in bed, this is what… what _counts."_

"And that's not too hard, is it?" she replied, a note of anxiety in the words.

"No, baby," the king said throatily, staring down at her with desire kindling in the depths of his hazel gaze. "The opposite. It's very _easy_ to love you."

Flora smiled up at him, and he covered her lips with a kiss that stole the air from her lungs and left her gasping. When Alistair broke the kiss, he moved his mouth to her ear; teasing its pink outer shell with the tip of his tongue.

"So, you want me to make you my wife now?" he breathed, letting his callused thumb meander over her lip, down her throat and along the line of her collarbone.

She nodded, mutedly. Alistair smiled once more, his teeth white against the fire-lit darkness. Suddenly Flora understood Maric Theirin's nickname of the _Lion of the East;_ the old king's predatory, proud leonine features had manifested strongest in his second son.

Without warning, Alistair rolled on top of her; careful to keep his weight suspended on knees and strong arms. Still, he was close enough for the muscled bulk to press her down into the mattress; downy golden chest hair brushing against her naked breast as he bowed his head to nuzzle her neck. He smelt warm, and masculine, and his breath still carried the spiced edge of the Antivan brandy.

Flora reached up to anchor her arms about the strong breadth of his shoulders as his lips plastered a ragged line of kisses from her ear to the base of her throat. Suddenly wanting more than just his mouth, she arched herself upwards; shamelessly nudging her body against his with a little keen of need.

This small sound thoroughly undermined the self-control that Alistair had been so determined to maintain. Abandoning his restraint, he began to suckle at her neck, keeping himself propped up on one arm while the other hand shamelessly groped her breasts and between her legs, kneading and stroking with clumsy desire. Flora returned his ardour with equal fervency, reaching down to clutch at his taut buttock as she fixed her teeth around his earlobe. He was sweaty now, the muscles in his back covered with a fine film of perspiration as they flexed and contracted. As always, the raw strength contained within the bulk of her best friend's body sent a jolt of arousal straight to her core.

Impulsively, Flora dug her short fingernails into his shoulder blades and dragged them downwards; eliciting such a _groan_ as she had never heard from him before.

Without warning, Alistair shifted his hips upwards and slid fully into her, meeting no resistance from her ready flesh. Flora curved herself towards him, relishing the sense of _satiation_ that only this could provide. His hips began to piston back and forth, perspiration dripping from his chest onto her breasts as he rocked into her with hoarse grunts of satisfaction. His face was raw with pleasure; brow creased and eyes half-closed, lips drawn back over his teeth as he moaned.

It took only a handful of thrusts before she was crying out his name with each full sheath of sword into scabbard. This seemed to spur Alistair's efforts on more vigorously, strangled gasps escaping his throat as he panted above her. The bed gave rhythmic creaks of protest about them; the centuries-old wooden posts suffering beneath the young king's ardour.

" _My_ wife," he managed to croak between incoherent gasps, face hazy with pleasure. "Mine. Say it, baby."

He pulled her thighs up about his hips, gripping her in place while grinding in more slowly. Flora whimpered, weak and delirious before him; ropes of hair plastered to her damp breasts. The sound went straight to Alistair's root and he had to grit his teeth, sweat sliding down his stomach to dampen the curls nestled at the apex of his thighs.

Yet he was determined to see to his bride's pleasure first, reaching down to stroke her roughly with a thumb while continuing the slow, deep thrusts.

" _Say it,_ Flora."

" _Yours,"_ she managed to gasp out, her voice strangled. "I'm yours."

As a reward, Alistair's teasing, callused thumb now drove her towards climax; circling with relentless focus on what he knew to be her most sensitive point. During their month long hiatus at South Reach, he had become intimate with the architecture of his best friend's body, determined to improve upon the clumsy adolescent rutting that they had engaged in within Brecilian. He had also gained an invaluable education in pleasuring a woman from the Rivaini pirate during the memorable hours he had spent with her and Flora in the Pearl. Once Alistair had overcome his initial shyness, Isabela had found him to be an enthusiastic and ardent pupil.

Now the king ruthlessly exercised every inch of that precious knowledge, maintaining his own rhythm while moving his thumb in increasingly tight circles. It did not take long - Flora was an easy girl both to please and to pleasure – and soon she was curving like a bow towards him.

He put his mouth to her ear; breathing crude compliments that made her insides squirm with arousal, using coarse gutter language that she hadn't even realised he _knew._

"Come on, baby," he prompted thickly at last, the words barely escaping his lust-constricted throat. "Come for your husband."

Obediently she came undone beneath him, hips shuddering and mouth opening wide; a cry slipping out like an ecstatic prayer. It was loud enough that the still-coherent part of Alistair's mind hoped very much that Flora's brothers in the adjacent chamber had made good use of their wax earplugs.

Once he was content that she had been well-satisfied, the king released the final bounds of restraint; lifting Flora's hips and thrusting hard and erratic between her slick thighs. One of her small feet was knocking against his thigh and he grabbed it, sucking her toes lewdly into his mouth.

After spending himself with a hoarse, shuddering groan, he hunched over her with heaving shoulders, trying to catch his breath. Flora closed her eyes for a moment, dropping her head back against the cushions. Her heart was racing and she took several deep, long breaths to try and slow it; conscious of the fidgeting infant in her belly.

When she opened her eyes once more, Alistair was gazing down at her with naked adoration; the green flecks in his irises standing out stark against the tender hazel background. Flora lifted her arm and touched the side of his flushed face, her finger tracing the line of his damp beard. _Mairyn's Star_ and the wedding band sat below glinted in the firelight; bright, metallic points amidst the shadow.

"I love you," she said impulsively, solemn and earnest.

Alistair withdrew from her with a half-gasp, leaning forward to press a clumsy kiss to her lips before whispering the words back to her. Their parting bodies made an audibly wet noise as he shifted sideways onto the mattress, skin slippery with rapidly cooling sweat. Flora could feel her hair hanging in wet ropes – not merely damp, but _saturated_ – about her shoulders.

"My darling wife," Alistair murmured, sleepily rearranging the cushions behind his head before settling back against them. "Come here, Lo."

He lifted an arm, and Flora rolled against his side; resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. Their hands reflexively reached for each other, fingers curling tightly together in their old ritual. Neither spared a glance for the vellum screen or the figures silhouetted against the hearth.

For several moments they rested quietly, his free hand stroking absentmindedly over her hair.

"You were right, my love," Alistair murmured eventually, just as Flora was beginning to slide down the gentle slope towards sleep.

"Eeeh?"

"This _was_ the bit that mattered."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Oh woooow this is a long chapter! I was originally going to split it up into two parts, but I actually think it works better as one long chapter. At first, the figures behind the screen feature prominently (Arl Myrddin is the chap who asked Flora to dance last chapter) – reflecting how both Alistair and Flora are thinking about them – but when they actually get it on, they're so preoccupied with each other that they barely notice their audience.

Alistair only calls Flora "Flora" in two circumstances – when he wants her to take something seriously, and in the bedroom, lol. Anyway, this was a super fun chapter to write! I did feel quite sorry for Flo at first, but Alistair redeemed himself well towards the end. They are a lot better at doing it now than they were in the original story, hahaha.

I'm going away with the husbo for a couple days so prob will not be able to update until Saturday or so!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	66. Crowns and Camomile Tea

Chapter 66: Crowns and Camomile Tea

As though to make up for his earlier lethargy; Alistair seemed determined to make the most of the rest of their wedding night. This suited Flora perfectly well, since the humours of her body were too imbalanced for restful sleep. Just after the twelve-bells change in watch, the king had his queen on all fours like a Mabari; defiant in his love of the position that foreigners derisively described as primitive and _typically Fereldan._

The deepest part of the night settled like a soft, muted cloak over the turrets and towers of the Royal Palace. Guards and retainers stood vigil outside the quarters of their respective liege-lords; yawning servants removed the last of the food and detritus from the great hall. Candlelight blazed from the turret windows of the castle library, where scribes were working diligently to chronicle every detail of the day's ceremonies. Leliana, conversely, was fast asleep – the bard was exhausted from masterminding the crucial minutiae of the day's events; once the adrenaline had finally drained, she was catatonic within minutes.

Meanwhile, in a shadowed corner of the Landsmeet chamber, the Fereldan dancing girl with the long, fox-fur coloured hair moaned into the darkness; a third climax coaxed from her parted lips by the charming blond elf. She didn't know why the Antivan had singled _her_ out for his attention – especially with those half-naked Rivaini dancers also competing for his wickedly dancing eye – but she _certainly_ wasn't going to complain.

Dawn brought a peach-coloured sunrise laced with deep pink cloud; mellow light spilling like brandy over the mead-sodden streets of Denerim. Nobody in the city wanted to wake up – their heads still thrummed from the excesses of the previous night – and so shutters stayed firmly sealed and the streets were eerily quiet. The seagulls swooped in annoyed perplexion over the deserted fish-market, and stray cats delighted in their extended dominion over the cobblestoned alleyways.

As the occupants of Denerim Castle also continued to slumber, up in the Royal bedchamber a sweaty Flora peered down at her snoring husband. She was straddling her best friend's hips, having just ridden him as best she could with a twenty-six week old babe in the belly. Unfortunately, Alistair was not able to appreciate her proud afterglow, since he had fallen into a dead sleep about thirty seconds after spending himself.

Flora was feeling a tad fidgety – she had been put off her own climax after feeling the baby give a vigorous wriggle – and so clambered awkwardly off Alistair's broad thighs. The inside of her mouth felt dry; she recalled the flagon of apple-water sitting on the dresser. Fortunately, the vellum screen caught the corner of her eye and she stopped herself from wandering naked across the flagstones.

 _Of course: we're not alone. I forgot._

Looking about the tangled furs and blankets on the bed, she spotted the same ugly mustard-yellow dressing robe that she had worn the previous night. Grateful that Leliana had sent it down – the coarse wool garment reminded her of Herring – Flora pulled it on over her shoulders and fastened the chunky wooden buttons at the front.

Yawning, she clambered out of bed and ventured barefoot around the vellum screen; grimacing at the coldness of the flagstones. The servants had been in already – new cedar logs had been piled into the hearth, and fresh rushes strewn across the floor.

A Chantry mother, plump and shrivelled like a well-aged apple, was half-falling asleep on one of the chairs; her grey curls slipping out from beneath her tall hat. Her maroon and ivory robes were crumpled from a long night of sitting in one spot. Flora recognised the lined face and sought to match it with a name; finally identifying the elderly priestess as Mother Telatia from Revanloch monastery.

The old woman put a tired hand to her face and yawned deeply. Although she had not technically been required to stay for the duration of the night, to do so had become an unspoken tradition over the Ages. Telatia would not let herself be the one to break established protocol; even if it meant that she was nearly falling from her chair with weariness.

Beside her, Arl Myrddin sat on his own chair; looking distinctly worse for wear. A fresh growth of stubble grew past the boundary of his auburn beard, and dark shadows lined the undersides of his eyes. The top buttons of his tunic had been loosened, and dried perspiration had caked in the creases of his brow. There were at least half a dozen empty tankards clustered about his booted feet.

Flora felt irrationally guilty as she eyed arl and aged Chantry Mother; who both appeared exhausted – and in Myrddin's case, hung-over.

"Don't get up," she said hastily, seeing both start to rise on seeing her. "Honestly, it's fine. Did you have to stay all night?"

Arl Myrddin began to speak - let out a hoarse croak instead – then coughed and started again.

"The council require detailed proof that the marriage has been consummated," he mumbled, a flush creeping up from his loosened collar. "And the scribes should like to record it in the annals _."_

For perhaps the hundredth time Flora thought how _peculiar_ the nobility were; with their traditions and rituals and obsession with posterity. She eyed the hand-written notes that rested on the arl's lap, and had to bite back a snort.

"Oh. Alright, then."

"Did you want to read them? Check for any mistakes?"

"I _can't_ read them," Flora replied, watching the arl go a deep shade of purple. "Or, at least, not well."

"Should – should I – do you want _me_ to- to _read-"_

"No, don't worry," she said kindly, wanting to spare him any further embarrassment. "I'm sure that my brother Finian will tell me everything in graphic detail later. He likes to make fun of me."

Arl Myrddin nodded and then coughed; glancing up at her before dropping his gaze hastily to his feet.

"If it's alright, your majesty – I might go and write these up more neatly to make them – ah - presentable for the Landsmeet."

Flora looked down at the sheets of parchment – smudged with what appeared to be sweat – and gave a little, wide-eyed nod. Myrddin practically fled the room, colliding with the door in his haste.

Just then, the Chantry Mother gave a little _harrumph_ and almost fell off the chair; clutching the wooden arms and sitting bolt-upright. Flora squatted beside her, putting a tentative hand on the old woman's arm.

"You can go too, if you like," she whispered, earnestly.

"I wouldn't _dream_ of it!" retorted the old woman, revealing a glint of steeliness beneath the faded exterior. "My duty is to remain here until the Chancellor of Ferelden relieves me."

"Oh," replied the new queen, slightly bemused. "Alright."

The priestess fixed Flora with a beady look, reaching up to fix the angle of her Chantry hat with a papery hand that shook with age.

"Would you like a cup of tea, then?" Flora offered impulsively instead, eyes sliding over to the large copper kettle beside the hearth.

There was a pause; the priestess clearly dubious about the protocol of accepting a drink from the king's new bride. Flora took the hesitation as assent and propelled herself to her feet, padding across to retrieve the kettle.

"I make a good cup of tea," she said over her shoulder, adding water to the kettle. "I had to make them all the time for the older apprentices when I was in the Circle. If the tea was too strong – or gone cold – they threatened to turn me into a worm."

Kettle now filled, Flora used the iron hook to hang it carefully within the hearth; feeling a pulse of regret that she could no longer simply reach above the flames with a golden sheath enveloping her hand.

As she sat on the low footstool beside the hearth waiting for the water to boil, two servants came in to remove the vellum privacy screen. Flora watched them in slight trepidation, unable to remember what state of dress she had left Alistair in – she did not want to accidentally traumatise the elderly priestess.

Fortunately, Alistair had rolled over in Flora's absence; a bearskin draped over his waist. Flora gazed at him for a moment, admiring the long-limbed bulk of her new husband as he lay tangled amidst the blankets. The golden hair, no longer tamed by water or the weight of the crown, stood up in tousled peaks atop his head.

"Haven't you seen enough of him already?" enquired the priestess testily, who was too venerable to care much for royal rank. "Three times is a little _excessive,_ even for a wedding night."

Flora was used to crotchety old women – they grew in Herring as freely as barnacles, and the Circle did not lack for them either. She cackled, leaning forward on the stool and carefully lifting the kettle lid to check the water. It was not quite boiling but she took it off the hook anyway, not wanting to scald the herbs.

" _Four_ times," she corrected solemnly, carrying the kettle over to the table and placing it down before heading over to the midwife's neatly labelled jars of herbal teas _._ "Would you like – ah - ging- _gignar-_ ginger…. or c-c- _camel-bile?"_

"What you did between- " the Chantry priestess consulted her own copy of handwritten notes "- the second and third bell was _not_ a form of Chantry-approved congress. For future reference, no children will result from that sort of union. And I'll have _camomile."_

Flora snickered, placing several pinchfuls of dried camomile leaves into the infuser before twisting it shut and lowering it into the water.

"Oh, dear," she said mildly, setting the cup down and placing a hand on her stomach as the baby settled down for a nap. "Never mind."

While waiting for the herbs to diffuse, Flora wandered over to the edge of the bed and sat down, reaching out to smooth her palm across Alistair's rumpled head. He mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, yawning into the blankets.

"Anyway, I could never get tired of looking at him," she continued fondly, touching the strong, bearded line of his jaw. "He's the most handsomest man in Thedas."

 _Most handsomest?!_ the priestess mouthed incredulously to herself. However, since she was aware of Flora's lack of formal education, she made no comment.

Flora propelled herself off the bed and went to retrieve the tea, removing the diffuser and inhaling the strong, sweet scent of camomile. Careful not to let it spill, she carried it across to the priestess and handed it to her.

"Thank you, child."

Flora gave a little Herring grunt in response, stifling a yawn. The palace was unusually quiet – it seemed as though everyone was having a lie-in after the excesses of the night before – and she decided to return to the familiar warmth of Alistair's arms.

The priestess shot her a slightly suspicious look over the steaming tea.

"You're not planning on any more… _activities,_ are you? They've removed the screen."

"No," replied Flora, unable to suppress the next yawn. "I'm just going to sleep a bit longer."

She unbuttoned the ugly mustard-colouring dressing robe and let it drop to the flagstones, pulling back the furs and clambering into bed beside Alistair. The king grunted, subconsciously drawing his new wife into his arms and curling his body about her like a protective shell. Now that the baby had settled down for a nap, Flora too was able to drift off into her own peculiar type of dreamless slumber; the dawn-lit chamber fading away in small, shadowed increments.

Alistair woke an hour later to sunlight spilling across the flagstones and the sound of quiet conversation in the corridor. He glanced down at Flora, who was fast asleep in his arms, and grinned reflexively. A moment later he twitched as he caught sight of an elderly priestess sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. She was eyeing him with disconcerting focus, the silver accents on her tall Chantry hat glinting in the morning sun.

"Ah," he said, checking to make sure that the fur was safely across his groin. "Morning, mother."

"Good morning, your majesty," replied the Chantry Mother evenly, hands still wrapped around her empty tea cup.

"There… _was_ a screen between us last night, wasn't there?" a nervous Alistair sought to confirm, exhaling in relief when the elderly sister gave a nod.

A bell rang in the courtyard outside to mark the ninth hour. Most occupants of the palace were now awake after sleeping off the excesses of the Royal wedding. The sound of distant activity rose up to filter in through the cracked-open window; servants conversing excitedly to one another as they shared fragments of gossip from the previous night. Two retainers belonging to rival Marcher clans had got into a fight; one of the young Pentaghast cousins had drunk too much and spewed the contents of his stomach in the middle of the entrance hall. The youngest Vael prince had been caught in bed with two Rivaini dancers, embarrassing his Chantry-fearing father so much that the man swore to send his son off to a monastery the very day that they returned to Starkhaven.

Despite the inhabitants of the palace slowly settling into their daytime rhythm around the Royal Bedchamber, Alistair was reluctant to wake his softly snoring wife. Flora was curled beneath the crook of his arm, hair entirely obscuring her features and one foot sticking out from beneath the blankets. He reached down to move the thick, rope-like strands of red away from her face, leaning over to kiss the centre of her smooth forehead.

Just then, the doors into the corridor opened and the steward gave a decorous cough.

"The Chancellor of Ferelden and the Bann of Rainesfere, your majesty."

Alistair hastily drew the fur over his naked wife, sitting up against the cushions as both Guerrin brothers entered. Eamon's smile was triumphant, while Teagan's bore a faint edge of drollness.

"Sleep well, Alistair?" the bann enquired lightly, then laughed out loud as Alistair narrowed his eyes.

The arl bowed his head towards the Chantry Mother, who was preparing to take her leave.

"Thank you for your service, madam."

The elderly priestess gave a sleepy grunt in response, handing over her own handwritten notes to the arl. These – in conjunction with those of Myrddin – would be noted and stored in the archives for posterity. Alistair eyed the neatly scribed writing with slight trepidation; unsure whether or not he wanted to _read_ a transcript of his own wedding night.

"Well done for yesterday, son," Eamon began, smiling at Alistair as the king rubbed a hand over his bleary eyes and yawned. "It couldn't have gone better. Both you and Florence made Ferelden truly proud."

"Thank the Maker you only have one coronation day," Alistair replied, drily. "When's the next big formal occasion? Not for _many_ months, I hope."

"Not until the blessing ceremony for the babe," confirmed the Chancellor, to Alistair's immeasurable relief. "So several months away yet."

Meanwhile Teagan had busied himself pouring some fresh ale for his yawning nephew; flashing Alistair a smile as he handed over the flagon.

"So, how does it feel to wake up a married man?"

Alistair couldn't stop a rather mindless grin from spreading over his face as he looked first at the golden band on his ring finger, then at the girl curled against his side, snoring open-mouthed in her sleep.

"I feel like the luckiest man in Thedas," he replied, blunt and honest. "I can't quite believe Flo is my _wife_ now."

Teagan laughed, casting a wry glance towards the sheaf of notes in Eamon's hand. "Even after twelve hours of ceremony and two eye-witness accounts?"

As Alistair flushed slightly at the mention of the consummation, Flora yawned widely at his side, stretching her sleep-drowsy limbs. Pushing herself up against the cushions, she clutched the blanket to her breasts with a casual hand and eyed their early morning visitors blearily.

"Morning, Arl Eamon. Morning, Bann Teagan."

She bade Alistair good morning by planting a kiss on his bristled cheek. Eamon greeted her kindly in return while Teagan muttered something incoherent and directed his eyes to the ceiling. Viewing the object of his affection languid and tousle-haired in bed did not exactly douse the flame of his reluctant desire.

The king put an arm around Flora's shoulders and directed his next question to Eamon.

"So, what's the plan for today?"

"You'll be breaking your fast in private," Eamon began, stepping to one side as a pair of servants manhandled in a copper bathtub. "Then, I believe you have some business with Mac Tir."

Flora gave a little shiver of anxiety, recalling Oghren's intention to join the Wardens. As promised, Loghain had brought some of the required lyrium-infused Darkspawn blood; she hoped that the dwarf was not too horrendously hung-over after the excesses of the previous night.

 _Unless alcohol helps to reduce the effects of the taint, in which case I'm going to force-feed him whiskey._

She and Alistair had explained as much as they themselves understood of the Joining to the dwarf – the risk, the shortened lifespan, the infertility – but their companion had been stubbornly insistent.

Alistair felt Flora shiver and tightened his arm around her, dropping a kiss to her bare shoulder.

"He'll be fine," the king tried to assure her. "The dwarf has got a lead-lined stomach, remember?"

As Flora brought her fingernails anxiously to her mouth, Eamon continued on with the day's plans.

"Then, Alistair, we've a trade discussion with the Marcher lords which should take up most of the afternoon. Your evening is your own."

Alistair exhaled in slight relief – at least the day did not seem to contain any ten hour meetings. He glanced sideways at Flora, who was trying to subtly manoeuvre herself into the mustard yellow dressing gown without exposing too much skin.

"Lo, did you mention something about your Gwaren committee being today?"

Flora nodded, having successfully negotiated her way into the lurid garment.

"Mm," she replied, swinging her legs out of bed and hauling herself upright. "It's in the afternoon. I'm going to see if the lady Anora wants to come with me. Is she still staying in the Mac Tir quarters?"

Eamon gave a small nod of confirmation.

"Aye, she's refusing to come out. Hasn't left the rooms in over a month."

Flora grimaced, scratching at the back of her head.

"Maybe she'll want to hear about the new fishing wharf we're going to build in Gwaren," she said at last, hopefully. "I think if she apologises to the people in person, they might forgive her."

"Or they'll lynch her," murmured Teagan under his breath. "There's a lot of anger still between Gwaren and the Mac Tirs."

Alistair pushed back the furs and clambered out of bed, wandering naked over to the dresser to inspect the fresh growth of hair across his cheeks.

"Isn't he _manly?"_ an admiring Flora whispered to Teagan, who nearly spat out his mouthful of ale.

After deciding that a shave was not required, the king turned to his wife and fixed her with a stern eye. She was now pulling at a loose strand of wool on the sleeve of the lurid, dressing robe; he could see the curve of her naked collarbone, pale and vulnerable.

"Who's going with you to the committee meeting, sweetheart?"

Although it went without saying that a dozen Royal Guard would accompany the new queen, Alistair was not satisfied with mere soldiers – only one of their familiar companions, or Flora's own brothers would sate his worries.

"Finian," Flora said, recalling her brother's offer the previous day. "I think Wynne is coming as well."

"What about Zev? Leliana?"

She gave an unhelpful Herring grunt and shrugged, seeing how far she could tug the strand of wool from her sleeve. Alistair resolved silently to seek out one of their dagger-wielding companions before the morning was through. Wynne was more than competent and Finian would defend his sister to the death; but the two assassins in their company had an eye for trouble and could often spot a threat before it manifested.

Another pair of servants entered with fire-warmed linen drying cloths and a tray of soaps; placing them where the bathtub rested next to the gently smouldering hearth. Eamon spoke up as he and his brother prepared to take their leave.

"Florence, it would be beneficial if you could come into the trade discussions once the Gwaren committee is finished. I believe your presence will help us negotiate some more favourable terms."

"Eh?" replied Flora, who was now frantically trying to stop the entire sleeve from unravelling. "It will?"

"Aye, flower. Nobody wants to short-change the Hero of Ferelden," added Teagan, cheerfully.

 _Or put a frown on that comely face,_ he thought to himself, following Eamon to the door.

Neither king not queen required any assistance with bathing, though a pair of attendants came in shortly afterwards, bringing clean clothing, honey mead and various items of food for breakfast. Alistair bathed first and then sat naked and dripping on the stool beside Flora as she sat in the tub; crumbs of fresh-baked bread falling into the water while he ate and chattered away.

Flora gave the occasional reply, content to let her best friend dominate the conversation as he talked through the particulars of the upcoming meeting. She was rubbing soap into her hair, while listening to Alistair as he decided out loud what avenues of trade to pursue. Talking through the various options helped to clarify them in the king's mind; giving him confidence when talking about them before the council later.

Knowing that they would not be alone until later that evening, both former Wardens relished this hour of relative privacy. Flora sat on the bearskin before the hearth and bit into a raw turnip; Alistair knelt behind her, rubbing her wet hair vigorously with the heated linen cloth. They were now discussing the events of the previous day; neither of them wanting to dwell on their friend's upcoming Joining.

The king's eye fell on his bride's narrow shoulders, the _Peraquialus_ freckles obliterated by the white, multi-arcing scar.

"I'm still outraged at that blasted Tevinter magister wanting to _inspect_ you," Alistair repeated for the third time that morning, renewed outrage flooding his face. "When you go to the Gwaren meeting, take the road over the traders' bridge rather than through the noble district. Pavus is staying there and I don't want him even _looking_ at you through the windows."

"I don't know why he's so interested in them," Flora said in perplexion, voice muffled behind the mass of damp hair as she peered down at her white-mottled palms. "They're just _marks._ There's nothing different about them from _this,_ or _this- "_

She twisted around as far as her stomach would allow, touching the faded scars across Alistair's torso that predated her entry into his life. Her fingertips meandered across a pale line that divided his collarbone in two; then over a white scar so near to his heart that it made her feel faintly nauseous. The thought of her best friend in pain – pain that she could no longer take away with a well-timed _exhalation_ – was a horrific one.

Impulsively, Flora reached up and put her arms about Alistair's neck. Letting go of the damp linen cloth, he embraced her in return; sliding his palm up and down her bare back.

"Promise me you'll never get hurt again," she breathed in his ear, fingers curling into the taut muscle of his shoulders. "That you'll stay safe."

Alistair picked up on the anxiety in her voice and stopped himself from joking that any would-be assailants would have to get through the incessantly-present Royal Guard first. Instead he kissed the top of Flora's head, inhaling the clean, fresh smell of soap from her damp hair.

"I promise, my love. But you have to swear the same to me! Even the _thought_ of you being in pain drives me mad, Flo."

Both of them looked down reflexively at Flora's swollen stomach, sitting high and round as a melon. Flora swallowed; she had already spent several restless nights worrying about the pain that was sure to result from the delivery of their child. She could not help but remember the woman in South Reach who had been in labour for twelve agonising hours before the babe was cut bloody and screaming from her belly.

 _Zevran did the cutting; I healed her up afterwards._

 _What if that happens to me? I won't be able to heal myself._

"I think pain is going to be slightly inevitable for me," she whispered, forcing herself to smile and shrug. "I hope it's quick, at least."

The dark and unspeakable fear rose in Alistair's mind once more, like some menacing, long-toothed creature of the deep. His own mother had died in childbirth, as had Zevran's. Isolde Guerrin had caught childbed fever after a difficult labour with Connor. Eamon had almost resigned himself to the death of his wife before she made a miraculous recovery.

Submerging the fear fiercely, Alistair tightened his grip on his nervous wife and sought out her fingers with his free hand; roping them together.

"You're going to be _fine,_ Lo," he told her, brightly. "I won't move from your side."

To Flora's relief, there was no expectation that she should begin to garb herself in long, ornate gowns in the style of the previous queen. Two trunks of new clothing had been delivered to the Royal Bedchamber – she suspected that they had been sent by Leliana – but fortunately, these contained only a scant handful of muslin-wrapped dresses. One trunk was full of tunics in shades of Highever navy, Theirin scarlet and Mac Eanraig hunter's green. They were woven from the softest lambs' wool and edged with golden thread; a finer class of garment than the incarnations she had worn previously. The other trunk was full of leather breeches and fur-trimmed bodices; designed to complement the style of Alistair's kingly garb.

Having had enough of leather and fur after yesterday's coronation – and feeling the heat of the Solace sun streaming through the windows - Flora chose a tunic in rich Highever blue. With some help from Alistair, she wrestled on a pair of formfitting calfskin breeches; the king then retrieved her faithful boots from beneath the bed.

"I don't have to wear the hat from yesterday _,_ do I?" Flora asked as Alistair adjusted the angle of the spiked golden band atop his own head. "It weighed a ton."

The king grinned to himself, fastening the last button on his high-necked leather tunic.

"No, my love, you don't have to wear that ' _hat'._ Guillaume said he would be bringing something up from the treasury for you to wear in the daytime."

Flora let out a small grunt, scratching her nose. She almost voiced her thoughts out loud - that she didn't particularly like hats, wasn't used to wearing anything on her head, had never even worn a helm in battle - then heard her Herring-dad's voice echo sternly in her ear.

 _It's just something on your head, girl. Don't make such a fuss._

Aware that Alistair was watching her – and not wanting him to feel guilty for causing the need for her to wear a crown in the first place – Flora smiled widely at her husband.

"You look so handsome," she said, earnestly. "I could _eat_ you."

Alistair's eyes lit up and he took an eager step towards her - only for a knock to sound on the door. Chief steward Guillaume made his entrance a moment later, clutching a polished walnut case portentously.

"Your majesties," he said, dipping into a practised bow. "I trust you _slept_ well?"

Trying not to snicker at the steward's deadpan tone, Flora finished lacing up the front of the tunic, tying a neat sailor's knot between her breasts. Alistair coughed, predicting that this teasing question would emerge from a number of mouths over the course of the morning. Still, he answered it with a neutral, straight-faced politeness.

"Well enough, thank you."

Flora turned to the mirror, tying the front strands of her hair at the nape of her neck; leaving the rest of the damp mass hanging loose in the hope that it would dry quicker. Guillaume crossed the flagstones and came to a halt before her, opening the walnut case with eyes lowered decorously.

"Alistair requested that we find something lightweight for you, something that had not been worn by Anora," the steward murmured, the Nevarran edge to his accent still sharp even after decades spent in Denerim. "Here: _Andraste's Garland._ It hasn't been worn by an incumbent queen since the Storm Age."

The crown itself reminded Flora a little of the Cousland laurel – they were both delicately hewn from strands of old gold, prime examples of Fereldan craftsmanship. Yet, where the Cousland coronet consisted of uniformly-shaped laurel leaves spaced at regular intervals; _Andraste's Garland_ had a far more organic, natural feel. Slender veins of gold, twisted to represent curling vines, wove their way around delicately crafted emulations of _Andraste's Grace,_ a flower native to Ferelden. Tiny pearls nestled at the centre of each bloom, their iridescent sheen reflecting the light from each exquisitely sculpted petal.

A moment later and Alistair was standing at Flora's side, lifting the coronet carefully from its plush velvet setting. Using their reflections in the tall mirror to guide him, he placed _Andraste's Garland_ gently onto Flora's head.

"My queen," he said proudly, admiring the sheen of the old gold against the dark red hair. "Maker's Breath, I'm _so_ glad you're doing this with me."

It was clear that _this_ incorporated the crown, the throne, the palace and a lifetime's worth of duty. For a moment, Flora gazed at her own reflection and wondered on how much had changed in the span of a year.

 _Last summer I was the resident Circle embarrassment, a failing apprentice who spent more time cleaning corridors than in the classroom; teased for my lowborn accent as well as my lack of skill. The senior enchanters had no idea what my name was – and even the other apprentices just called me 'the Vase'. Nice to look at, containing nothing of value._

 _Change can come as swift and dramatic as a storm on the Waking Sea, which can reshape miles of coastline over the course of one furious night._

Flora smiled up at her best friend's reflected face; his handsome brow nearly a foot above her own.

"It's an honour to stand at your side," she replied, quietly. Alistair bowed his head over her shoulder, brushing a feathery kiss to the side of her neck.

"Right," he said after a moment, their eyes meeting once more in the mirror. "Shall we… get on with it, then? I have a feeling that the Wardens are waiting for us."

Flora felt her stomach give a little roll of dread, but nodded determinedly. "Yes. Let's go."

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOoop, my husband's work desperately needed him so we came back early!

The reference to humours at the start of the chapter refers to a common Medieval theory of health – where the body contains four humours (or liquids – black bile, yellow bile, blood and phlegm) – and if they were balanced, you were healthy, and if they were imbalanced, there was something wrong!

Mac Eanraig is Flora's maternal name – Eleanor Cousland was from the Mac Eanraig family! Ferelden is such a blend of Medieval England and Scotland (I even think it's leaning more towards Scotland, based on the Landsmeet system, Celtic-y heritage and the nomenclature of the families). Oh and in Britain we spell 'chamomile' as 'camomile', lol. I think it's like the only example of differences in spelling where we actually take away a letter instead of adding in a random vowel, hehe.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	67. Oghren's Joining

Chapter 67: Oghren's Joining

Alistair and Flora made their way down the Royal corridor, the guards shifting their pikes from hand to hand in a quick left-right salutation as they passed. Servants kept a respectful distance, bowing their heads and drawing back against the walls to give the king and queen ample room. The palace was the quietest that it had been all week – many of the wedding guests were still either slumbering or breaking their fast within their chambers. Every window that could be unfastened was opened wide to let out the miasma of cedar smoke mingled with honey mead. A stiff sea breeze blew its way down the myriad halls and corridors of Denerim Castle, carrying with it the insistent cries of the gulls.

Once they came to the staircase beside the hunted _halla_ portrait, Alistair reached out to anchor his wife's hand in his own. They descended the steps in unison, then kept their fingers twined together as they advanced over the minstrels' gallery.

"Oghren will be _fine,"_ Alistair said suddenly out loud, his voice echoing off a nearby suit of armour. "He's a dwarf, they're impervious to practically everything."

"What is imp- _imper_ \- improv- "

"Immune," he clarified, helpfully. "He'll take it no worse than fire-whiskey. And remember, dwarves have lived near the Darkspawn for generations. Oghren's been in the Deep Roads more often than both of us. He's probably got a strong resistance to the taint already."

Flora nodded, craving every small piece of reassurance that Alistair could offer. Although Oghren had been the one who initiated the idea of becoming a Warden, she could not help but feel some responsibility for their dwarven companion's choice. Daveth's choking, bulging-eyed face rose to the forefront of her mind and she forced it brutally back into the depths of her subconscious.

 _I prayed to your memory – as I did for all my dead - a few days ago. I don't want to think about your Joining when my friend is about to undertake his own._

Fortunately, they had just reached the impressive Calenhad window; a sight which always succeeded in drawing Flora's attention. The Solace sun – as yet uncloaked by cloud – shone through the fragments of stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colourful patterns on the flagstones.

"This window is like magic," she said out loud as they came to a halt before it. "I don't understand how they put colours in glass."

Pressing a finger against the crimson of Calenhad Theirin's tartan kilt, Flora gazed in fascination at her red-lit nail.

"It's very nice," Alistair said dutifully, eyeing his Alamarri ancestor's outfit. "Do you think I should take up wearing a kilt?"

"Ha! Yes! Like the _Vile_ princes of Starkhaven!"

Alistair thought about correcting her, then snickered inwardly and decided not to.

"What did you think of that poem the youngest one was reciting to you at the feast?" he asked, a half-laugh emerging from his throat. "Sebastian. ' _Hair red as the sunset in Solace'."_

"I hate poetry," Flora replied, with Herring bluntness. "Why can't they just write their meaning plainly?"

" _Oi!_ Have you two been spendin' the morning _shagging,_ or what?"

The familiar brogue rang out behind them, and made both Alistair and Flora jump.

Oghren was standing in the corridor, broad arms folded across his chest and an expectant expression writ over his face. Despite the excesses of the previous night, the dwarf appeared both alert and bright-eyed. His ginger moustache and beard had been carefully trimmed, and he had even made an attempt to flatten down his wiry hair with water.

"Thought I'd come and get yeh personally," he said, with bravado. "Make sure yeh weren't thinkin' of skipping out on my big moment."

"Of course not!" Flora hastened to reassure him, wide-eyed.

"We wouldn't miss it," Alistair added, wryly. "Is the – ah - _ceremony_ being held in the Landsmeet chamber?"

This was a guess based on precedent; Loghain's Joining had taken place in the ancient stone meeting hall at the crumbling heart of the palace.

"Aye. Everyone's waitin' on yeh."

"We're LATE?" the ever-punctual Flora demanded in tones of horror. "Oh, no!"

King and dwarf watched in some bemusement as their former Warden-Commander scuttled off down the corridor, at remarkable speed considering the fullness of her belly.

"Well, despite havin' a bun in the oven," said Oghren, at a loss for anything else to say. "She's still got a great arse."

"Mm."

Preoccupied with gaping after the rapidly diminishing Flora, Alistair absentmindedly agreed with the dwarf before realising what he had said.

"Hey! That's my _wife_ you're talking about. The _Hero of Ferelden._ Ender of the Fifth Blight. Slayer of the Archdemon!"

"Nice and perky."

" _Oghren!"_

"Eh, take it as a compliment, lad."

At a more sedentary pace, king and dwarf followed Flora out into the entrance hall. The decorations for the wedding – draped laurel and Highever banners – were being taken down; servants teetering on high ladders to reach the lofty rafters. Several dozen wedding guests were making a slow exit, retainers swarming around them like workers about a queen bee. Most of the visiting dignitaries – save for the Marcher lords engaging in trade talks – would be sailing from Denerim that day; taking advantage of the favourable tide and eastern winds.

Flora was heading determinedly down the centre of the hall, towards the vast wooden doors denoting the entrance to the Landsmeet chamber. Many of the wedding guests recognised the newlywed queen, either hailing her or dipping into respectful bows.

"Your Majesty!"

"Queen Florence!"

Seeing that she was clearly in a hurry, nobody made any attempt to waylay her.

Flora was so preoccupied with the thought of being _late_ that she was not disconcerted by either their choice of address, or their attention. The Royal Guard flanking the Landsmeet entrance shifted their pikes in acknowledgement of her arrival.

Alistair caught her up with his lengthier stride just as she came to a halt; Oghren arriving a few paces behind.

"Sweetheart, you're faster than a Fereldan Forder!"

Flora let out a little grunt, shifting impatiently from foot to foot as the guards pushed open the doors into the Landsmeet chamber.

The ancient assembly hall opened up before them, smelling of mildew and old stone; the tiered wooden benches rising on both sides of the room. Within the crumbling walls of the Landsmeet chamber, some of the most notable events in Ferelden's history had taken place. Beneath these vaulted eaves, five hundred years prior, Calenhad had formally united the nation beneath the banner of Theirin. During the Steel Age, when the Avvar invaded Ferelden under the great warlord Balak, the lords of the bannorn oversaw the defence of Denerim from this chamber's lofty balcony. The wooden benches were scarred with derisive sword-thrusts from when the Orlesians swarmed the palace at the apex of the Blessed Age. Most recently within these historic walls, the lady Cousland had usurped the pretender Mac Tir from power after revealing her three great armies decamped on the plains below.

 _I remember when Alistair and I did it in here,_ Flora thought vaguely to herself, betraying a woeful ignorance of much of the room's historic past. _Just on that bench over there._

She turned to Alistair and was about to ask whether he too remembered, when she noticed his expression. Her husband's face was wreathed in the steely, tight-lipped neutrality that he reserved specially for Loghain Mac Tir. The two men had been on civil terms for several months – mostly due to Loghain saving Flora's life on two separate occasions – but there was still a distinct chilliness to the king's demeanour whenever he came face to face with the former general.

Loghain was standing in the centre of the room alongside his co-commander, the Orlesian Leonie Caron; both clad in full Grey Warden regalia. Before them stood a gaggle of new recruits, whom Flora recognised from the wedding. A female dwarf with black, geometric tattoos inked across her face was murmuring quietly to a blonde elven mage, whose long hair was bound up in an intricate series of braids. Beside them, another blond mage – but male, and human – was lounging on a lower bench with an amused expression.

"Recruits!" Leonie Caron's sharp, accented voice rang out across the chamber. "Salute in the presence of former Warden-Commander Cousland, vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, and Warden Alistair Theirin, second in command!"

The recruits obediently saluted and bowed; their curious glances settling on Ferelden's king and queen as they raised their heads. Flora, meanwhile, let her gaze fall on the blond mage standing at the end of the row.

"I know you!" she exclaimed, as he grinned and nodded to confirm her recognition. "We were in the Circle together. Angus? Adders?"

" _Anders,"_ corrected the mage, with an indolent smile. "Though I might change my name to _Adder,_ if I thought being named after a snake would strike fear into the hearts of the Darkspawn. Anyway, I'm surprised that you recall me, your majesty. Most of my Circle years were spent being locked up by our Templar _protectors_."

"No, I do remember you," Flora said, recalling a chance meeting that they'd had on the tower roof. Anders had snuck up there to gauge the possibility of escape; while she was preoccupied with trying to catch a glimpse of the sea.

"And I remember _you,"_ he replied, letting out a dark cackle of amusement. "Quite an elevation, to go from cleaning corridors to wearing crowns in the span of a year."

"Well, the Maker moves in mysterious ways," Loghain interrupted bluntly, and Flora shot him a grateful glance. "Now, let's meet this potential recruit. Step forward, dwarf, and explain why you want to join this _esteemed_ Order."

Loghain Mac Tir knew well enough who Oghren was – he remembered him lying prostrate beneath a vat of honey mead the previous night – but desired to hear the dwarf express himself in his own words.

The dwarf stepped forwards and lifted his chin, and Flora found herself biting her lip anxiously. She need not have worried: when the dwarf spoke, the words emerged clear and confident.

"In Orzammar, I did nothin' but drink for nigh on ten years. I was the one parents'd use as a _cautionary tale_ for their little ones. _'Study your craft well, or you'll end up a waster like Oghren!'._ I didn't see no purpose in anythin'. Then I met these two, here- "

He gestured roughly over his shoulder towards where Flora and Alistair stood, a rueful smile curling over his face.

"Pair o' clueless numpties, the both of 'em- plannin' to go down into the _Deep Roads!_ Well, I felt so sorry for the misguided pair that I kindly volunteered to assist – they'd be dead meat without me - "

" _Ahem,"_ a slightly indignant Alistair protested; then was elbowed by Flora, who was enchanted by the dwarf's revisionist history.

" – and after we were down there… Well. I decided to stick around, _knew_ they'd need my help. Was the first time I'd followed anythin' other than the scent of the bottle in _years._ And – somewhere along the way – I found a _new_ purpose."

"Which is?" enquired Loghain, steadily.

"To stop the Darkspawn," Oghren replied, his voice equally even. "To crush them in their holes, destroy their nests, drive 'em deeper underground so they never think to show their stinkin' faces again. We dwarves _are_ their oldest enemy, after all."

The female dwarf – with the black facial tattoos – lifted her chin slightly in acknowledgement of the truth in this.

"But you still drink, dwarf," Leonie Caron interjected, her Orlesian tones oddly incongruous within this stone-walled heart of Fereldan politics.

"Aye, and I always will," replied Oghren, cheerfully. "But it ain't my purpose no more. It ain't the reason I get up in the mornin'."

To her dismay, Flora realised that tears were welling up in the corners of her eyes. She sniffled quietly under her breath, wiping her nose surreptitiously with her sleeve.

Leonie Caron and Loghain glanced at one another, and the former gave a slight nod.

"Step forward, dwarf," she instructed, raising her voice so that it rang up to the vaulted ceiling.

The other recruits immediately stiffened, aware of the significance of the upcoming minutes. From the alertness of their demeanour, they had clearly witnessed Joinings that had gone terribly wrong _,_ in addition to those which had succeeded.

Loghain retrieved the silver chalice from where it had been resting on a nearby bench. It was not the one that Flora remembered from her own Joining – clearly, that had been lost at Ostagar – but it was similar in craftsmanship. The liquid inside made a distinct viscous _slop_ as it was moved, and Oghren licked his lips in readiness.

Flora felt her heartbeat escalate within her chest, so loud that she worried that it would be audible. Her fingers stretched out reflexively, only to meet Alistair's hand already reaching for hers. Their fingers wrapped together in their own little ritual, his thumb moving over her knuckles in reassuring circles.

 _He'll be fine,_ Flora thought fiercely to herself. _He'll be fine._

"Join us, brother – join us in the shadows," Leonie declared, with the ringing confidence of one who had uttered these lines many times in the past. "Join us as we stand, vigilant. Join us, as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice shall not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you."

Loghain stepped forward, extending the silver chalice to the dwarf. Oghren reached out and took it in both hands, licking his lips in preparation. He was not ignorant of the contents – after all, he had once accompanied Sten, Flora and Riordan to retrieve some Darkspawn blood for Loghain's own Joining – but showed no hesitation in raising the chalice to his lips.

Flora felt Alistair's grip clench on hers and she squeezed his fingers tightly back, her stomach curdling as though it had been her taking a sip of the tainted blood.

The dwarf took a long gulp, tilting his head back as though imbibing a tankard of Orzammar's finest brew. Moments later, he gave a long burp; wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

"Oi," he protested, immediately. "Is this the watered-down version for kiddies? Bring out the _strong_ stuff!"

Loghain muttered something under his breath, while Leonie quickly recovered from her astonishment.

"Welcome to the Order, brother-warden," she announced, stepping forward to take the chalice. "We welcome you as a new recruit."

"Thanks, your commander-ness," replied Oghren, casting an appraising eye over the suspicious tattooed dwarf and supercilious blonde elf. "I quite fancy the idea of gettin' to know my new _sister-wardens._ After all, it worked out well for old King Alistair, here."

"Congratulations, Oghren," Alistair offered, grinning across at their old companion. "The Darkspawn will be quaking in their nests when they learn that you've joined the Wardens."

Flora was still clutching Alistair's hand, light-headed with relief. A moment later, she realised that she was also light-headed _in general -_ in this final term of carrying the babe, spells of dizziness had begun to overtake the bouts of nausea. The edges of her vision had begun to darken, shadows prickling in the corners of her eyes.

"I need to sit down," she whispered to Alistair. He immediately guided her over to sit on one of the benches; keeping a tight, steadying grip on her elbow. Crouching before her, he reached up to take her face between his palms.

"Deep breaths, sweetheart."

She nodded, forcing herself to inhale slowly rather than to gulp down great mouthfuls of air.

"We have a healer," offered Loghain, gesturing the blond mage forward. "Assist her, Anders."

Flora opened her mouth to say that she did not require assistance, and then saw the anxiety in Alistair's face. More to reassure her husband rather than from necessity, she gave a little nod. Anders came sauntering forwards, leaning his staff against the bench before taking a seat next to her.

"Alistair, we've discovered a Darkspawn nest near Amaranthine," Loghain muttered, and Alistair rose to his feet; gesturing for them to move towards the balcony.

"I don't want her worrying," Flora heard her best friend say quietly. "Tell me over here."

She wanted to stand up and insist that she was _fine,_ that she wanted to know about the Darkspawn nest too – after all, she had once, briefly, been _Warden-Commander –_ but when Flora made to stand, the shadows encroached rapidly at the corner of her vision once again.

"Hey," the mage beside her protested, eyebrows shooting upwards. "You stay sat down."

Flora obediently returned to the bench, feeling a distinct prickle of frustration. Anders cast an appraising eye over her stomach, assessing the fullness of the curve.

"That's going to be one _big_ baby," he said, after a moment.

Flora grunted; she was grimly aware of the size of the child. They sat quietly for several moments, listening to Oghren boasting of his past exploits to the female recruits. A dozen yards away, Alistair stood with Leonie Caron and Loghain, immersed in quiet, earnest conversation.

"I bet life's a lot easier now that you aren't a mage. Less people chasing you down, eh?"

Flora startled slightly at Anders' comment, turning to peer at him. He was smiling, but there was a slight rawness to the faded blue eyes that spoke volumes.

"It's different," she replied after a moment, thinking. "Not _easier._ I miss my spirits every day."

"Of course, you were a _spirit healer,_ weren't you? Somehow, I have a feeling that's going to get lost in the historical narrative."

Anders smirked as Flora shot him an astonished glance. For a moment it was as though they were two mage apprentices again, sitting atop the Circle tower roof while he confessed his desire to escape.

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, I'd bet you a hundred gold that by the next Age, the scribes will have recast you as a noble _warrior,_ and nobody will be around to correct them."

"But that's not _true!"_ Flora protested, horrified at the thought of her spirits' sacrifice being so deliberately forgotten. "I am- I _was_ a spirit healer. That's the only reason I was even able to defeat the Archdemon, with the help of my spirits."

"Well, nobody likes giving mages credit for anything," replied Anders, with a little snort. "Or spirits, for that matter."

Flora felt silent, her brow furrowed. Alistair, Loghain and Leonie Caron were still at the far end of the chamber, silhouetted against the summery light streaming in from the Alamarri balcony.

Absentmindedly Anders raised his hand and focused, letting wisps of golden healing energy rise upwards from his palm. Flora turned her head as though in a dream, her eyes widening as the ethereal miasma rose from the mage's fingertips, gilded and intangible. She reached out to touch it with her own useless fingers, feeling the achingly familiar effervescence of the arcane rippling over her skin.

 _Not yours. Never yours, again._

The grief was so strong that it was a physical pain, a thrust to the gut like the kick of a horse's hoof. Flora doubled over as though somebody had swung their fist into her stomach. Beside her, Anders' face contracted in horror. He first assumed that something had happened with the babe, then made the connection between his own casual action and her subsequent agonised reaction.

"Ah, Maker- _sorry - "_

Flora got up quickly, _too_ quickly for somebody with a babe pressing against the vessels of her body. The world contracted about her in a mass of black shadows but she kept walking forwards, forcing herself to focus on the great wooden doors. She made it to the doorway, stumbling inelegantly out into the entrance hall and leaving the Landsmeet chamber – and the manifested magic - behind her.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aah, poor Flo! It's the first time that she's come into contact with healing magic – which she used to conjure so effortlessly – since she had her connection with the Fade severed. Typical her though, lol, to enter this chamber _steeped_ in Ferelden's history… and be like HEY REMEMBER WE SHAGGED IN HERE? Hahaha

The bit that Oghren says – about the dwarves being the Darkspawn's oldest enemies – was actually taken from the speech that Flora gave to the deshyr in Orzammar when winning their help.

I don't often copy dialogue directly from the game, but I loved the Joining speech bit so much I had to include it!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	68. To Create Life, Without Magic

Chapter 68: To Create Life, Without Magic

The problem with the Royal Palace was that - essentially - it was public domain. The size of a village, and with the population to match; it was a hive of constant activity. Very few spaces within the castle could be classed as quiet, and even _fewer_ as private. Fortunately, the entrance hall was quieter than it had been earlier, many guests having already departed. Reason fought emotion for dominance in Flora's mind; she knew that she could not break down in such a public space, and yet she _had_ to relieve herself of the immense pressure building within her. The sight – the _touch_ – of the healing magic had brought back a storm-surge of grief and frustration that had lain dormant for weeks.

Flora came to a halt in the centre of the entrance hall, head swivelling as she tried to think of some quiet place that she could unleash her tears. The servants would be cleaning the Royal bedchamber; the Chantry would be occupied with morning prayers; the towers and battlements were patrolled by guards.

"Lady Cousland – sorry – _your majesty?"_

The voice was tentative and familiar. Flora turned around to see a middle aged man, dressed in much-patched clothing and sporting a hopeful expression. As she turned around, he whipped his cap from his head and bowed; deep and respectful. After a moment, she placed his face – it was the mayor of Gwaren, leader of the teyrnir's fledgling restoration committee.

"Ma'am, I just wanted to tell you that we've moved our meeting location," he mumbled, eyes fixed on the moth-eaten blue carpet. "We thought it didn't seem proper for the _queen of Ferelden_ to come to a grubby warehouse. So we've hired a room in the Gnawed Noble, just off the marketplace."

Flora blinked at him, slightly dazed, the grief vibrating along her bones like a mage's errant spell. The mayor peered at her pale, solemn face, and doubt flickered in his eyes.

"Unless… you've changed your mind about supporting us?" he asked, a note of trepidation creeping into the words. "Does the king – does the king not approve? It's not Gwaren's fault that our teyrn betrayed the throne. "

 _Pull yourself together, Flora,_ she thought to herself, fiercely. _This man represents people who have lost everything- their home, family, children, livelihoods. Put your own grief back where it belongs and deal with it later._

Flora inhaled, stepping forward to put an instinctive hand of reassurance on the mayor's elbow. _Mairyn's Star_ glinted on her finger, sitting above the twisted golden rope of the wedding band.

 _Call on your Herring grit._

"Of course I've not changed my mind," she replied, earnestly. "Thank you for telling me about the meeting place. I'll be there, I promise. I'm bringing Finian - my brother – he's agreed to help out with anything that the Gwaren restoration committee needs. "

"As have I."

The mayor's eyes slid past Flora then widened; the man dropped into his second bow in the same span of minutes.

"King Alistair!"

Flora swivelled round to see her best friend come to a halt on the flagstones, his hazel eyes resting brief and concerned on her face before turning to the mayor of Gwaren. The mayor rose tentatively, fingers trembling as he clutched his cap to his chest.

"The queen will let me know what you need," Alistair said steadily, his voice firm and full of assurance. "It's vital that we build up our southern economy again, and we need our refugees re-homed. I'm sorry for the troubles that you've been through during the Blight."

The mayor bowed once more, mumbling his gratitude.

"Thank you, your majesty! _Majesties._ "

The Gwaren native retreated backwards, face flushed with hope; offering several more bows on his way to the door. They watched him disappear between the great stone Mabari that guarded the entrance; a brief shaft of sunlight penetrating the gloom as the door opened.

The next moment Alistair turned to face his wife, lifting her chin with a thumb and peering down into her eyes. Although Flora had successfully arrested the tears before they could escape, he could interpret the minute changes in her face better than anyone else. They had spent nine months sleeping with their heads on the same pillow; Alistair could read her solemn grey eyes like the fisherman Pel could read the sky above the sea.

He looked down at her now and saw the sadness just barely suppressed, the grief provoked by touching the creation energy - which had once flowed so freely from her own fingers. The fleck of gold floating on her pale iris gleamed as though newly polished.

Flora hoped furiously that he would not ask her what was wrong – something guaranteed to release the flood-barriers and send gallons of saltwater down her cheeks. Fortunately, Alistair had already deciphered the cause of her misery from speaking with Anders, and instead bowed his head to kiss her on the forehead.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, letting his thumb meander over the line of her jaw. "I'm sorry. Why didn't you come to me?"

"You were speaking with Loghain and… and _Lion_ ," Flora replied, mangling Leonie's Orlesian cognomen. "About important things. I didn't want to interrupt you."

" _Always_ interrupt me," Alistair retorted fiercely, his eyes bright. "I mean it, Flora. I don't give a shit what it is – a council meeting, a Landsmeet session _–_ you come to _me."_

Flora peered up at him and the king softened his tone, sliding his fingers into her hair and thumbing the shell-like curve of her ear.

" _You're_ my priority, you and the baby," he murmured, tender and earnest. "Let me comfort you, like I vowed to do before the Maker yesterday. My own sweet wife."

She nodded mutedly, standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. Alistair wound his fingers into hers, giving her hand a squeeze.

"I've got a wedding present for you," he said, softly. "I was going to show you this evening, but I think I'll show you now, instead. Let's say farewell to Oghren, first."

The Grey Wardens of Ferelden took their leave shortly afterwards; gathered on the gravel forecourt before the Royal Palace as stable boys ran to retrieve their mounts. Oghren – who was grinning from ear to ear – could barely wait to get on the road.

"All this sittin' about in a palace has got my feet itchy," he said to Alistair, shielding his eyes against the sun. "Can't wait to swing my axe into some stinkin' walking corpses."

"Kill some Darkspawn for me," Alistair replied with a wry and slightly wistful grin. "And I hope you have a safe journey to Vigil's Keep."

This second part was directed in neutral terms up to where Loghain was already mounted; his dark Mac Tir eyes scrutinising their route on the map.

"Aye. I'll write when we learn more about the Darkspawn nest," the Warden replied, with a small grunt. "Please pass on my… regards to Anora."

Alistair nodded, grimacing. It was common knowledge around the palace that Anora – who still refused to leave her quarters – had also refused the opportunity to see her father, despite their meeting being permitted by the King's Council.

A stable boy led up the short, stocky pony that Oghren had been using for the past few weeks. The dwarf gave the pony a quick scratch behind the ears, before reaching up to strap his battle-axe to its saddle. Oghren then turned to king and queen, who had been standing a short distance away on the gravel.

"Right," he said, jovially. "I'll see yeh both when I see yeh then, eh?"

"Will you come back to see the baby when it's born?" Flora asked, hopefully.

"Depends if I can get the time off," replied Oghren with a little cackle, then relented when she looked distraught. "Ah, don't go runnin' off bawling again, lassie. I'm sure your hubby could write me some _royal dispensation,_ or somethin' o' the like."

"I want the baby to meet the _bravest_ dwarf I've ever known," Flora continued, a touch melodramatically. Oghren gave a guffaw to hide the sudden gleam of emotion in his eyes.

"Well, I could never say no to a pretty face! Come'ere, give your old man a hug. I promise not to grope yeh this time."

Flora went to embrace him and the dwarf was as good as his word, patting her companionably on the small of her back.

"Make sure you take it easy over the next couple'o months, dolly," he told her, sternly. "Don't work too hard. If anyone deserves a holiday, it's you."

"What is ' _holiday'?"_ asked Flora, obliviously.

Oghren snorted, shooting a pointed little glance up at Alistair as he withdrew.

"See yeh later, Prince Charmin'!"

Flora inhaled a gulp of air – it had been an emotional morning – and leaned against Alistair's side. He put an arm around her shoulders, keeping her steady beside him. Together, the two former Wardens watched the new Fereldan Order proceed slowly down the main road; the tails of the horses whipping away the flies as they trod the gravel. The midday sun bore down overhead, shortening their shadows until they were lost within the mass of amputated trees, disappearing over the brow of the hill.

Flora gazed after her old companion for a moment, remembering when he had first approached them in Tapster's Tavern, preferred drinking-house of the dwarfs of Orzammar. She'd had her hands cuffed – the locals were suspicious of mages – and Alistair was feeding her mouthfuls of stew, when a dwarf reeking of a brewery had crash-landed in the booth opposite them.

 _I hear you're goin' down to the Deep Roads,_ he'd said; the words slurring together half-formed. _You'll need an expert guide, and that's me. I'm comin' with yeh._

"Right," said Alistair softly, once the horse bearing the scowling blond elf had vanished over the horizon. "Ready for your present?"

"Yes," Flora replied in a small voice, swallowing. "I'm ready."

Alistair led her back into the entrance hall, between the great stone Mabari guarding the doorway. Servants and nobles moved aside to make way for them; many still murmuring congratulations for their recent nuptials.

They headed down a wide stone passage that branched off the hall, lined on both sides with stone arches and freestanding candelabra. Flora recognised a corridor on the left that led towards the castle's Chantry; a twisting staircase on the right descended to the dungeons. Two ever-present Royal Guardsmen followed at a tactful distance, their booted footsteps echoing about the stone walls.

Alistair squeezed her palm tightly against his own, nudging her into yet another narrow passageway that sloped gently downwards. This corridor was lit by torches fixed at regular intervals on the walls; decorated with moth-eaten tapestries in faded shades of crimson and black.

Halfway down this narrow passageway Flora inhaled, nostrils flaring outwards as they detected a familiar salt-edged scent.

"Where- "

"Almost there," Alistair replied evasively, leading her towards a small wooden door at the end of the corridor.

As he nudged it open, Flora put her hand to her eyes to shade them from the sudden, startling sunlight. Still clutching Alistair's hand, she stepped through the doorway and looked around her in astonishment.

Rather than leading to yet another stone passageway, the door had led out into a small courtyard garden located within the interior of the castle. Ivy ran up the walls, climbing determinedly up towards the high, decorative windows – one of them Flora recognised as the great stained glass Calenhad that marked the entrance to the Royal wing.

The courtyard garden itself consisted of a sunny, cobbled square, bordered with grass on three sides. Earthen beds had already been built up; a wooden planter ran along one wall, near a cluster of empty ceramic pots in a variety of sizes. In one corner, a slender pear tree drooped over a small brick well. Diagonally opposite, a stone bench rested against the wall; carved with sculpted relief patterns. It was a little haven of quiet within the busy palace, accessible only through the wooden door by which they had entered.

Flora stared around for a moment, and then turned to Alistair with her brow furrowed.

"This is for you to use, if… if you want to," he said, slightly hesitant. "You can collect seeds and clippings from the northern coast – or anywhere we go on the progress – and then plant them here. Flowers, vegetables, herbs – anything you want."

Since Flora was still gazing at him, wide-eyed and speechless, Alistair ploughed on determinedly.

"I know you can't make things grow just by prodding them with your finger anymore," he continued quickly, not wanting to upset her. "But you can still make things grow. Create – create life _without_ magic. By your own hand."

Flora's pale eyes gleamed suddenly, and Alistair grew alarmed that he had made a mistake.

"Or – if it's a bad idea, just say so," he assured her, hastily. "Honestly, Flo – if this isn't your idea of _fun,_ just tell- "

His sentence was ended abruptly as the air was squeezed from his lungs; forced out by the desperate clutch of her arms as Flora embraced him. Even if she had desired to suppress this new surge of tears, it would have been utterly impossible to do so. Instead, she let out a muffled wail into his leather-clad chest, fingers groping blindly at his back.

Alistair clutched her equally hard in return, feeling the rounded swell of her stomach pressing against his abdomen. He bowed his head to tuck her into his chest; resting his chin neatly within the centre of the golden circlet.

"Ssh, baby- it's a present," he murmured into her hair, stroking his thumb in a line down the centre of her back. "You're not meant to _cry_ when someone gives you a present, they're _good_ things."

Flora tilted her head back and beamed up at him, eyes bright with unshed tears beneath the dampened lashes. Reaching out, she pushed her fingers beyond his hairline, smoothing the rumpled golden strands flat.

"Thank you," she croaked, her voice still a fraction unsteady. "I can't wait to grow things – to grow things _with my own hand._ But I haven't got you nothing – haven't got you _anything_ in return."

Flora's face crumpled briefly in distress; hastily, Alistair drew her against him, turning her bodily so that her shoulder-blades were pressed to his chest. He inhaled the clean, soapy scent of his best friend's hair, murmuring in her ear.

"I'd give you the _moon_ , my love. I'd give you everything in the sky if you asked for it."

 _Hm,_ thought Flora, leaning back against Alistair's strong chest and pondering. _How can I repay you?_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Hmmmm I don't know, Flo, how could you POSSIBLY repay him? Lol.

Anyway, this was a fun chapter to write! I thought that a garden would be quite therapeutic for Flora, since it involves the 'creation of life', and growing things – it's not healing magic, but there are some parallels there. Plus, her name literally means 'flower', so it's fitting, haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	69. A Gift From The Queen

Chapter 69: A Gift From The Queen

The newlyweds were alone in the queen's sunny courtyard garden; the Royal Guard waiting tactfully on the other side of a closed door. Alistair ducked to close the difference in their heights, pressing his lips beneath Flora's ear in a soft, lingering kiss. Flora shivered, leaning her head back against his chest to show him the full, pale length of her throat.

Such a blatant invitation clearly begged to be acted upon. The king's mouth brushed a leisurely meander over the bare skin; using tongue and lips to deliver lazy, languid kisses to her neck until she was flushed and trembling before him.

When Alistair eventually paused for breath, Flora swivelled in his arms to face him once again, her palms coming up to frame his bearded cheeks. Pulling his head down, she sought out his mouth impatiently; seeking to show her gratitude for his gift through the ardour of her lips. Alistair returned her desire readily, letting out a groan even as he reached down to caress the small of her back. As the kiss deepened, his confident fingers slid down further to spread over her rear; there was no trace left of the fumbling amateur from the Brecilian Forest.

Yet Flora was determined not to let him dictate the course of the next few minutes. Most of the time when they made love, her best friend was so focused on pleasuring _her_ that she barely got to touch _him_ before they were actually engaged in the act of coupling. Unfortunately, her resolve almost vanished with the first touch of Alistair's tongue to her nipple. He had tugged impatiently at the laces of her tunic, pulling them until the navy folds loosened to reveal her bare breasts. A throaty sound of desire escaped his lips and he pressed his mouth to one ripe, creamy mound.

"Mm- baby- "

Only the feel of his arousal against her thigh – hard as iron beneath the supple leather of his breeches – brought Flora to her senses.

 _You wanted to thank him. Don't get distracted!_

Anchoring her fingers to Alistair's breeches, Flora lowered herself to her knees; grateful that they were standing on a patch of grass. She reached up to remove the gilded flower crown from her head, placing it carefully to one side before lifting her soft, grey gaze to Alistair's face. Her husband's features were contorted with concern, affectionate hands reaching down to touch her cheeks and her shoulders with soft, tender caresses.

"My love," he breathed, anxiously. "Is that uncomfortable? You don't have to – you're _with child-"_

Yet Alistair's concern was betrayed by his own arousal, which had begun to strain urgently against the leather of his breeches at the sight of his kneeling wife.

Flora dropped her gaze from his worried face, lifting a finger to prod tentatively at the complicated silver fastening of his belt.

"Please, I want to," she whispered, then pressed an impulsive kiss to the leather covering the throbbing flesh. "Let me?"

With a muffled groan at his own inability to resist, Alistair reached down to fumble quickly with the belt; loosening his breeches enough to thrust them down his thighs. Flora beamed up at him in approval and wet her full, sulky Cousland lips in preparation.

As the midday bell rang to mark the gleaming Solace sun at its apex, the palace began to settle back into its normal daytime rhythms. The Pentaghast clan were the last guests to depart from the castle; dominating the entrance hall with their strongly-accented chatter as their sweating retainers hauled luggage onto waiting carts. Up in the high tower containing the palace archives, scribes with carefully neutral expressions transcribed the notes taken by both Arl Myrddin and Mother Telatia into official records. This dually-verified account of the consummation would act as legal proof of the marriage – and officially legitimise the unborn heir.

The main council chamber – with the great statues of Calenhad, Moira and Maric flanking the three walls – was in the process of being set up for the afternoon's trade meeting. Extra chairs and tables had been brought in from the great hall to accommodate the Marcher lords, although their own scribes and secretaries would need to stand. Eamon, as Chancellor, was overseeing the preparations; he was determined to re-open normal trade routes across the Waking Sea as soon as possible. The arl also expected that Alistair would take a more active role during this particular meeting. The new king had grown in confidence over the past six weeks; beginning to make some astute points and ask pertinent questions during council sessions.

Fifty yards to the west of the council chamber, the king himself was relying on the castle wall at his back to keep him upright. His knees were shuddering beneath him, sweat was dripping from his hair into his eyes and a protuberant brick was grazing his bare buttock; yet each of these discomforts went wholly ignored. Alistair was too focused on the shuddering waves radiating outwards from his core; each over-stimulated nerve running hot and liquid with pure, animal pleasure.

He had lost the ability to speak coherently sometime prior, and now only low, throaty moans escaped his dry lips; interrupted by the occasional grunt or instruction for his wife _not to stop._ His pleasured groans, along with the soft wet sound of her lips, echoed about the walls of the small garden courtyard.

His determined new bride had no intention of stopping. She had found a position resting back on her heels that was comfortable, and had settled into a rhythm that Alistair seemed to be enjoying. One of his hands rested lightly on her head, fingers tangled in her hair; the other hand was braced against the wall.

 _I'll never tire of looking at him,_ Flora thought to herself, feeling a twist of mingled pride and desire as she let her eyes wander over her husband's body. _He's the best looking person I've ever seen._

She had already admired the strength of Alistair's broad, muscular thighs – it was impossible _not_ to appreciate them from her current vantage point – and although he was still clad in his tunic, the thin garment could not disguise the tautness of his abdomen or the impressive breadth of his shoulders. His handsome, olive face was contorted with the effort of maintaining control; strong jaw clenched and noble brow furrowed. There was a great deal of power resident within her best friend's bulky frame, which made his ability to touch her with such gentle reverence even more remarkable.

Flora was so busy daydreaming that she failed to notice the sudden contortion of Alistair's face; a strangulated gasp of warning breaking free from his throat.

"Sweetheart, I- I'm – ah, _Maker!"_

He let out a helpless half-shout, fingers curling tight into her hair as his abdomen contracted. Flora – taken by surprise - almost tipped over backwards in shock, a startled expression on her face.

Alistair leaned against the stone with his vision contracted to small dots; every muscle in his body seemed to have _liquefied_. For several long moments, he inhaled ragged gasps of air with his head tilted back against the wall, staring unseeing up at the midday sun.

Forcing himself to regain some composure, the king reached down with an unsteady hand to stroke his queen's cheek. Having recovered from his unexpected climax, she smiled up at him; proud of her efforts and pleased that he'd enjoyed them.

"My love, let's get you upright. Your knee," Alistair murmured, conscious of the leather strapping around Flora's weak joint. "Come on, sweetheart, up we go."

He helped her to her feet, first bending down to brush the stray fragments of sun-baked grass from her leggings, and then to retrieve the gilded crown from where it sat incongruously on the gravel. Flora let him replace it carefully atop her head, flattening the rumpled strands of hair.

"Thank you for the garden," she repeated as they headed hand-in-hand towards the doorway.

"And thank _you_ for – well. You know."

Flora smiled sideways at him, and Alistair let out a bark of laughter; squeezing her palm tightly against his own. He ducked his head to her ear, lowering his voice as they approached the guards waiting patiently on the other side of the door.

"I'll return the favour later, baby."

The king's council convened shortly afterwards in the meeting chamber, attended by representatives from Ostwick, Starkhaven and Kirkwall. Flora – whose Gwaren restoration committee meeting did not start until later in the afternoon – parted from her husband in the entrance hall; watching Alistair disappear behind the great oak doors with the inexplicable little twist of melancholy that she always felt when they were parted.

Flora stood for a moment on the moth-eaten blue carpet, yawning as servants and retainers moved at a respectable distance about her, their heads bowed. Now that the gilded crown rested on her dark red hair, this number included those who would previously have smiled and greeted her. After residing in the castle for several months, she recognised quite a few of its servants – _he_ was the steward who often brought up food to break their fast, _she_ cleaned the stained glass Calenhad window every week. Now that Flora had graduated from _Lady Cousland_ to _Queen of Ferelden,_ they appeared too hesitant to even acknowledge her.

 _Being queen is a little bit like being a mage in the army camp at Ostagar,_ Flora thought suddenly to herself. _Nobody wants to look straight at me, they're all a little scared of me._

The comparison was so ridiculous and yet so fitting, that she almost wanted to laugh. Flora had been intending to go straight up to the Mac Tir quarters to speak with Anora; but now she decided to deviate from her plan.

First, she returned to the Royal Bedchamber and – with some difficulty – managed to retrieve something which had been kicked underneath the bed by Leliana the previous night. Once she had a certain bundle of leather and fur tucked beneath her arm, Flora retraced her steps to the entrance hall. Turning on her heel, she then followed a route which had become familiar to her over the past few months – through a discreet wooden door beside a sculpture of a huntsman, along a wide corridor and down a mildewed staircase.

The rush of heated air that met her was in stark contest to the cool dampness of the rest of the castle. The kitchens of the Royal Palace were hollowed out from the bedrock that the great structure sat upon; made up of a series of interconnected stone archways and chambers, with holes cut out into the sea-cliff for ventilation. A small, subterranean stream ran through the centre of the kitchens; a happy accident of design which provided a constant supply of fresh water.

Flora knew the layout of the kitchens well – just as she had become familiar with the kitchens of both Redcliffe and South Reach castles. She passed turning spits and vast, bubbling iron cauldrons; ducking through a room with bushels of hanging herbs and along a corridor cluttered with iron cooking utensils. Making a quick detour into the vegetable pantry, she reached into a storage crate to retrieve a handful of carrots, wedging them down the front of her tunic.

A short time later, she reached her intended goal. The main preparation area of the kitchens was a vast, pillar-lined space, smoke-filled and sweltering from six open hearths. The odour of roasting meat was overwhelming, and Flora felt her stomach curdle in protest.

 _Yes, I know you don't like the smell,_ she thought down to the fidgeting baby. _But you can deal with it for a while longer._

Flora set eyes on the person she had been looking for – a stout, grizzle-haired Fereldan by the name of Albin. According to Guillaume, Albin had worked in the palace since he was a child; rising through the ranks from humble pot-boy to master of the castle kitchens. He ran his domain with the precision of a military officer – keeping order within the noisy, smoke-filled chaos.

Albin was standing beside one of the open hearths, conducting three different tasks simultaneously. One hand stirred a ladle through a thick, vegetable stew, the other brought a pinch of some unidentified spice to his nose; while his mouth loudly berated an underling for dropping a tray of marzipan fancies.

"Two hours, those took to make; _two hours_ with my best almond butter imported from Anti – _Andraste's smouldering pyre!"_

This exclamation was the result of the kitchen-master suddenly noticing Flora standing patiently amidst the culinary turmoil, the bright gold of the crown a metallic point within the smoke and heat. Albin immediately whipped off his cap and dropped, sweating, into a bow.

" _The Queen!"_ he roared, still awkwardly bent at the portly waist. "Get in here, nugs! It's Queen Florence."

Kitchen staff immediately flooded in from all directions beneath the arches, pulling off caps with flour-covered fingers and dipping into bows. Excitable pot-boys nudged each other and whispered under their breath; while cooks tried to wipe their grubby hands on their skirts.

Flora, who had naively not expected activity to grind to a halt at her arrival, blinked for a moment, shifting the leather bundle higher on her hip.

"Your Majesty," murmured Albin, eyes respectfully lowered. "How may we help you?"

"I wanted to come and thank you for yesterday," replied Flora, earnestly. "For all the effort you went to in preparing the feast. You must have been working for _days_ to make it all, and it was the best food I've ever tasted. _Especially_ the sea-food."

This was not strictly true – nothing was better than her father's smoked trout – but Flora pressed on, determinedly.

"And everybody was _so_ impressed," she continued, as Albin raised his gaze to settle on her face. "All the foreign guests. They stuffed themselves like fat turkeys. My brother Finian's belt broke because he ate too much."

One of the pot-boys let out a giggle, and was promptly cuffed round the ear by a nearby elven butler.

"Anyway," Flora said, her pale eyes meeting Albin's curious stare. "Thank you so much for all your hard work. I wanted to give you this to divide up between you all – apparently, it's worth something?"

She gave a little shrug, handing over the bundle of leather to Albin. The kitchen-master unwrapped it, and his jaw dropped indecorously. The soft, rich darkness of the calfskin was immediately recognisable, trimmed with fur and supple to the touch. A ripple of recognition went about the crowd of servants, elbows nudging into ribs and whispers flying like birds.

"Your majesty, this is your wedding gown," Albin croaked, wide-eyed.

Flora nodded – she had gone up to the Royal Bedchamber to fetch it, crouching on hands and knees to claw it out from beneath the bed.

"Yes. People will buy bits of it, won't they? Alistair told me that it's _tradition_."

"Yes, ma'am – they certainly will. It's... a most _generous_ gift."

Flora nodded and then remembered to smile; countering the natural solemnity of her face.

"Thank you so much for all your hard work," she repeated, in her soft, hoarse-edged northern accent. "Alistair and I both appreciate it, _a lot."_

"Your Majesty!" croaked Albin, bowing once more.

The rest of the kitchen staff followed his example, and Flora almost wanted to bow as well _just to fit in._ She managed to restrain herself, shifting her weight onto her stronger leg as her strapped knee gave a brief grumble of protest.

"Would somebody please show me the quickest way up to the Mac Tir quarters?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: The cutting up and selling of bits of the bridal wedding gown is an old medieval tradition, too! I thought it would be a nice way for Flora to thank the kitchen staff for cooking up all those complicated sounded dishes from the feast, hehe.

So, next chapter, Flora is going up to see Anora – her teyrn's daughter counterpart (see the parallel in their names!) That's going to go well (not).

Lol I just realised that it's chapter 69, and Alistair and Flo got to third base in it (not for the first time, obviously). While in chapter 69 in The Lion and the Light, they get to second base (for the first time). MORE PARALLELS! Haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	70. Two Queens Come Face To Face

Chapter 70: Two Queens Come Face To Face

A short while later, an elven servant left Flora in a wide, sunlit corridor that she had never ventured down before. Astonished that there were _still_ parts of the castle which remained unknown to her, Flora swivelled her head to take stock of her surroundings. This was clearly a newer wing of the castle – the stone bricks were more evenly cut, the mortar-paste between them showing less decay. Arrow slits were spaced at regular intervals, letting in beams of sunlight to illuminate the faded tapestries on the walls. Fresh rushes had been strewn over the flagstones, and the mildewed dampness of the rest of the old castle had yet to pervade this far.

At the far end of the corridor, a set of wooden doors were guarded by no less than half a dozen Royal Guard. As Flora approached, they shifted their pikes from hand to hand; the captain lifting his helm to address her.

"Queen Florence!"

Flora paused before replying, her eye caught by the wooden doors behind the armoured soldiers. Like the Cousland doorway – which was decorated with the Highever laurel – this entrance had once proudly borne the arms of the teyrn who had dwelt there. Now, the golden dragon had been unceremoniously daubed over with black paint; only the trace of a gilded snout and the tip of a tail were still visible.

"Is Lady Anora inside?" Flora asked, eyeing the obliterated dragon.

"Yes, madam. She hasn't left the quarters in months."

"Months?" asked Flora, rather stupidly. _"Months?"_

"Aye, majesty. After the Blight was ended, King Alistair gave her permission to walk the castle grounds – under guard – but she refused."

Perplexed, Flora bit at her fingernail. For a moment, she wondered if she should remove the crown and leave it with the soldiers before entering.

 _Would she think I was gloating if I wore it?_

 _If I take it off, is it obvious that I'm worried that she'd_ think _I was gloating?_

When there was – naturally - no reply from her spirits, Flora let out a little sigh and decided not to overthink it, nodding for the guard to open the doors.

The obliterated Mac Tir dragon yielded to a chamber of approximately the same dimension as the Cousland quarters. The furnishings were velvet, albeit worn and faded, and the furniture was carved from solid Bannorn oak. A hearth smouldered away in one corner, smoke blackening the decorative tiles above. In its prime, it would have been a chamber fit for a teyrn; favouring rustic Fereldan design over fussy Orlesian glamour.

However, this was a room long past its zenith. The window was so smeared with grease and dust that it let in only filtered daylight; casting the chamber in an odd, almost underwater hue. The rushes on the flagstones had not been changed for weeks, and had disintegrated into brownish, wet clumps. Trays containing empty bowls and mugs were scattered on every horizontal surface; growing mould and harbouring small colonies of spiders. A pile of blankets, creased and stained, lay at the foot of the bed.

Flora stopped abruptly in the entrance, her eyes widening in dismay. She swivelled her eyes to the captain, who hastened to explain.

"The prisoner sent away her maid, ma'am. When the servants came in to try and clean, she screamed at them until they left."

Just then, Anora herself appeared at the far side of the chamber, a bundle of silk and velvet gathered in her arms. She was clad in a nightgown, her blonde hair hanging in limp tendrils down her back. Despite the negligence of her external appearance, her pale blue eyes remained as sharp as ever.

"If that's my _father,_ tell him that I don't want to see him- oh!"

The two teyrns' daughters stared at each other across the room; the former and current queen come face to face for the first time since Flora had come across Anora in Loghain's prison cell.

" _You!"_ breathed Anora, drawing herself up to her full height. "Have you come here to _gloat?"_

In retrospect, Flora wished that she _had_ taken off the crown. Instead, she beckoned for the guard to leave them alone; which they did with grimaces of unhappiness. Rather than shutting the door entirely, they left it on the jar.

"No,"she replied evenly, avoiding the rotting rushes as she stepped forwards. "Why didn't you want to see your dad before he left? He's going to be away for _months_ with the Wardens."

Anora let out an utterly humourless bark of laughter, striding barefoot across the grubby flagstones towards the hearth with the imperious glide of a queen.

"My father is a twice-over traitor. He betrayed my husband first, and now he's betrayed _me._ And before you ask – I know that you're not the _sharpest_ dagger in the armoury – he's betrayed me by making his peace with you and Alistair. I heard that he even attended your wedding feast. _Congratulations!"_

Flora managed, with great effort, to stop herself from rolling her eyes at Anora's insult. She was well aware that she was not the most _intellectual_ creature in Ferelden; had indeed made her peace with the fact years ago. As Fergus had once joked: out of the three Cousland children, he had inherited the brawn, Finian the brain and Flora the beauty.

"You could have made your peace with Alistair and I, too," the current queen said, her brow furrowing as she watched Anora shake out a gown of fuchsia velvet. "You _still_ can. There's no need for you to stay in this room, Alistair doesn't think you're a threat anymore."

Anora let the velvet gown fall into the hearth, using a poker to push it into the heart of the fire. The flames hissed and spat, consuming the dress in seconds until naught but charred fragments of fabric were left in the grate.

"Oh, trust me. I've no plans of usurping you," she said, with bitterness infusing her words like vinegar. "The Mac Tir name is _mud_ across Ferelden. And who would dare to depose a man with the likeness of Maric, married to the Hero of Ferelden? A beautiful girl, fat with babe? Despite my current appearance, I'm _not_ deluded."

 _Fat?!_ thought Flora indignantly, watching Anora burn the sky-blue gown she had worn on the first day of the Landsmeet. As a bead of sweat ran down the former queen's forehead, Flora decided to change tactic.

"I'm going to the Gwaren restoration committee meeting this afternoon," she explained, gingerly avoiding a teacup that had grown its own colony. "Do you want to come with me? We're going to rebuild the southern port and start up the fishing businesses again. You know Gwaren better than me, and you've got a good head for e- _ekno_ \- ergonomics."

" _Economics,"_ hissed Anora as a great rush of sparks flew up the chimney. "You're right, I _do_ have a great understanding of economics. And knowledge of government, and statecraft – I was the _perfect_ ruler of this nation. In fact, I _did_ rule this nation – ask anyone with a brain!"

"Then why did you let your dad take over after Cailan died?" Flora asked with Herring bluntness, starting to tire of the woman's rhetoric.

Anora stopped short, visibly flinching. Instead of throwing the final gown onto the flames, she clutched the soft green velvet and stroked it absentmindedly with elegant fingers; eyes fixed somewhere far away from her sordid, self-imposed confinement.

While Mac Tir's daughter brooded in silence, Flora could not stop herself from eyeing the mess in her immediate area. Years of chores in the Circle had instilled a desire to _make things neat_ – an urge which had not vanished with Flora's steady escalation of station.

After surreptitiously kicking the rotten rushes into one corner, Flora squatted awkwardly down to gather the dirty silverware onto a single tray. Taking a torn fragment of curtain, she rose to her feet and began to wipe at the dust on the side of the doorframe.

Several minutes later, and the deposed queen quite visibly drew herself together; the hard armour falling back over her face like a dropped portcullis.

"I don't know why you bothered to come here," she spat, turning around to face Flora once again. "Did you just want to parade your stomach before me?"

"Wha – _no!_ Of course not. I wanted to ask you to come with me to the Gwar- _"_

Struck by a sudden, vehement lash of anger, Anora let loose her father's temper. Swiping up a small, silver chalice with slender fingers, she hurled it across the room. It was most likely intended for the wall _;_ but the former queen did not have great aim, and the chalice struck Flora on the corner of the temple. It was merely a glancing blow, but Flora's yelp and the clatter of metal caused the guards to come crowding in.

"The Maker has answered my prayers!" bellowed Anora defiantly from beside the hearth, her eyes flashing pale fire. "Now Alistair will _definitely_ execute me. Please, brother-in-law, it will be no trouble – I _welcome_ the void!"

The captain took one look at the startled Flora, who had put her fingers to her bloodied forehead, and inhaled unsteadily. Twisting his head, he barked an order to the soldiers clustered behind him.

"The prisoner has attacked the queen. _Fetch the king!"_

" _Don't_ fetch the king," Flora said hastily, and since her word superseded the captain's, the soldiers stayed put. "She didn't attack me."

"But – your majesty – the king ought to be told!"

"I'll… tell him later."

Flora eyed her reflection in a soldier's polished breastplate; lifting up strands of hair to inspect the injury. It was only a half-inch long and already starting to clot, a neat little bump rising up on the side of her forehead.

 _Not one of your most successful ideas, Flora._

Rather gloomily, she made her way back towards the entrance hall; her knee giving periodic twinges of protest at this extended wandering about the palace. The baby finally went to sleep inside her, and Flora rested a hand on her stomach, grateful for some respite from its fidgeting.

Finian and Zevran were waiting in the entrance hall, near the stone Mabari hounds guarding the door. The two men had their heads bowed over a sheaf of paper, their cackles audible even from the far end of the hall. When they saw Flora approach, Finian hailed her with a grin.

"Flora, _please_ don't tell me that you actually said _'Take me, my king!'_ at one point, _"_ he implored her, trying to keep a straight face. _"Really?!"_

Flora's face immediately flushed a colour that clashed with her hair, and Finian let out a muffled howl of laughter.

"How did _you_ get a copy of that?" she demanded, realising that Zevran was wielding the transcript of her wedding night.

"Your elven companion has a friend working in the palace archives," her brother continued, gleefully. "He made a copy."

"It makes for _entertaining_ reading," Zevran added, flashing a very white-toothed grin at her. "I never realised that Alistair could be _quite_ so crude with his language in the bedchamber. I assume he didn't pick that up in the Chantry, but I heartily approve."

Flora made a little grab for the notes, only for Zevran to whisk them away with a titter of laughter; blowing her a kiss.

" _Mi florita,_ don't tell me that you're getting _shy_ on me. Alright," he continued, relenting slightly. "I will just check to see if my wager was correct – I placed a bet of ten silver on a certain _position_ – and then you can have them, I swear- "

The elf's voice trailed off abruptly, his eyes narrowing. Flora blinked at Zevran, perplexed as to the sudden change in his expression. He stepped forwards, reaching out to move a thick rope of dark red hair to one side. One eyebrow rose as his pupils contracted; the corner of his lip curling slightly.

"What's this, _dulce?"_ he asked, in a carefully measured tone. "More importantly: _who_ did this?"

He was staring at the cut on her forehead, which had clotted into a small, maroon smudge atop a pinkish bump. Finian, who had been distracted by a loose button on his riding glove, looked up in alarm.

"Floss!" he breathed, outraged. "Did – did someone _hit_ you?"

"Give me a name, _nena,"_ Zevran murmured quietly, smiling a dangerous promise even as his hand dropped to his belt.

"Nobody _hit_ me," Flora retorted, reaching down to remove the elf's fingers from where they were curling around the hilt of a blade. "I went to see Anora and she thought I was trying to _gloat,_ and threw a cup… in my general direction. But not at me. My head just got in the way, I think."

This did not make Zevran any calmer, his nostrils flaring. Finian let out a bark of incredulous laughter, throwing despairing hands into the air.

"Florence, you can't just go and see Anora Mac Tir _on your own –_ she was your _enemy_ during the Blight, remember? She could have done anything – stabbed you with silverware, pushed you into the hearth - "

"I don't think she would have done that," Flora replied, hastily. "I felt sorry for her. She's living in a – a _pit of filth._ Though… she doesn't pick up after herself, which isn't helping."

Finian groaned, bending his lofty head to inspect the cut closely.

"Still, you shouldn't have gone to see Anora on your own. I know you want her to be involved in this Gwaren committee, but – she's clearly too angry to be reasoned with at the moment."

Flora grunted, acknowledging the truth in his remark. She turned to Zevran, reaching out to rest her fingers on the hilt of his dagger.

"Your sword stays in its sheath," she said, firmly. "No assassinating Lady Anora."

"Ah, you are too cruel, _nena_."

"Promise me!"

"On one condition," he purred, relenting. "That you say ' _sword in sheath'_ one more time. It stirs a _fire_ in me."

Flora stuck her tongue out at him and Zevran laughed, his eyes still focused like small, black darts on the cut beneath her hairline.

"Right, come on," Finian said with a sigh, nudging his sister towards the exit. "We don't want to be late for this meeting. Wynne is sorting out the horses."

As they headed towards the exit, Zevran fell into step beside Flora; bringing his lips close to her ear.

"Anora is safe from my blade, _querida._ But I warn you that her hours are numbered from the moment that Alistair sets eyes on that cut."

Flora exhaled, hunching her shoulders ill-temperedly.

"I know. I'll have to try and talk him out of it."

 _After all, during the Blight, Lady Anora was just listening to her dad. Would I have done any different?_

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOOook I love Anora so much as a character, and I have big plans in store for her with this whole restoration of Gwaren! There's not much canon about what happens to Anora after Origins if she's deposed from the throne – so I've just come up with this head-canon that she's in self-imposed, Miss Havisham style isolation, all bitter and resentful. But that's not going to be permanent! She's a very intelligent and capable woman who deserves more than to be stuck in a room, burning all her old queenly gowns, haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	71. The Queen's Business

Chapter 71: The Queen's Business

It was a bright and sunny day, which compensated somewhat for the fact that the coronation holiday was over and the residents of Denerim had to return to work. Still, the city folk were reluctant to take down the last vestiges of decoration, and so crimson ribbons and long strands of laurel were still draped over balconies and wound around lamp-posts. The city was settling back into its normal rhythms – the market was full of traders loudly advertising their wares while a procession of Chantry sisters made their way through the square with swinging incense censors. The canals were busy with mercantile boats and assorted shipping; an occasional noble barge negotiating gingerly through the trade vessels.

The queen's party made its way through the city with far less fuss than yesterday's wedding procession. Flora was perched on the front of Finian's saddle, with Zevran and Wynne riding abreast on either side. A dozen guardsmen accompanied them, their closed-face helmets and gleaming pikes marking them as members of the elite squadron whose job it was to protect the Royal family. In addition, several war-dogs from the palace kennels were chasing each other around the horses' hooves, their short, tawny fur marked with crimson _kaddis_. A Cousland retainer had been visiting the hounds for the past six weeks; inundating them with random items from Flora's wardrobe to train them in her scent. Saela- Fergus' own hound – was close to delivering her own pups; until they had been birthed and trained, the palace dogs would suffice.

Still, despite the city returning to some semblance of normality, its people were still delighted to see their young, plump-bellied queen out in public. Hails rang down from windows and buildings quickly emptied as their occupants flooded out onto the street; waving at the royal party as they rode past. Finian – who always enjoyed the attention – lifted a hand to wave back. Flora was grateful that she had a reputation for solemnity in public, since smiling continuously sounded _exhausting._ Instead, she bowed her head to acknowledge their cries; the gilded wreath of _Andraste's Garland_ gleaming against her loose hair.

Once they arrived at the Gnawed Noble, the horses were taken away to be stabled. Six soldiers remained outside the tavern to guard the entrance, while the other half-dozen accompanied the Cousland siblings, Zevran and Wynne inside. The bowing tavern keeper directed them upstairs, explaining that the Gwaren restoration committee was meeting in the room at the far end of the corridor.

Sure enough, the residents of Gwaren were gathered around several tables in a large, airy chamber; tankards of cheap ale, sheaves of paper and ink-pens spread out before them. As Flora entered, there was a minor commotion as the room rose hastily to their feet, chairs scraping back and caps hastily doffed.

"Your majesty," the mayor of Gwaren breathed, directing his words to the floor as he bowed. "My lord Cousland. It's our honour to receive you."

Flora beamed at them; her smile widening when she saw that several cushions had been already added to her chair. The mayor of Gwaren's wife was seven months heavy with babe, and the man understood well the aches and pains that accompanied such a condition.

"Thank you," she replied, earnestly. "Would someone be able to make a copy of the discussions so I can pass it on to Alis- to the king?"

Finian spoke first, setting out the details of the offer that Fergus had come up with. Highever would provide Gwaren with whatever lumber was required for the rebuilding – including transportation and other associated materials. To recoup its costs, Highever would receive a preferential discount in future trade with its southern counterpart. As the newly invested Arl of Amaranthine, Finian also offered the loan of six trading vessels from his own port; at a cost which again would be recompensed through future trade.

These were extremely generous terms – especially since it could take years to regain any return on their investment – but both Cousland brothers were determined to support their younger sister's interest. The mayor barely needed to discuss the offer with his peers before accepting; disbelief and gratitude writ raw on his face.

As the new arl of Amaranthine spoke, Zevran leaned against the door frame and toyed with the handle of his blade; thoughts meandering between Claudio Valisti, Anora Mac Tir and a handful of other faces. Unlike Wynne, who had gratefully accepted a seat beside Finian, the elf preferred to remain standing. He had already scanned the bodies of those seated within the room to check that they carried no weapons – unlikely a possibility as that was – and his head tilted at every slight sound from the corridor outside. After confirming that the most recent footsteps belonged to a servant arriving to remove empty tankards, Zevran's gaze fell on Flora's face. She was listening earnestly, elbows on the table and mouth slightly open; looking as she once must have done in the classrooms of the Circle.

Once Finian had finished, it was the queen's turn to speak. Taking a deep breath – she had practised the particulars several times out loud in the bath that morning - Flora set out in meticulous detail how the king was intending to provision Gwaren.

"One thousand-weight of basalt stone," she began, without ceremony. "Fifty cart-loads of iron ore and slate. Grain and smoked meat sufficient to last five hundred people through the winter. Three hundred heads of assorted livestock. Five cart-loads of masonry tools. Thirty sacks of seeds. And you can keep all the carts and horses used to transport it down south."

The mayor was nodding like a puppet; several secretaries scribbling frantically away at their notes.

"And the repayment terms?"

"None, specifically. But Gwaren should aim to resume the fishing trade within three years," replied Flora, steadily. "And to re-open the port within five."

"Your majesty!" The mayor leapt to his feet and dropped into a bow once again, his face alight with relief and gratitude. "I hadn't thought – hadn't dared to _hope – such generosity - "_

He trailed off, wringing his cap in his hands.

Since Flora was leaving on royal progress with Alistair in the next few days, the mayor promised to stay in regular contact with her via letter. As they made to take their leave, the mayor led the committee in a round of cheers for their noble benefactors; who had stepped in to assist when no patron of their own teyrnir had come forward. Finian lifted a hand and gave a rakish grin, the eye-patch lending him a distinctly piratical air. Flora, who always grew self-conscious at praise, grimaced at her painful knee and wondered if she could persuade Finian to carry her back down the stairs.

"It's my honour to assist you," she said softly once the applause had finished; surreptitiously standing on one leg behind the table. "And you should raise a drink to yourselves, to celebrate your survivors' fortitude. In Herring, we call it having _grit in your soul –_ you probably have a different term down south – but I admire it, very much. And I look forward to the day when we can lift a drink together in Gwaren."

 _Make mine an apple-water, though. I never realised how bitter ale was until I wasn't able to distil it on my tongue any longer._

They left the tavern with the excited chatter of the restoration committee ringing in their ears. There was a brief delay as the soldiers went to fetch the horses; the others huddled beneath the entranceway for shelter from a light drizzle.

Puddles began to form across the flagstones as the rain worsened, and Zevran muttered a dark comment about _summer in Ferelden!_ under his breath. Finian was hissing like a cat and trying to fit himself into the three inches worth of cover provided by the overhanging lip of the tavern roof.

Flora, a true northerner who barely noticed the rain, let the tip of her booted toe dip into a puddle and yawned. She felt a hand on her arm and smiled up at Wynne, who managed to look effortlessly elegant despite the rain.

"I assume you aren't going to be a queen who puts her feet up all day, then," the senior enchanter commented with a smile, her lovely, pale blue eyes shining through the rain. "It's gratifying to see. "

Flora smiled back at her in slight confusion, having not heard of that particular idiom.

"Put my feet up _where?_ On what?"

"It means to relax all day, eating bonbons and embroidering cushions. You'd be more than justified to do so, Florence. You've already done the nation a great service – you're entitled to some leisure time."

The Herring native's lip curled at such idleness, her brow furrowing. Wynne laughed at Flora's facial expression, shaking a wry head.

"I know it's not in your nature. Just – make sure you take the time to _rest._ The babe is big and clearly demands a lot of your energy."

As though on cue, the baby woke up and sent a foot swinging into Flora's kidney. She dropped a hand to her abdomen, tapping her fingers absentmindedly across the curve of her stomach. A few moments later, the baby nudged against her belly in response; and she gave it a little reassuring pat.

Wynne smiled to watch them, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening with a slight wistfulness.

"It's nice to see you do that, child."

"Eh?"

"During the Blight, you barely looked at your own stomach, let alone _caressed_ it. I know circumstances didn't allow for you to acknowledge the baby in public, but – it's good to see you doing so now."

Flora nodded; she had determinedly put her burgeoning stomach out of her head in the months leading up to the final battle. A metallic taste of guilt rose in the back of her throat and she dropped a second hand to cradle the swell of her belly.

 _Sorry, little creature. I was protecting the country that you'll inherit one day. I hope you don't blame me for it in the future._

"In Herring, women work right up until they give birth," she said instead, determinedly swallowing the guilt and moving a piece of damp piece of hair from her face. "When I was little, I knew a woman named Knotty- "

" _Knotty?"_

"Yes, Knotty – and she was out gathering up lobster-pots when she went into labour. She gave birth on the sand on her own, cut the baby loose with her descaling knife, then put it inside her shirt and carried on collecting the lobsters. She's a Herring _legend!_ My role model!"

As the Royal Guard came to a halt before them with horses in tow, Wynne's eyebrows shot into her silvery hairline.

"Well, I think Alistair might have something to say about that," she replied, with a slight laugh. "At least he's not foolish enough to suggest putting you in confinement, though I'm sure Eamon has proposed the idea."

"Aah! No! Never!"

They mounted up and began the slow ride back to the palace. The drizzle had driven most of Denerim's city folk inside, and the streets were far quieter than they had been on the journey down from the castle. Flora leaned back against Finian's chest, his cloak wrapped around her shoulders – at his insistence – and curled a strand of damp red hair around her finger.

Rain speckled the surface of the main canal as they rode alongside it, merchants and craftsmen clearing hastily out of the road as they saw the intimidating faces of the Royal Guard. At Alistair's insistence, the party were taking a slightly different route back up to the palace – he did not want them riding through the noble district, where both the _grand-duc_ and the Tevinter magister were staying.

Flora was pleased at this alternate route since it took them down beside the estuary; where the tall ships were moored and the fishing wharfs stuck out into the milky green water. A cluster of little boats fought valiantly against the waning tide, bobbing over the gentle lap of waves towards the jetties.

Soon after the party turned to the west, away from the estuary; passing two large and decrepit warehouses on either side. They were clearly both out of use, their roofs collapsing and the glass in their windows broken. The rain was growing steadily heavier, fat drops saturating the horses' manes and bouncing off the cobbles as they plodded determinedly onwards. The Mabari hounds gleefully shook off much of the dampness, much to the annoyance of the splattered guardsmen.

From the front of the party Zevran let out a sudden squeal of distaste; putting his slender, tattooed fingers to his face.

" _Egh! The smell!"_

Sure enough, a distinct odour of foulness came wafting through the air towards them; a miasma of sewage, animal by-product and rotten food. Finian immediately pulled his cloak up over his sister's mouth and nose, his own eyes streaming.

"Ugh! Don't breathe it in, Floss; it'll make you ill. I forgot the main waste channel runs through here."

Flora's eyes swivelled to the side, curious. She could see the channel in question, running nearby at the base of the abandoned warehouses. The brownish waters mingled with another channel, which diverted into a section of the city surrounded by a high wall. With a start, Flora identified the district as the Denerim alienage – she had not initially recognised it from this unfamiliar angle. Her brow furrowed, she turned sideways on the saddle to stare.

"Finian?"

"All my curls have fallen flat in this _deluge!_ I bet it's sunny in Val Royeaux."

" _Finian!"_

"What is it, petal?"

Flora pointed, her finger tracing the line of the channel.

"The waste channel runs through the _alienage?"_

"No, of course not. It runs off at an angle, there. See?"

Flora narrowed her eyes, clutching the horse's mane for stability as she swivelled to take in the full view. Zevran, who had been listening, drew his horse up alongside them and extended an illustrative finger.

"There's the main water supply for the alienage, _carina_."

Flora followed the line of his arm, spotting a narrow canal running through an iron grating embedded low in the wall of the alienage. Her brow furrowed, and she lifted her own finger to point once more.

"But it _mixes_ with the waste water, just up there. Look, look at the current."

Finian squinted through the rain, his brow furrowing.

"Oh – right. I never noticed that."

Her brother, who had never stepped foot inside an alienage in his life, gave a little perplexed shrug and sat back in the saddle.

Flora, on the other hand, remembered well the conditions within the sad territory of the city elves. In the weeks running up to the final battle, she had sat for hours within the alienage offering healing without charge to its unfortunate residents. She recalled the misery and squalor, the dirt and the disease; the fetid canals of tainted water running miserably alongside their _vhenadahl_ prayer-tree.

Quietly, Flora filed away the waste-water channel as something to be dealt with tomorrow; a steely resolution settling over her face.

 _As a healer, I could only deal with the effects of this situation. That would be the limit of my power._

 _But as a queen, I can do something about the_ cause _of it._

Out of the corner of her eye, Flora caught sight of Zevran watching her, closely. She smiled at him, and he blew her a slightly wistful kiss.

* * *

OOC Author Note: OK, this chapter might not be the most exciting chapter in the world (I'm saving all the combat, fighty stuff for the upcoming progress), but it's important for Flora's character development. Flo's been on a bit of a self-discovery journey – i.e. what is she going to _do,_ now that she can't heal – and this is an important part of it. She's got her Gwaren restoration project to help the refugees – and now, she's thinking about ways to help the city elves in the alienage. Zevran, who is sensitive to the plight of those less fortunate, has picked up on this too!

A bit of a random question, but if anyone knows of any other fanfictions either here or on AO3 that deal with post-Blight Ferelden, please let me know! I'd love to read someone else's interpretation of how Ferelden goes about fixing itself after the events of DA: Origins!

Ooh as a quick note, "confinement" is the effective imprisonment of pregnant noblewomen in Medieval times – at about eight months pregnant, they'd be shut up in their bedroom, with shutters over the windows, the fire piled with wood to make the room sweltering hot… it was meant to be beneficial, lol. This was at a time when 'educated' society believed men to be the ultimate medical authority, since only they could go to university and train to be physicians. And naturally it was the physician's idea to confine the woman, haha. In poorer societies (like Herring), this would be unheard of – especially since most peasant cottages had literally one room for the whole family (plus animals).

In my story, nobody has bothered even suggesting confinement to Flora, lol. They already know what her answer would be!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	72. Sore Knees and Unwelcome Discoveries

Chapter 72: Sore Knees and Unwelcome Discoveries

An hour later, they arrived back at the Royal Palace, horses and riders both thoroughly bedraggled. As per usual, the Fereldan summer day had turned into a deluge. Stable-boys, squawking quietly at the rain, ran out to take the horses; in silent competition as to who would take the Cousland horse.

Finian slithered onto the gravel with a crunch, and then reached up lanky arms to help his sister down.

"I'm about ready for a hot bath," he declared, brushing a wet palm over the top of his flattened curls. "A hot bath, and an Antivan brandy. Anybody fancy joining me for the latter?"

Wynne, who had been going to spend the rest of the afternoon responding to correspondence, decided that Irving's letter could wait a little longer. She accepted the invitation with a gracious nod, smiling at the tallest Cousland as he grinned. Zevran also accepted Finian's invitation with a smile; never passing up an invitation to partake in his home nation's native drink.

" _Mi sirenita,_ are you coming?"

Flora shook her head, squeezing the rain from the bottom of her tunic.

"I'm going to the trade meeting with the Marcher lords," she replied as they entered the palace, reaching out reflexively to touch the Mabari statue's paw. "I'm surprised you have any Antivan brandy left, I thought Alistair drunk it all on our wedding night."

Finian giggled, shooting her a wicked look from his sole remaining eye.

"Well, it didn't stop him from consummating the marriage, did it?"

"It _nearly_ did! He fell asleep twice!"

Flora shook droplets of water from her boots, watching her brother and companions head off towards the Cousland quarters. Her knee was throbbing and she realised that the strapping around the weak joint had come loose. Unfortunately, it was now impossible for her to tighten it herself due to the bulge at her midriff – which seemed to have grown several inches overnight.

Sighing inwardly, Flora resigned herself to the fact that she would now be limping around until she could find someone to tighten it. She made her way laboriously across the entrance hall and beneath the vast archway that led to the eastern wing of the palace, where the great meeting chambers were located.

By the time that she had reached the doorway leading to the largest meeting hall, beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead; mingling with the rain. This was a result of the effort it took to drag along her uncooperative limb, which was protesting both at the day's excessive exertions, and the added weight of her stomach.

Not wanting to limp into the room, Flora begged the assistance of one of the guards standing at the door; rolling up the leg of her breeches and using her most beseeching expression. The guard handed his pike to his partner and knelt, neutral-faced and professional, retying the strap until it was snug around her swollen joint.

Flora tested the strength of her leg – much improved – then reached up to straighten _Andraste's Garland_ atop her rain-soaked hair.

"Alright," she said to the guards, who were waiting to let her into the room. "I'm ready."

Within the audience chamber, the meeting had just entered its fourth hour. The participants had just had a short recess to confer with secretaries and take some refreshment; now, as the sun gradually slid towards the horizon, talks resumed in earnest. Alistair sat at the head of the table, leaning forward and listening keenly, with Eamon seated at his left. The members of the king's council – the throne's half-dozen closest advisers – were clustered nearby, sheaves of paper and maps strewn haphazardly before them.

The three Marcher lords , Dumar, Trevelyan and Vael, were seated opposite, clad in their respective colours. Each liege lord was determined to gain a favourable trade settlement for their own city – Ferelden was the main source of wool and iron ore in the south – and likewise was not afraid to out-bid his neighbour to secure the most beneficial deal.

The doors opened, and the steward let his voice ring out across the stone-pillared chamber as he announced the new arrival.

" _Her Majesty, Queen Florence."_

Those present within the chamber immediately rose to their feet with a great scraping of chairs; heads swivelling towards the entrance. Alistair grinned reflexively – he had not been able to fully focus on the trade negotiations with his young, heavy-bellied wife down in the depths of the city – and pushed his chair back, striding around the table towards her.

The Queen of Ferelden was no longer dressed in the fur-trimmed leather garb of an Alamarri warrior-princess; but her presence was not diminished for her more prosaic attire. Her hair was damp and loose, hanging in tousled, dark red tendrils down to her waist. Her solemn, grey eyes - placed wide in their grave and lovely setting - swept across the room until they settled on the face of the tallest man in the room.

As Alistair came to a halt before her, Flora smiled shyly up at him; he took her hand and kissed her fingers, entwining them within his own.

"Come and sit with me, my love," he instructed, bowing to add a surreptitious whisper in her ear as he led her behind the chairs. _"Can you pinch me if I fall asleep?_ We've been discussing sheep for four hours."

Flora didn't laugh; she was genuinely worried that she might fall asleep herself.

Fergus, who was seated beside Eamon, flashed his sister a smile and she returned it, successfully stifling a yawn.

Once Flora had taken the empty seat to Alistair's right, the king perked up, tapping the end of his ink-pen on the table. He was not the only one infused with new energy at the presence of the queen. Viscount Dumar sat up a fraction straighter; Bann Trevelyan sucked in an inch of his gut; and even the happily married Prince Vael reached up to straighten his necklace of Chantry amulets.

"So, gentlemen," the sharp-eyed Eamon spoke up, having also noticed this sudden flurry of activity from the Marcher delegations. "Whose port will serve as the main entry-point for Fereldan goods into the Marches?"

The Bann Trevelyan, without batting an eyelid, doubled his previous offer. This nearly made Prince Vael fall off his seat, but the leader of Starkhaven immediately matched Trevelyan's offer, with the additional lure of low import taxes.

Flora gazed at them both, having absolutely _no idea_ what either man was talking about. She was brooding on the waste channel running into the alienage's main water supply; immediately making the connection between the tainted water and the prevalence of disease within the crumbling walls of the city elves' home.

Absentmindedly _,_ she let her gold-flecked gaze sweep over the balding Viscount Dumar. The leader of Kirkwall swallowed – he was sure to get into trouble with the Chantry for over-committing the city's finances – but gamely put an equally generous offer forward.

Ultimately, it was Bann Trevelyan who emerged the winner. Secretaries duly wrote up the contracts and brought them forward for him to ratify with his seal. With a triumphant smile, the bann stamped down his insignia and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Ostwick will be delighted to strengthen our trade links with Ferelden," he said, smugly. "I look forward to a long and mutually fruitful relationship between our families."

Alistair let out a low exhalation of relief, delighted that the meeting was finally over. Once the Marcher lords had gathered their retainers and taken their leave, he wrapped an arm around a yawning Flora's shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

"Thank you for coming," Eamon said to Flora, smiling at her as he rose to his feet. "As I suspected, it _did_ make a difference in the negotiations, having a _hero of the realm_ present."

Teagan laughed, shooting a wry look down at his elder brother.

"And it helps that the _hero of the realm_ is also a comely lass," he added, stretching limbs stiff from sitting in the same chair for hours. "The meeting might have been over in an hour if you'd been there from the beginning, Flora."

Flora shot Teagan a slightly anxious glance – unsure whether he was reprimanding her - and the bann let out a reassuring chuckle.

"I'm only jesting, poppet. You'll have to let us know how your Gwaren committee went over dinner."

Dinner was served in the great hall, which had been almost entirely returned to normal after the previous day's festivities. The only vestiges of the wedding celebration were the strands of laurel draped from hanging candelabras, too high to be retrieved easily.

Rather than use the top table, with its one-sided chair placement and grandiose thrones; they sat gathered around one of the lower tables. As well as the members of the king's council, Leliana had emerged from the Chantry to join them. She had spent much of the day kneeling in prayer, giving thanks to the Maker for yesterday's success.

Flora, sitting at Alistair's right, was struggling not to fall asleep. She had barely said two words throughout the first course of vegetable stew; content to listen to the lively conversation between Fergus and Teagan. They were engaged in friendly banter on which horses were the most reliable in battle – the teyrn had just jovially accused the bann of a lack of patriotism for his preference of Marcher steeds.

Beside her, Alistair was forking up mouthfuls of stew and occasionally contributing to the discussion – he had worked in a stable and had good knowledge of horses. One of his hands rested on Flora's thigh beneath the table, his thumb running back and forth absentmindedly across the calfskin breeches.

As the second course – roasted beef with broad beans – was delivered by taciturn servants, Eamon filled in Leliana on the outcome of the meeting with the Marcher lords. With each day that passed, he grew more impressed with the bard's astute understanding of political machinations – the arl was certain that she had a great career in some capacity ahead of her; and he was determined that this talent should be reserved to benefit _Ferelden_ as opposed to Orlais.

"Flo, look at that!"

Flora blinked – she had been about to fall asleep in her bowl of half-eaten vegetable stew – and focused on Alistair's pointed finger. Instead of a plate of roasted beef, she had been presented with a dish full of cut-up raw turnip, potato and cauliflower. Each piece was carved into the shape of a flower – the distinctive, elongated petals of _Andraste's Grace_.

"How charming!" cooed Leliana from further down the table, her pale blue eyes shining in delight. "What a creative idea. In _Val Royeaux,_ our pastry-chefs often carve animals and flowers from fruit. I once knew a duchess who presented an entire _menagerie_ of creatures at her spring banquet."

Flora knew that the carved flowers were a silent thank-you from the kitchen staff, for the morning's gift of the wedding dress; but was too sleepy to explain such to the others. Instead, she ate each flower one at a time, listening to Leliana tell increasingly outrageous stories from the same duchess' banquet.

"And _then_ the bard took off his mask and revealed himself to be _her husband!_ Such a _scandal,_ it's still being talked about to this day."

By the time that the final course was being brought out, the mead-flagon was making its fourth trip around the table. Alistair – slightly self-conscious after over-indulging on the wedding night – refrained from partaking in the sweet, honeyed liquor. Leonas also waved the flagon past; the army were practising formations on the Alamarri plains early the next morning and he desired an unclouded head.

When a dozing Flora nearly fell off her chair; Alistair reached sideways and lifted her bodily onto his knee.

"Come here, sweetheart."

The king wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her head against his shoulder, simultaneously forking a fruit-pastry into his mouth. Flora, who was exhausted, fell asleep within moments, her fingers anchoring themselves in the soft leather of his tunic.

"Eamon, have the details of the progress been finalised yet?" Alistair asked, brushing several crumbs of pastry from Flora's hair.

"Aye, son," the arl replied, having just finished planning the route with Teagan that morning. "It's a circular route; should take about seven weeks in total. You'll travel south on the West Road past South Reach, down as far as Lothering to check on the rebuilding efforts there. Then it'll be west across to Lake Calenhad."

"We'll be following the River Dane," interjected Teagan, taking a long swig of ale. "North to the Circle and West Hill. Then east along the northern coast – via Herring – and Highever. There'll be a stop in Amaranthine too, before returning to Denerim."

It was a testament to the depth of Flora's slumber that not even the mention of her beloved hometown could provoke a reaction. Alistair pressed his lips to her cheek affectionately, brushing the hair away from her ear.

"Seven weeks," he repeated, attempting the calculations in his head. "How many months will that be for Flo?"

"Just over eight months," Leliana replied, having already worked it out. "But the roads are well maintained – those damaged during the Blight have been repaired over the past few weeks – and your pace will be slow."

"I could always have her in Highever with me while you're travelling," Fergus offered, already knowing what the answer would be.

Alistair gave a quick, flat shake of the head; his jaw stiffening as his arm tightened around his snoring wife's waist.

"I won't be parted from her, especially not with another Howe on the loose. If we need to cut the progress short, we'll just pick it up again after she has the baby. Who's coming?"

"Myself," Teagan said with a wry smile, inclining his head. "The senior enchanter, Wynne. Your elven companion, Zevran. A couple of banns. And a detachment of soldiers."

Alistair nodded, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Well, that all sounds fine. I'm going to take Flo upstairs now, she's knackered."

Flora woke up as she was being carried en route to the Royal bedchamber; suspended in Alistair's arms with her head resting against his shoulder. They were nearing the Calenhad stained glass window, and the sound of the king's footsteps echoed loud on the flagstones. The carpets and rugs had been taken up for their annual repairing; fresh rushes were strewn in their place.

Her best friend was humming a familiar tune under his breath. Flora listened for a few moments and then nudged her face into his shoulder.

"Ah, I know that," she mumbled, rubbing her fingers into her eyes. "That's _Bones in the Sand!"_

Alistair grinned and gave a nod of confirmation, shifting her up higher against his chest.

"It's actually quite a nice little tune," he admitted, cheerfully. "Almost as catchy as _Two Ten Tonne Kegs."_

"You never said that after the many times I've sung it on our travels!" Flora retorted, slightly indignant.

Alistair laughed, not willing to explain to Flora that _her_ tuneless, ear-bleeding rendition sounded nothing like the authentic song. Ducking, he nuzzled his face against her hairline to kiss her forehead; then stopped abruptly in the centre of the hallway. The humour crashed out of his face, to be replaced with a quiet, alert focus.

Without a word, Alistair lowered her carefully to the flagstones. Flora peered up at him in confusion, tilting her head as he reached out to brush the hair away from her face.

 _Oh, I forgot to tell him!_

Alistair's gaze fell on the scab to the right of Flora's temple, a half-inch long cut surrounded by a soft, purple bruise. It had been hidden by her hair during both the meeting and the dinner; but now was uncovered in all its dubious glory. The king inhaled unsteadily, his brow creasing into deep lines of dismay.

"My love," he murmured, the concern raw in his words. "What _happened?"_

Flora grimaced, shifting her body onto her strong leg while weighing up her options; aware that Anora Mac Tir's future depended on how she phrased her next few sentences.

"I went to see Anora," she started carefully, then flinched as Alistair drew in a sharp, shocked breath.

" _Anora?_ Anora did this?

"No! Well, _yes,_ but – she threw something and my head – _got in the way- "_

" _Anora Mac Tir?"_

"Yes, but it was an accident!"

Alistair exhaled for several long moments, a myriad of emotions passing over his face. Finally, a cold and uncharacteristic anger settled on his handsome features; the usual warmth and humour entirely absent from the hazel eyes.

" _Right."_

He turned abruptly on his heel and began to stride down the corridor the way that they had come; in the direction of the newest wing of the palace, and the Mac Tir quarters.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Uh oh, lol! It's interesting that Flora doesn't even attempt to make up a convenient lie with regard to the origin of her cut – to do so would be more compassionate towards Anora, but she's made an internal promise to herself never to lie to Alistair again (after lying by omission about the baby during the Blight).

You're right Eamon, Leliana definitely has a high powered career ahead of her, as scary spy master (mistress?) of the Inquisition!

Ooh, the mention of Bones in the Sand reminded me of a PM that I got while I was in Wales; I totally forgot to mention it here! The person actually made a connection that I was wondering if anyone had spotted! Flora's voice has three qualities that I refer to a lot – she has the accent of a northerner, she sounds like a peasant – and it also has a slightly hoarse, husky timbre. The person who PMed me actually put two and two together – that Flora's throat has been damaged from the constant exhaling of magic (much like her hands used to get damaged when she healed too much). Or maybe I did explain that in an OOC note from the original story, lol. I can't remember!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	73. Lame Horse

Chapter 73: Lame Horse 

Flora pulled at her own face in horror for a few moments, then took a deep breath and started to make her way after her angry husband. Her knee was shrieking in angry protest; she could feel the strapping unravel with every step that she took along the long corridor.

 _This is your fault, Flora! You should have realised that going to see Anora was a bad idea._

 _No, it's not my fault. I was trying to be kind._

 _Would he execute her just for throwing something in my general direction? Surely not!_

Eventually, out of breath and exhausted, Flora made it back down into the gloomy entrance hall. The hearths were only half-lit to save fuel; the majority of the palace had now settled down for the night.

 _I don't think he would execute her, but… he can be irrational when it comes to me._

Gritting her teeth, she looked from left to right, trying to recall the way to the newest wing of the castle, where the Mac Tir quarters were located. Although Flora had been there that very morning, the palace looked different at night; unfamiliar and shrouded in shadow. Suits of armour threw strange shapes across the flagstones, and archways led into expanses of darkness instead of recognisable passageways.

After an accidental ten-minute detour into the castle armoury, Flora managed to get herself back on track. She limped down yet another stone passageway, no longer caring who saw her physical shortcomings. Her head swivelled from side to side as she searched in vain for the statue of King Vanedrin Therin that marked the entrance to the new wing.

Her knee trembled suddenly beneath her and she stumbled, one hand shooting out to clutch at the dusty wall. Feeling her heartbeat surge forward in a panicky rush, Flora took a deep breath and forced herself to pause for a moment; leaning back against a stone archway and exhaling.

Just then, she heard raised and familiar voices beyond the bend in the corridor.

"Alistair, calm down!"

"Uncle, she _threw something- "_

"Then let's sit and you can explain what happened to me."

"That Mac Tir harpy threw something at my wife! My _child-bearing_ wife."

Flora took a deep breath and lifted her chin, bullying her protesting limb into compliance.

When she rounded the corner, a flushed Alistair was pacing the narrow span of the corridor, gesticulating angrily towards a grimacing Teagan. The bann of Rainesfere had his hands out in entreaty, and was clearly attempting to calm down the furious king.

"Flora," Teagan said in relief on seeing her. "What in the void _happened_ earlier _?"_

"Eehh- ow."

As Flora came to a halt with a wince of pain, the younger Guerrin stepped forward and reached out to move her hair aside, eyeing the swollen bruise on her forehead.

"What is Anora _thinking?"_ he murmured, almost to himself. "The self-controlled woman I once knew would never have struck out in anger, especially not at a defenceless girl."

"She's clearly _deranged,"_ Alistair retorted, edgy as an untamed colt. "She can't handle the fact that she's no longer in power."

Teagan sighed, chucking Flora gently under the chin before withdrawing his hand.

"It's a sad situation all round. Before she let her father take control, she'd done a decent job of governing the country in Cailan's stead. I had no idea she had such a capacity for bitterness."

Alistair's anger flared red and hot once again, and he turned on his heel towards the Mac Tir corridor.

"Anora needs to know that she's not above the law," he snarled over his shoulder as he strode off. "If a peasant on the street threw anything at Flora, he'd be in the stocks for a week – _at least_. Why should a former queen have clemency?"

Flora, horrified at how her well-intentioned idea of involving Anora in the Gwaren restoration committee had gone awry, took a single step after him. Without warning, her knee buckled beneath her and she crumpled onto the flagstones, landing with a bump on her rear. Teagan, whose quick grab had slowed her descent, immediately crouched down beside her.

"Alistair!" he barked down the corridor, harsher than Flora had ever heard him. _"Attend to your wife!"_

Alistair stopped abruptly a dozen yards away, turning on his heel. Seeing Flora sitting miserably on the tiles, he blanched; his pupils constricting in alarm. He covered the space between them in a handful of strides, dropping to his knees beside her.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, stroking the hair away from her sweaty forehead with trembling fingers. "My love. What's wrong? Is it- is it the baby?"

"No, the baby is fine. But my knee really hurts," she replied miserably, furious with herself for letting such weakness show. "I think I walked on it too much."

Alistair reached down to roll the leg of Flora's breeches over her knee, inhaling sharply at the sight of the reddened, inflamed joint.

"Ah, love," he said, immediately remorseful. "And I made you chase all the way down here after me. Maker's Breath, I'm such an idiot!"

Teagan, who had several decades of experience working with horses, appraised the swollen limb with a practised eye. Although he was no healer, he had treated dozens of lame steeds for similar ailments.

"Right," the bann said, taking charge. "I'm going to fetch a balm from the stables that I think will ease the swelling. Alistair, take her back up to the bedchamber and I'll meet you there. You can deal with Anora tomorrow."

 _Once you've calmed down,_ Teagan thought to himself, rising to his feet with a grunt.

With all thoughts of Anora temporarily purged from his mind, Alistair carried his wife back along the labyrinthine passageways of the Royal Palace. A sour combination of guilt and worry mingled in the pit of his stomach, until he felt vaguely sick. Flora, who was increasingly blaming herself for her impulsive foray to see the old Queen, was equally quiet. She clutched Alistair's shoulder and felt him brush a kiss against her ear, his grip on her tightening.

Once they were back in the Royal Bedchamber, Alistair lowered Flora gently onto the bed; crossing the flagstones to stoke up the hearth. Summer nights in Ferelden were usually chilly, and the evening had also been preceded by a damp and drizzly day.

Alistair returned to Flora's side as the flames feasted upon the sweet-scented cedar logs, his face still creased with worry. Removing the golden band from his own head and the circlet from her hair, he placed them atop the dresser; pressing yet another kiss to her forehead as he did so.

Flora wiped her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve, patting at the dried tears on her cheeks. As Alistair methodically removed her boots, breeches and tunic; the sight of a bottle of apple-water prompted a memory to surface in her mind.

"Alistair?"

"My love?" he replied immediately, returning from the dresser with her striped pyjamas over his arm.

"Tomorrow, when we go down to the estuary to see off the Marcher lords- "

" _If_ you go down, Lo. Depending on the state of that knee."

"It'll be fine," Flora said, shooting a stern glance down at the fiercely inflamed joint. "But, _when_ we're down there, I want to show you something."

She lifted her arms to help him slide the pyjama jacket on over her shoulders, absentmindedly rolling up the sleeves.

"What do you want to show me, baby?" Alistair asked, fastening the buttons on the shirt before pecking her on the nose.

"Remember when we went into the alienage? How awful it was?"

"Mm."

"The waste-water channel from the city runs _right into_ the alienage's water supply. It feeds into all their wells!"

Alistair's brow creased; with some difficulty he forced himself to temporarily stop worrying about his wife and focus on this new issue.

"Well, that doesn't seem right. No wonder the city elves are always getting ill."

" _I know!"_ replied Flora earnestly, distracted from the throbbing of her knee. "It's not fair. But I think there's a way to fix it. In Herring, we have- "

Flora was cut off by the sound of the doors opening, and the guard announcing the Bann of Rainesfere.

Teagan entered a moment later, the door closing behind him as he approached the bed. He was clutching a small bronze tin in his hand, which gave off a pungent odour even with the lid tightly screwed on. Flora gazed at the tin with mild trepidation; unfamiliar with methods of healing that did not involve her own strange, arcane exhalation.

The bann crouched down to inspect her swollen limb, the flesh red and inflamed to such an degree that it distorted the leather strapping.

"Right," he said, briskly. "This strapping needs to be cut away, and it's going to hurt."

" _Whaaa- ?!"_

Flora, who did not cope well with pain, stared at him in wide-eyed horror while Alistair grimaced in sympathy at her side.

"And your husband shouldn't be the one that hurts you," Teagan continued, averting his eyes from her alarm. "Alistair, do you have your shaving blade?"

Alistair nodded silently, rising to his feet to fetch it. Flora shot Teagan a look of wariness from beneath her eyelashes; the bann returned her a rueful smile as he reached out to take the slender blade.

"It's better that you be angry with me than with him. Right, poppet, lie back."

Flora obediently swivelled sideways, letting her bare legs rest across Teagan's thighs as her head settled in Alistair's lap. The king reached down to stroke her cheek with his left hand, his right hand already clenched in hers.

Teagan took a deep breath and summoned a straight-faced stoicism; trying to envision Flora's bare legs as the fetlocks of a limping mare. He lowered the blade and she flinched, yelping like a kicked Mabari.

"Ouch! _Owww."_

"Pet, I haven't even _touched_ you yet. Alistair," the bann added in an undertone. "Can you distract her?"

Alistair nodded, forcing a smile as he gazed down at Flora's pale, unhappy face.

"Hey, Lo, did I ever tell you about the time I got into trouble at the monastery? Well, one of the times."

"At Revanloch?"

"No, at Bournshire, where I grew up."

"Oh!"

"It used to be so _quiet_ within the cloisters – the opposite of life in Redcliffe Castle. All you ever heard were whispered prayers, or verses of the Chant. Sometimes, I thought I'd go completely mad if I didn't hear something – _anything –_ else."

Flora listened to him, biting her lip as Teagan lowered the blade to her knee; the bann carefully cutting away the strapping from the inflamed flesh. As she was about to look down Alistair caught her chin with a finger and gently tilted it back up, keeping her gaze on him.

"So, Lo, one morning – I must have been about fifteen – I couldn't take it anymore. I ran up and down the main corridor, just _bellowing_ at the top of my lungs."

"What were – _ouch –_ what were you shouting?"

"Oh, nothing that made sense – I just needed to hear something that wasn't dedicated to the Maker." Alistair smiled down at Flora, stroking a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. "Anyway, it was awful timing – the Grand Chantry Mother was visiting the monastery, along with the local Templar captain. I ran smack bang into them as I turned the corner, still bellowing utter nonsense."

"Ooh," breathed Flora, shifting slightly as Teagan pulled away the last of the leather strapping and dug his fingers into the pungent, unguent cream. "Did you – _ow –_ did you get into trouble?"

"Oh, yes," Alistair confirmed, cheerfully. "Had to scrub all the flagstones in the Chantry – front to back – and recite benedictions for twelve hours. How about you, my love? Ever get into trouble at the Circle?"

Flora pulled a little face as the bann carefully applied the cream to the swollen joint.

"Aah – ouch – no, not really. I think my instructors were more _disappointed_ in me for being so useless. I used to get thrown out of class all the time, but it was just because I couldn't do anything. Not because I was naughty. Like _you!_ I always followed the rules and did what I was told."

 _Apart from sneaking up to the roof,_ she thought to herself, and stifled a snort. _Or down to the kitchens after curfew._

Despite everything, Alistair laughed out loud; bowing his head to kiss her on the end of the nose.

"No, you've always been a good girl. Nothing wrong with that, sweetheart. I think rebelliousness is overrated, anyway."

"There we go, all done."

Both Alistair and Flora looked down at her knee with some surprise. The bann had wound a thin linen bandage over the unguent cream, which gave off an unpleasant tar-like scent but had a pleasant cooling sensation. The pain in the joint was quickly overtaken by a gentle numbness, and the swelling seemed reduced mere minutes after the cream's application.

"Oh," breathed Flora in astonishment, staring down at her bandaged knee. "That feels so much better. What _is_ it?"

Having once relied on the arcane as the source of her healing, she was fascinated by these more prosaic – but effective - methods of soothing pain.

"Embrium flower, mixed with coal tar," Teagan explained, screwing the lid back onto the pot and placing it to one side. "Got the formula from Ansburg. The stable-master there swore it could make any lame horse sound overnight."

"Well, this lame horse is very grateful," Flora replied earnestly, sitting upright to put an arm around Teagan's neck and press an impulsive kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

"Thank you, uncle," added Alistair, exhaling in slight relief as he eyed the neatly bandaged joint.

Teagan let out a little grunt of acknowledgement, hoping that the flush hadn't extended beyond his collar. Patting Flora's good knee in what he hoped was a familial, avuncular manner; he gently moved her legs from his lap and rose to his feet.

"I suggest you both get some rest," he said, slightly gruffly. "Goodnight."

"Night, uncle," Alistair said immediately, as Flora yawned. "Thank you, again."

Once Teagan had left Alistair changed swiftly into his sleep trousers, blowing out all the candles until the room was illuminated solely by the soft, umber glow from the hearth. Padding barefoot across the chamber, he was about to close the shutters; when Flora's voice wended its way through the darkness.

"Can you leave them open? I like seeing the sky."

Alistair did as she requested, returning to the bed and clambering beneath the blankets with a yawn. He held his arm up to allow Flora to curl herself into the crook of his shoulder; the two settling into the position that they had first begun sleeping in long before they had even shared a kiss.

"How's the knee?" he said into her hair, fingers wandering in idle patterns up and down her arm.

"Mm, I can't feel it. Better," Flora replied, yawning and turning her face against the taut muscle of his chest.

Alistair nodded, gratified. The baby shifted inside Flora's stomach and she reached for his wrist, guiding his hand so that he could feel the fidgety movements of their child. He stroked his fingers over the ripe curve for several minutes, feeling the firm line of the baby's back as it changed position. Feeling the pressure of its father's hand, the baby nudged back against his palm and Alistair swallowed; tears suddenly prickling in the corners of his eyes.

 _I'll never stop being amazed by this,_ he thought wonderingly, and understood Anora's bitterness a little more.

"Sweetheart, promise me that you won't see Anora alone in the future," he said, suddenly. "It doesn't have to be me that accompanies you, but… as long as it's not just _you_ on your own _._ I know she's got cause to be upset, but I can't risk your safety."

Flora felt a wave of relief wash over her, some of the worry from earlier dissipating. Now that the initial anger had faded, Alistair sounded far more reasonable; it no longer appeared as though Anora would end up in the stocks or on the block.

"I promise," she said, earnest and immediate.

Alistair nodded, turning his head to gaze towards the window. The sky was framed by the opened shutters, a rich, dark expanse studded with bright, pinpricked stars. A moment later, he realised that a constellation was floating in the atmospheric miasma above the estuary; squinting slightly, he tried to connect the stars into a recognisable form.

"It's _To-oth,"_ said Flora, the word elongated by a yawn. "Toth. We used to call it the _oyster and pearl,_ but I think it's meant to be a man on fire. Or something."

Flora's Herring-father had known each constellation by heart and had taught them to her; she did not remember the more complex ones, but this was a simple one to recall.

"I prefer the _oyster and pearl,"_ Alistair murmured, kissing the pink shell of her ear. "No burning alive for me, thanks."

Flora smiled, turning her face from the window and pressing it against her former brother-warden, now-husband's sinewy clavicle. Alistair let his mouth linger by her neck; brushing his lips gently over the skin in a slow meander towards her throat.

"I haven't forgotten about returning the favour from earlier," he said, thickly. "As soon as your knee feels better, I'm going to _kneel_ before you."

Flora stifled a giggle against his shoulder, feeling a flush erupt on her cheeks.

"Ooh!"

"Well, that sounded a lot more suave in my head than it did out loud," Alistair admitted, cheerfully. "But the intention was there."

"Mm. Night, night, husband."

"Goodnight, sweet wife."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol leave the pervert come-ons to Zevran, Alistair!

Flora really needs to understand what her physical limitations are, haha. In this single day, she's been down to the Landsmeet chamber for Oghren's Joining, over to her new garden, back up to the Royal bedchamber to fetch the dress, down to the palace kitchens, all the way into Denerim for the Gwaren meeting, back up to the palace, into the trade meeting, then across to the great hall for dinner… lol it's a lot! No wonder she fucked up her knee!

Incidentally, she couldn't heal her weak knee in The Lion and the Light because she actually mended it incorrectly during the post-Ostagar bewilderment; the only time she's messed up her healing. She literally grew the bone back incorrectly! I did think about having her fix it during the original story – all it would take is for the kneecap to be broken again (ouch) and then she could heal it properly. But I actually like her having this physical limitation, I can't quite put my finger on why! I like having limitations on characters, I suppose.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	74. Catching The Tide

Chapter 74: Catching The Tide

The next morning, Flora's swollen knee-joint had reduced in both size and redness; enough to wind a new leather strap around it with only a little discomfort. Alistair, who still felt guilty over yesterday's over-exertions, was determined to keep a closer eye on his wife. Their first commitment of the day was down at the estuary, formally bidding their new Marcher trade partners farewell as the lords took advantage of the early tide.

It was an overcast, yet fiercely humid mid-Solace morning. A thin veil of cloud seemed to keep heat trapped between the heavens and the city, the muted sunlight bestowing a milky cast over the clear, green water of the estuary. The seagulls took advantage of the rising thermals, swooping down to harass fishing boats and street traders with defiant insolence.

The Denerim docks ran the full length of the estuary, their purpose changing the further inland they reached. The fishing wharfs were located upriver, near where the seawater mingled with the fresh; this was where the refugees had once gathered, and where the Pearl was located. The mooring-place of the tall ships was towards the coast, where the mouth of the estuary began to widen into the ocean. Still protected from the turbulence of the open sea, there was more room along this stretch of water to anchor the brigs, barques and brigantines of the nobility; as well as the wide-bellied barges of the merchant ships.

Despite their rivalries, the three Marcher lords had been forced to anchor their vessels alongside one another. Due to their close proximity to Ferelden, they had left their arrival late; and thus had less choice of mooring points. For the first – and possibly _last_ \- time, the red and black of Starkhaven flew alongside the gold and black of Kirkwall, and the green and silver of Ostwick.

The nobility of the Landsmeet, along with several of Flora's companions, had accompanied the Marcher lords down to the docks to see them off. They were gathered near the harbour-master's office, a two-storey wooden building surrounded by a lawn of dried grass, and several anaemic trees. The king and queen – he clad in Theirin crimson, she in Cousland navy - had just relayed their best wishes for favourable winds.

Although Flora could not read the horizons as fluently as her Herring-dad; nobody growing up in a fishing village was ignorant of the portents of the heavens.

"The sky looks mild enough," she told the Viscount Dumar solemnly, casting an eye upwards. "There's no storm in those clouds. Maybe a bit of rain."

The Viscount shot her a slightly odd look – preoccupied with troubles in his own city, he was not entirely aware of the queen's unconventional upbringing.

"May the Maker watch over your voyage," Eamon interjected smoothly, inclining his head towards bann, Viscount and prince in turn. "And I look forward to our resumed correspondence."

The Marcher lords repeated the sentiment, bowing once more towards king and queen.

"Your majesties!"

"Have a good journey," Alistair added amiably, shielding his eyes against the soft glare of the sun. "Watch out for sea monsters!"

This last comment was added in an undertone as the Marcher men turned to gather their families and retainers, the mass of mingled colours dividing into three separate retinues.

Meanwhile, Zevran had been unsuccessfully flirting with Bann Trevelyan's daughter. Instead of responding to the elf's charm, Beatrix Trevelyan had clutched her Chantry pendants and raised her eyes to the heavens, as though pleading with the Maker to rescue her from such unwanted attentions.

As the three groups began to file towards their separate ships, the elf wandered disconsolately back to the Fereldan contingent; a frown embedded across his rich, tan features.

"I think I'm losing my touch," he complained, directing his petulance towards Leliana, Alistair and Flora. "She was utterly _impervious_ to my substantial charm. It is both confusing, and _deeply_ displeasing."

Leliana rolled her eyes, watching the Vael sons file onto the deck of their wide-bellied galleon.

"Alistair, _mon chéri,_ do you ever wonder what happened to King Maric?"

Alistair let out a little grunt, scratching the back of his head. The sailors were calling out to one another now, swarming over the rigging like flies; loosing the ties that bundled the great sails to the mast. With a sigh of canvas the sails unfurled, their expanding billow immediately checked by tautened ropes. More sailors were hauling up the anchor, sweating and cursing as they shoved the windlass round.

"Lost in a storm at sea, five… _six_ years ago now? I remember overhearing some Templars talk about it at the monastery."

"Do you think he could still be alive?" the bard asked, delicately mopping a bead of sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief. "Florence has mentioned that the fishing villages occasionally salvaged living souls from shipwrecks. Sometimes they'd wash up with no memory of who they were before the storm took them."

Alistair gave a shrug, watching the sails of the Starkhaven ship catch the wind. With a laborious creak of salt-eroded wood, the barnacle-encrusted keel inched away from the harbour wall and began to pull gently out into the centre of the estuary. A flotilla of small fishing boats bobbed to one side; pausing their own progress to let the larger ship through.

"Well, maybe. But it makes no difference whether he's a- a skeleton at the bottom of the Waking Sea, or… an amnesiac blacksmith in Herring. Either way, he's not coming back."

Flora, who had been watching the tall ships with her mouth open, rotated her head instinctively at the mention of her home.

"Eh?"

Alistair leaned down and kissed the top of her skull, directing his lips within the gilded garland. She smiled up at him, cheeks flushed from the combination of leather breeches and her own unbalanced hormones.

Beside them, Zevran was still bemoaning the failure of his flirtation; a touch melodramatically.

"What _other_ tricks do I have up my sleeve, apart from witty banter, killing and love-making?"

"Certainly not lock-picking," muttered Alistair, recalling a certain sealed door in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"I cannot afford to lose one of these three," continued the elf, his tattooed fingers skittering compulsively across the hilt of his blade. "They define I, Zevran; as much as Leliana's devotion and daggers define her."

Flora peeled her attention from the diminishing stern of the Trevelyan ship; touching her finger to Zevran's wrist to gain his attention.

"Your _tricks_ number more than three," she breathed, letting her gaze slip sideways to settle on Zevran's face. "And you've not lost any of them."

"That Trevelyan girl has the air of a Chantry sister in the making," added Alistair, helpfully. "I wouldn't feel too bad that your _seduction tactics_ failed."

"I have cajoled Chantry sisters to break their vows of chastity before," Zevran retorted, then relented a fraction. "Ah, but youth can be so stubborn. I prefer my religious women a little more seasoned. After years of a cold and lonely bed, many often desire a little… _diversion."_

He winked at Leliana, who sniffed and turned her nose up at him.

Flora, who detected a note of genuine melancholy behind the elf's glib remarks, twisted her head to look at him properly.

"That Bernard Trevelyan doesn't know what she's missing," she said, kindly. "It's her loss."

Alistair and Leliana convulsed into snickers at such a catastrophic warping of Beatrix Trevelyan's name. Zevran, on the other hand, appreciated the sentiment; flashing Flora a sly wink from the corner of his blackberry-dark eye.

"I long for the day when your husband permits me to show _you_ the full range of my skills, _mi sirenita,"_ he purred, pleased at the rapid pinkening of her cheeks. "The Royal bedchamber will _quake in its foundations,_ I promise you."

The three ships drifted further apart as they headed towards the mouth of the estuary, their sails full with a budding offshore breeze. At this distance only the colours tied to their masts distinguished them, the Vael ship rapidly striking out ahead of the other two. The flotilla of fishing boats - their path into the harbour now clear - limped into the estuary, their pace slowed by nets heavy with the morning's catch.

Eamon approached king and queen with Teagan in tow; trailing Redcliffe secretaries and guards like a mother hen with her chicks. The Chancellor had a sheaf of papers in hand, and his eyes were focused on Alistair.

"Alistair, I've some documents for you to read and put your name to. Sister Leliana, I'd appreciate you casting your _Orlesian_ eye over this 'thank-you' letter from the _grand duc_."

The harbour-master promptly offered the use of his own quarters for the king to use. Flora was about to follow Alistair inside the lower office, when a hail caught her attention.

"Warden-Commander Cousland! Got yer message."

She startled, turning about her with wide eyes. For a handful of months, this had once been her most common form of address; yet she had not been referred to as such since the Blight had ended. It was also no longer true on _both_ measures – she was no longer a Warden, nor the leader of their Order.

 _Who hasn't seen me since the final battle? Only they would use my old title._

The answer quickly became apparent when a stout dwarf with an ambitiously sculpted dark moustache made his way forwards, leaning heavily on a stick. Flora immediately recognised him as Oisín, the gifted engineer who had not only planned the series of ditches and bulwarks that had divided the charge of the Darkspawn across the Alamarri plains, but also designed the reinforcements that kept the Denerim city walls intact against the enemy's siege weaponry.

Oisín gave a hoarse laugh, waving a hand towards her as he limped closer.

"Oh, but I suppose it's _Queen Florence_ nowadays. By the Stone! How in the Ancestor's name did you manage to hide _that_ belly before the battle?"

Flora was delighted that the talented dwarven engineer was still in the city. She silently thanked the steward Guillaume for not only scribing her message that morning, but then passing it on through the relevant channels.

"A very tight bodice," she replied solemnly, and the dwarf gave a throaty laugh. "I'm glad you're still in Denerim. I wasn't sure if you'd left with the rest of the dwarves."

Oisín shook his head, the ends of his large brown moustache quivering as he gestured to his twisted knee.

"Got hit with an arrow – my fault, was too busy watchin' my trebuchet bolt take down an ogre - so I'm takin' it easy till it recovers. Was getting awful bored just sat on my arse; so I was happy to get your message."

Flora beamed, delighted.

"I want to show you something," she said, earnestly. "It's not far. Will your knee be alright?"

"Oh, aye," replied the sharp-eyed dwarf, noticing that Flora was favouring one leg over the other. "Will _yours?"_

"Mm, it'll be fine. It's just this way- "

"Flo? _Where- "_

Alistair, who had clearly been expecting his best friend to follow him inside the harbour-master's office, appeared at the entrance; his tall, bulky frame filling the doorway.

"I'm going to show the chief engineer something," Flora called across to her husband, watching his nostrils flare in alarm. "Just round the corner. Come and see once you're finished with your letters!"

Alistair ducked his head back within the harbour-master's office, his voice muffled as he spoke to those inside.

The next moment, Zevran and Teagan came out; accompanied by a half-dozen impassive Royal Guards.

"Where are we going, _carina?"_ the elf enquired, shooting a curious glance down at the dwarf. "Ooh – are we going to the _Pearl_ for a little afternoon delight while Alistair engages in boring paperwork? _Ay mamí!"_

"Yes," replied a deadpan Flora, rolling her eyes at him. "You guessed correctly!"

Turning her back on the estuary, she led the way down the docks, careful not to outpace the limping dwarven engineer. The Royal Guard followed at a discreet distance – far enough not to impose, close enough to intervene at a moment's notice.

The seagulls arced and wheeled overhead, diving down towards where the fishermen were now unloading their catches at the far docks. No more refugees were left in this particular district of Denerim – they had either gathered sufficient coin to escape Ferelden aboard some merchant vessel, or joined one of the dozen restoration committees that had formed in recent weeks. Instead, the docks were slowly coming alive once again – the fishing vessels were supplying the markets with plentiful stock and the Pearl was doing a roaring business.

Flora, however, was not headed towards this bustling end of the docks. Once she had spotted the decrepit warehouses, she turned away from the waterside; heading down the narrow road between the two crumbling buildings. Teagan fell into step alongside her, gesturing down at her knee.

"How's it holding up today, poppet?"

"Oh! Much better. Thank you again for last night."

Flora smiled up at the bann as he grunted; averting his eyes quickly in a manner that he had started to adopt more frequently with her these days.

 _He's trying to copy Arl Leonas,_ she thought, slightly bemused. _Arl_ _Leonas grunts and doesn't quite look at me in the eye; he ruffles my hair instead, almost fatherly._

 _I wonder why Bann Teagan is trying to do the same?_

Naturally, there was no explanatory response from her spirits – Flora gave an inward sigh – and so she pressed on, leading them further up between the abandoned warehouses. The high wall of the alienage soon rose up before them, the dirt-packed stones crumbling with age.

"Ah, not this _odour_ again," Zevran murmured, plugging his nostrils with his fingers in preparation. _"Ech!"_

Moments later, the foul waft of the waste channel drifted towards them; the city's floating detritus carried on a leisurely current towards the fishing wharfs. The dwarven engineer let out a little grunt, rubbing at his streaming eyes. Even the Royal Guard appeared as though they wished they could hold their noses beneath their closed-face helmets.

"Bronto-humper, that's a foul stink!" Oisín complained, lip curling beneath the impressive moustache. Once he realised that they had come to a halt, the dwarf perched himself atop a nearby barrel; puffing slightly.

"Exactly, it's _horrible,"_ Flora agreed, wide-eyed. "And all the _horrible,_ dirty water is leaking into the alienage's water supply. All this _poison water_ is coming up in their wells and it's making them sick."

Teagan shot a quick glance sideways at Flora, then down at the alienage wall; eyeing the low iron grating that let in the water. His eyebrows rose as he saw Flora's point – if one bothered _looking,_ it was quite obvious to see that the tainted water was leaking into the alienage's only supply.

"When I was a healer, I used to come down to the alienage in the evenings to offer my services. Remember, Bann Teagan? You came, sometimes," Flora breathed impassionedly, and the bann gave a small nod of confirmation. "There were so many people who had upset stomachs. At the time, people told me that it was because the city elves had weaker constitutions. But when the elves came down to the Alamarri plains to prepare for the battle, they stopped getting sick. It must have been the _poison water_ in the alienage that made them ill!"

Oisín nodded; his interest piqued. The dwarf fiddled with the end of his oiled black moustache, watching Flora carefully as she shifted from foot to foot.

Seeing the dwarf's walking stick propped beside the barrel upon which he was perched, Flora reached out impulsively to grab it. Using the rounded wooden end, she marked out the basic outline of the district in the dirt; including the alienage wall, the estuary and the existing waste-water channel.

" _This_ is the waste-water channel," she said, jabbing the end of the stick in her improvised map. "At the moment, it goes _here –_ mixing with the alienage water supply – and then along here… and comes out _here,_ near the Pearl."

Flora remembered the foul smell that had sometimes blown into the brothel when the wind turned; the madam would tut and hang up sprigs of lavender in the windows.

"So, what're you suggestin', lass? Sorry: _your majesty,"_ asked the dwarf, his eyes narrowed in thought.

Flora reached up to pull the crimson ribbon from her hair, letting the dark red strands tumble free of the ponytail. With some difficulty - considering the size of her stomach - she squatted inelegantly down and laid the ribbon out in a new course through her makeshift 'district'.

"In Herring, we have a waste-water channel that goes round the back of the blacksmith," she explained, pushing herself inelegantly to her feet. "It runs down the beach, beyond the tide-line."

Rotating on the spot, Flora lifted a finger to point behind her; her gaze passing straight through the abandoned warehouses to focus on the water beyond.

"The estuary is _tidal,"_ she said, earnestly. "Those Marcher ships just left _on the tide._ If Denerim's waste-water channel is rerouted down there – knocking down those old buildings – then the waste will be carried out by the tide. Rather than building up on the banks of the river further inland. And, that way, it won't mix with the alienage's water supply!"

Flora let out a slightly unsteady breath: she had not given such a monologue since speaking to the troops before the final battle. Turning suddenly anxious eyes on the dwarven engineer, she let her pointed finger drop.

"Do you – do you think it's possible?"

"Of course it's possible," replied Oisín, chuckling derisively at the idea that something could be _beyond_ his engineering capability. "It ain't that complicated. Just got to work out where the tide reaches up to, so I know where to bring the new channel out."

Flora almost clapped her hands together in delight; then felt slightly self-conscious, and lowered her nail bitten palms to her thighs.

Zevran reached down to pick up the crimson ribbon, brushing the dirt from its silken length. The elf held it in his hands for a moment, and then smiled wistfully at her.

"Not _just_ a pretty face then, eh?"

After the loss of her magical abilities, Flora had resigned herself to the gloomy fact that she would now be praised solely on the sum of her looks – which she had no control over, and thus took no pride in. At Zevran's comment, her stoic face broke into a delighted beam.

"Well, it's not _my_ idea," she said, immediately trying to lessen her own contribution. "They do it in all the northern villages – use the tide to take away waste."

She then glanced over at Teagan, who had been silent throughout the duration of her explanation. To Flora's alarm, the bann was in the process of dragging a weary hand over his face.

When Teagan opened his eyes, Flora was hovering anxiously before him; her pale eyes huge and worried.

"Bann Teagan?" she asked, tentatively. "Don't you think it's a good idea?"

"No, petal- I mean, _yes._ I think it's an excellent idea." The bann hastened to reassure her, one hand half-lifting as though to touch her face. "It'll benefit Denerim twice over – stop the deposition of waste upriver, and reduce disease in the alienage, lessening the chance of city-wide epidemics."

"I'm glad," Flora replied, still a little worried. "You didn't look as though you thought it was excellent idea just then. Your face looked like you were having _issues_ digesting your lunch."

"Ah – that wasn't at your idea, Flora. Forgive me… I'm just a foolish man in his middle years."

Unable to stop himself, the bann leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Flora tilted her head dutifully to receive it, smiling up at the younger Guerrin in slight bemusement.

"Alright," she said, eyes swivelling purposefully back towards Oisín. "I'll show you how we can find out where the tidal water starts."

She handed back the dwarf his stick, and headed back towards the abandoned warehouses; the Royal Guard immediately hurrying in her wake. Teagan looked after her with wistful and unguarded emotion; a rare lapse of control that was duly noted by the sharp-eyed elf.

"In Antiva, we have a saying," Zevran murmured, wryness cut through his tone. _"_ _'_ _Cuanto más aguda es la belleza, más profundo es el corte.'_ To translate: _the sharper the beauty, the deeper the cut._ It means that the more beautiful a woman is, the more callous her character."

The elf let out a rueful little snort, watching Flora point out the abandoned warehouses to the dwaven engineer as they approached them.

"Wouldn't things be so much simpler if she were as cruel as that merciless face would suggest, _hm?"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Teagan's definitely trying to go the more familial, avuncular route with Flora, lol. Incidentally, the Spanish bit at the end is purely courtesy of Google translate because I know no one who speaks Spanish, so apologies for anything incorrect and feel free to advise me on any edits I need to make, hehehe. But Zevran does have a point - Flo has a deceptive major resting bitch face, just look at the title image for this story, lol. THOSE COLD EYES!

So in this post-Blight reconstruction of Ferelden, Flo isn't making grand speeches to armies or politicians anymore – she's proposing new methods of WASTE WATER MANAGEMENT! Lol! Still, it's all part of her quest to fill the gaping void left by the departure of her spirits; by helping the most vulnerable people in the city in whatever capacity she has as queen.

Incidentally, the tainted water-link to disease thing in this chapter is inspired by 19th century doctor John Snow, who investigated the cholera outbreaks in East London. He proved (though some of the first methodological scientific investigation) that the cholera was caused by dirty water and not by miasma (bad smells), which was the most widely accepted theory of disease at the time. Unfortunately, nobody ended up believing him and he died in relative obscurity! It's actually a really interesting story, hehe.

Note the dual meaning of the chapter title! I almost called this "Planning The New Waste Water Channel", and then my husband was like yeah do you want to turn off your _entire_ readership? He may have had a point, lol; anyway, I like _Catching The Tide_ a lot better

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	75. Swimming and Scholarly Pursuits

Chapter 75: Swimming and Scholarly Pursuits

Once Alistair had finally finished reading and signing the last of the documents, he put down the quill and rose immediately to his feet, turning towards the door. The sun was starting to burn through the veil of cloud, patches of dappled light mottling the pale green surface of the estuary. Squinting against the sudden brightness, Alistair swivelled on the spot, looking around in vain for his wife.

"Over there!" Leliana breathed from behind him.

Following the line of the bard's finger, the king noticed a clump of Royal Guard swarming like anxious beetles fifty yards further down the estuary; where the sharp drop of the dock ended and the muddy bank sloped gently down into the water. They did not appear to be swarming in _panic,_ but merely in mild _perplexion_ – as though not quite sure how to proceed.

As Alistair approached, he saw the familiar black-moustachioed dwarf from earlier, leaning heavily on a stick while scribbling some notes on a notepad. Zevran was perched on a large bollard, giggling to himself while clutching what appeared to be a pair of leather trousers and – incongruously – a _crown_. A pair of familiar boots rested on the ground at his side.

Alistair quickened his pace, striding over the tightly compressed earth towards where the Royal Guard were clumped. On noticing his arrival, they shifted their pikes quickly from hand to hand; their heavily-armoured captain hastening to explain.

"Your Majesty, we were none of us sure what would happen if we… _fell over_ in the water. We didn't think we'd be able to get up again."

A thoroughly confused Alistair came to a halt at the top of the estuary bank, where the earth subsided gently downwards and segued into the sandy bottom of the estuary. Zevran waved tattooed fingers towards him in greeting, trying to stifle his giggles.

"This must be the first time that an elf has ever laid his hands on a piece of _royal regalia,_ eh? Still, I am more interested in caressing _mi florita's_ breeches. Still warm from those luscious thighs! I will dream happily tonight."

Alistair looked downwards into the estuary, his eyebrows rising into his gilded hairline. Flora was standing ten yards out from the shore, the water lapping up around her bare thighs. The ends of her loosened hair were trailing around her, like strands of floating, crimson seaweed. As he watched, Flora lowered her palms to the water and cupped a handful; bringing it to her nose and touching it with her tongue.

"No, still freshwater," she called to the dwarf, who made a quick mark on his notepad. "But it's not far off."

Alistair, gaping, noticed his uncle also standing in the water a short distance away, fully clothed and with his arms crossed. At the guards' reluctance to submerge their plate armour in the estuary, Teagan had reluctantly chosen to accompany Flora into the water as a precaution. Several Rainesfere retainers were huddled on the shore, peering down at their hapless bann with wide eyes and trying not to snicker at his expression.

Flora, who was so absorbed in her task that she had not noticed her best friend standing on the bank, shuffled another few metres eastwards; towards where the estuary opened out into the great maw of the Amaranthine Ocean. This time, when she cupped a handful of water and touched her tongue to it, she beamed and waved at the dwarf.

"Saltwater. This is the tidal flow! Look, here- "

She bent forwards – Leliana moaned under her breath as the sleeve of the delicate lambs' wool tunic was submerged – and retrieved a handful of seaweed from the sandy floor. The clump of marine vegetation had clearly been deposited there by the tide, and Flora inhaled its scent in delight.

"Look, Bann Teagan," she enthused, swivelling in the water and showing him the handful of dark green kelp. "In Herring, we call this _bladder wrack._ You can dry it out and eat it! It's very delicious _and nutritious_."

Thigh-deep in water, Teagan let out a little grunt and eyed the seaweed suspiciously.

"It doesn't look that appetising to me, poppet. I think I'll stick to beef and potatoes."

The habits of a lifetime were hard to forget; Flora shoved the clump of kelp surreptitiously down the front of her tunic.

 _Ooh, my breasts can now be used as a shelf,_ she thought, with Herring practicality. _That's good to know. Very useful._

The little creature responsible for her bosom's augmentation yawned and woke up, kicking both feet enthusiastically into it's mother's stomach. Flora peered down at her belly for a moment, and then gave it a little pat of greeting.

"Your first swim, tadpole," she said, out loud. "I hope you're enjoying it."

Looking up, she saw Alistair shifting from foot to foot on the shore. Her best friend was wide-eyed and twitching with alarm.

"Flo, are you… are you almost done?" he called, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice.

Flora nodded and began to wade her way towards the bank, delighting in the feel of sand between her toes.

 _I missed this,_ she realised, with a little pang. _The salt-water, the press of sand, the smell of seaweed._

As Flora approached the shore, an impatient Alistair came striding out to meet her; splashing through the shallows in his knee-high boots. Putting one arm around his best friend's waist – he did not trust the stability of the muddy sand – he guided her up onto the bank.

"Thanks, uncle," the king murmured in an underside to Teagan, who was bringing up the rear with water streaming from his saturated clothing.

The dripping bann issued a _don't mention it_ grunt, removing one boot and tipping its salty contents out onto the earth.

Alistair guided Flora to sit on an iron mooring bollard, then crouched before her and put his hands on her wet, bare thighs. He gazed into her nonchalant eyes for a moment, and then let out an incongruous laugh.

"You're full of surprises, baby. Did you just fancy a _swim_ , or…?"

" _No!"_ Flora replied, indignantly. "I was carrying out an investigation."

"Into what, my love?"

"Into the _salinity_ of the water."

"The _what?"_

"Saltiness!"

Flora looked sideways at the dwarf, who promptly rose to his feet and limped over to the king; presenting a clarified version of Flora's initial dirt sketch on his parchment-pad. Alistair returned upright and turned to face the dwarf, listening keenly. Eamon – casting a bemused look at his dripping younger brother – had just arrived at Leliana's side.

"I propose a new waste-water channel be built along _here- "_ Oisín pointed a broad finger along the crudely marked roads. "And a holdin' area built where these old warehouses currently stand. The holdin' area will be released twice-daily into a channel that feeds into the tidal wash o' the estuary; carryin' the waste out to sea, where the foul miasmas won't bother you no more."

"It'll stop the waste building up around the jetties and fishing docks further inland," Flora added, earnestly. "And it'll stop the waste from mixing with the alienage water supply and turning it into _poison."_

Alistair looked at his former sister-warden, slightly astounded.

"Maker's Breath, Lo! Did you just come up with that?"

"No," she replied, immediately. "It's what they do in Herring, and Skingle, and _lots_ of villages on the north coast. Let the tide take away the waste, rather than letting it build up round the houses."

The king nodded, then asked the dwarf the question that he had learnt was essential for _any_ monarch to issue as soon as possible.

"And what would you _charge_ for completing this work?"

Oisín thought for a moment, fiddling with the end of his moustache.

"I'll do this job on the house," he said at last, shrewdly. "It won't take long. _If_ I can have the long-term contract for strengthenin' the city walls."

"Then half your workforce has to be hired from Denerim," countered Eamon, equally shrewd. "And materials from _our_ quarries, not from Orzammar's mines."

" _Done!"_ replied the dwarf, and then slapped his broad thigh in triumph. "You've got yourself a deal, King Alistair. I'll draw up some proper plans this afternoon and send 'em up to the palace this evenin'."

Flora felt a surge of triumph in her belly, and suddenly wished that she was still capable of _jumping for joy._ Instead, she wriggled around from her sitting position on the iron bollard and drummed her fingers on Alistair's hip; squirming gleefully on the spot.

 _I did something to help. Something that will make the lives of people better._

 _Without magic!_

Impulsively, Flora put her arms around Alistair's waist, inordinately grateful for his support. Ferelden's king dropped an affectionate hand to caress the back of his new queen's head, rubbing his thumb over the exposed curve of her ear.

"Alright then, sweetheart. Once you get your, ah, _trousers_ back on, let's get back up to the castle. Eamon's given me the afternoon off, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend it with, than with my favourite person in all of Thedas."

"Who's that?" Flora breathed, surreptitiously admiring the thick muscle of Alistair's thigh beneath the leather.

"You, _obviously."_

" _Meeee!"_

Eamon was as good as his word, cancelling the meeting of the King's Council for the afternoon. The Chancellor – who would be acting as regent during Alistair's progress – needed to sort out correspondence with Redcliffe before becoming distracted by the wider affairs of the realm. Eamon also had long-term plans to make his younger brother the Arl of Redcliffe, since he personally would need to remain in Denerim to aid the still-inexperienced Alistair. He had not shared these plans with Teagan yet, resolving to share them with the bann once he had returned from the progress.

A grateful Alistair took Flora up to the palace archives, determined to work further with her on her literacy. He was unsure why his year-younger wife had so much trouble with her letters – even after eight months of his tutelage, she still had barely progressed beyond the basics – but he was not going to give up.

Although they could have retired to the Royal quarters, the king thought that being immersed in such a _scholarly_ environment might have some beneficial effect. The palace archives were located in a wide tower on the north-eastern corner of the palace, in an impressive, lofty chamber that housed circular balconies on six different levels. Bookshelves and cabinets were crowded around the curved stone walls, organised in some obscure reference system that only the chief archivist fully understood. Desks and reading tables were scattered haphazardly on each level; a giant framed map of Denerim was located on the third balcony and an even larger one of Ferelden was located on the fifth. The entire space was lit by an iron shaft that hung from the ceiling, from which wreaths of candles extended at every level, like the spokes of a wheel.

The king of Ferelden was sitting on a curved window seat on the third level, leaning back against the frame with one knee bent casually upwards. His queen was settled against his chest, boots discarded on the floor and bare feet propped up on the opposite side of the window frame. She wore an expression of extreme focus; her gaze fixated on the manuscript in her hands.

"The- Red… Por- Porgy of… S- Se- slime _-"_

" _Slime?"_

Alistair peered over Flora's shoulder at the crumpled page. "Oh, Seleny. It's a city in Antiva, Zev has mentioned it before. Apparently it's got lots of statues. And bridges."

"And _red porgies,"_ Flora added, more interested in the fish.

" _You're_ my red porgy," Alistair replied, nuzzling his face into her dishevelled hair to find the curve of her neck. "Mm."

Flora beamed, swivelling between his thighs so that he could kiss her. Alistair readily accepted her silent invitation and dropped his mouth to hers, his lips working warm and confident against her own. She let the manuscript of _Even More_ _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ fall from her lap; curling an arm about his neck and temporarily ceding ownership of her mouth to his desirous tongue. As they kissed with languid familiarity on the window bench, Alistair's fingers edged their way surreptitiously beneath the neckline of Flora's tunic.

The next moment, he let out a squawk of surprise; withdrawing rapidly and pulling something cold and wet from between her breasts. He flung the dark green clump to the flagstones in horror, eyes bulging.

" _Aah! What the –_ Maker's Breath!"

"Oh," said Flora, in sudden understanding. "That's the _bladder wrack."_

"The _what?!"_

"Seaweed from the estuary. You can dry it out and eat it. It's nice!"

Alistair eyed the lumpen cluster of seaweed on the flagstones and thought that it looked like the most unappetising dish in Thedas.

"If you say so, my love," he murmured, turning her chin to face him once again. "Now, where were we?"

A short time later, Leliana came up in search of king and queen. The _library_ was the last place that she had expected to find the former Wardens; but sure enough, they were both seated on a window bench on the third level of the archive tower.

Alistair was absorbed in an account of Ferelden's history during the Storm Age. He had first picked up the book out of a vague sense of obligation – to learn more about the heritage of the country he had inherited stewardship of – but had found himself reluctantly fascinated. He was currently reading on Warden-Commander Sophia Dryden's attempted rebellion against the throne; an event which he had heard Loghain snidely alluding to at Ostagar. When Alistair had asked Duncan – slightly shocked – _why_ the Grey Wardens would want to rebel against the king, Duncan had merely smiled vaguely and promised to explain at a later date.

Flora was supposed to be practising her writing, but was instead gazing out of the window while chewing absentmindedly on the end of her ink-pen. She had relocated herself to sit on the opposite side of the bench, her feet in her husband's lap.

"Leliana," Alistair called, spotting the bard ascending a staircase below. "Did you know that the Couslands once plotted with the Wardens to overthrow King Arland Theirin? The Cousland teyrn was _executed_ for his treachery!"

"Of course I knew that," Leliana replied with a little sniff, as she reached the third floor. "It's a fundamental part of Fereldan history."

Alistair reached down to touch Flora's bare foot as it rested on his thigh.

"My love," he murmured, lifting her slender leg by the ankle and holding it on his shoulder. "Your ancestors were _troublemakers_. Resisting Calenhad, rebelling with the Grey Wardens…!"

Flora, whose natural instinct was to be _obedient,_ was caught between disapproval and a desire to defend her forefathers.

"Well," she said, trying not to lose her train of thought as he pressed a kiss to her toes. "Maybe _your_ ancestors should have kept a closer eye on _my_ ancestors. Made sure they weren't being… naughty."

"Well, better late than never," Alistair replied solemnly, letting the book slide from his hand and reaching out to draw her onto his thighs. "I'll _happily_ keep a close eye on you now."

Forgetting about the ink-pen, Flora put her arms around his neck and embraced him enthusiastically.

Leliana decided to allow the couple a few moments more before recalling them to public obligation; reaching down to retrieve the parchment that had slipped from Flora's lap. The bard's brow furrowed as she read the three faltering sentences that Flora had managed to scribe over the course of an hour – each one barely legible.

"Alright, _amoureux_ ," the bard said at last, clearing her throat pointedly as Flora's fingers slid surreptitiously down Alistair's abdomen. "Your free time is over. You've got your first portrait sitting this evening."

Alistair let out a groan, sitting back against the window frame and putting a hand to his head.

"Ah, Maker's Breath! I forgot about that."

" _Portrait sitting?"_ repeated Flora, in confusion. "What's that?"

Her best friend grimaced, reaching out to smooth down the rumpled strands of her hair.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I should've mentioned it earlier. We have to have a portrait painted to mark the coronation. It's going to hang in that long corridor near the meeting chambers."

Flora creased her forehead, recalling the passageway that Alistair was referring to. It was lined with a series of large oil on canvas paintings of previous Theirin monarchs; the three most recent being Moira, the Rebel Queen, Maric and a dark-haired woman that must have been Rowan Guerrin, and finally, Cailen looking fidgety beside Anora.

"Oh," she said, then realised that the ink-pen had exploded its contents down the front of her tunic. "Oh, do I need to change my top?"

Leliana let out a little tut, but shook her head.

"No, the artist will paint you in the garb you wore at the coronation. This sitting is to sketch out pose and _face_ references."

Alistair groaned, stretching out cramped limbs as he rose reluctantly to his feet. He had seen portrait sittings before – Isolde Guerrin liked to get a new painting of herself done every year. This was a laborious process which involved a myriad of different outfits, the fencing off of whichever part of Redcliffe Castle she wanted to feature in the background, and the increased blood pressure of all in the vicinity. On one memorable occasion prior to her annual portrait sitting, Isolde had imported liberal amounts of Antivan pomegranate oil – she had heard that bathing in it would enhance one's youth and beauty. Unfortunately, the crate must have been dropped somewhere in transit between Rialto and Redcliffe. On being opened, the liquidous contents spilled across the flagstones in a vast, scented puddle. As Eamon had commented wryly, the great hall had smelt like an Antivan whorehouse for _weeks_.

Even as Alistair grimaced in recollection, Flora caught his eye and smiled up at him; reaching out to anchor his fingers in hers. The king blinked, then grinned back down at her, squeezing her palm against his own.

"No matter how skilled the artist," he murmured, throatily. "They'll never be able to capture the beauty of your- "

" _HURRY UP!"_ Leliana demanded, having already half-descended the stairs in an effort to move them along. "Everything is set up and _waiting_ for you!"

"I was trying to be _romantic,"_ grumbled Alistair, as Flora snickered in juvenile fashion behind him. "There had better not be any _pomegranate oil_ involved _."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: The dwarven engineer definitely made Flora's crude design a lot better, haha! As you'd expect from a professional. I borrowed the bit about the waste water being released periodically into the tidal flow from the 1860s London sewer design, which released dirty water into the saltwater of the Thames, timed with the tide!

I mentioned this before in the original, but Flo's literacy is still poor because she's dyslexic – naturally a condition which is not really understood within the context of Ferelden, lol. She definitely has the capacity to improve, but needs pretty intensive tutelage to do so.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	76. Remembering the Past

Chapter 76: Remembering the Past

Unfortunately, the portrait sitting turned out to be a somewhat lengthy process. The artist – a Denerim native who had spent so long in Orlais that he no longer sounded Fereldan – had chosen to set up his easel on the Alamarri balcony at the far end of the Landsmeet chamber. With the shutters drawn back, the muddied expanse of the plains stretched out for several miles; culminating in the low, rolling hills of the Bannorn. It was not the most attractive background for a royal portrait, but the Alamarri plains themselves had been deemed as _historically significant_ following the final battle.

Every hearth and candelabra in the Landsmeet chamber had been ignited to bolster the fading light; two braziers from the battlements had been brought down to provide additional illumination. Alistair was standing against the balcony, his hand on Flora's shoulder as she perched on a stool before him. The brush of the artist would transform stool into throne; day-clothes into ceremonial regalia; and the hearth-poker at Alistair's side would become an ornate silverite blade.

Leliana, who had an eye for the aesthetic, was hovering in the background; issuing a stream of instructions to the artist's assistant as he struggled to note them all down.

"My legs are falling asleep," Alistair hissed, without moving his head. "We've been standing here for _two candles."_

"Didn't you learn patience in the monastery?" Leliana called, lowering herself to a nearby bench before recalling yet another instruction that she needed to deliver to the beleaguered assistant.

"I'm sure they tried to teach it to me at some point," Alistair grumbled, then groaned under his breath as the _faux-Orlesian_ artist meandered towards them once more. "Oh, here he comes again to _grope_ your face some more!"

Flora grimaced as the artist came to a halt before her, cooing something unintelligible in a mangled Val Royeaux dialect that made Leliana cringe. He reached out to frame her face with his fingers, turning her head from side to side and inspecting the finely-hewn angles.

"He's going to make you look like a goddess," Alistair muttered under his breath as the artist pranced back towards his easel without sparing the king a single glance. "Which is accurate, darling. But I'm going to look like a cave troll. He's barely bothered to _look_ at me."

"Ooh, _I_ want to look like a cave troll," Flora said, enchanted at the prospect. "A cave troll in a dress."

Alistair grinned, ruffling her hair affectionately and then hastily flattening it once more after a glower from Leliana.

"Anyway, my love," he murmured in an undertone, trying not to move his mouth. "We need to think about the memorial to Duncan and the Grey Wardens."

Flora let out a strangled squawk of assent, unable to nod. Alistair continued, letting his thumb rub in slow circles over her shoulder blade.

"I don't know whether it's best to have one at Ostagar, or one here in Denerim. Or at Highever – I know he spent a lot of time there during his youth."

Flora bit her lip, anxiously. The more selfish part of her wanted the memorial to be located as close as possible; so she could go and pay proper and frequent homage to it. If it had been up to _her_ , the statue would be located within the Royal Palace itself.

"I think it should be where everyone can see it," she replied, at last. "So all of Ferelden knows about him and the rest of the Wardens. And their sacrifice."

 _Even you, Warden Stene. I wish you were here to call me a one-trick pony again._

 _I'm not even a one-trick pony anymore! I'm a show pony._

Alistair thought for a moment, brow creasing.

"There should be two memorials, then," he said, slowly. "A memorial at Ostagar to mark the loss of the Wardens. And one for Duncan, here in Denerim. With a proper inscription to explain who he was."

Unable to resist, Flora twisted her head and pressed her lips to Alistair's fingers as he rested them gently on her shoulder. At a reactionary squawk of protest from the artist, she returned to her original position, trying not to beam. Although Flora had known Duncan for only five weeks; the words that he had spoken to her were inscribed on the inside of her skull, as though carved there by some skilled engraver.

 _In Rivain, we have mages who commune with the spirits as you do, young sister. They number few, and even fewer in Ferelden. I think you may be one, Flora._

 _You have a rare and precious gift. I would not trade your unique talent for all the conjured flame in Thedas._

 _Use it well, little sister!_

With his words, the Warden-Commander had transformed Flora from defective mage into _spirit healer;_ the first person since she had been taken from Herring to truly understand and _appreciate_ her utility. It had been a ground-breaking moment in Flora's life, and the foundation upon which she had forged much of her strength during the trials of recent months.

"It should be something _Warden-ish,"_ she breathed, Duncan's low, faintly accented voice echoing between her ears. "Like… a griffon. With a ponytail and an earring like he used to wear!"

Alistair, assuming she was joking, snorted. When Flora fell into a sulky silence, he blinked; realising that she had been serious.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry," he said, ducking quickly to kiss the top of her head. "I didn't realise that you were – _anyway._ I like the idea of the griffon, but nobody apart from us will know what the earring and ponytail means. They'll just assume that the griffon was… very fashionable."

Flora relented; seeing his point.

"Maybe we should have a shrine to Duncan in our bedroom instead," she wondered out loud, and Alistair gave a strangled cough.

"Ah, maybe." He hastily changed the subject. "Have you thought any more about names for the baby, sweetheart? We need something that'll strike fear into the hearts of the Orlesians, in case they ever entertain thoughts of invading again."

" _Stingray,"_ Flora said, immediately. "For a boy or a girl."

Alistair abandoned any attempt to keep himself in the required pose; slumping back against the Alamarri balcony with a guffaw that reverberated to the rafters.

" _Stingray?!"_

Flora beamed: she had not intended to make Alistair laugh, but found that she did not mind the outcome this time.

" _King Stingray I_ would certainly strike fear into the hearts of the Orlesians," chimed in Leliana benevolently, from beside the confused artist.

Still chuckling to himself, Alistair sunk to his knees before Flora, encircling her belly with the span of his hands and pressing his lips to the wool-covered curve.

"I love our little Stingray," he breathed earnestly, raising green-flecked eyes above the apex of Flora's stomach. "And I love my best girl, who made me laugh during the worst days of the Blight, and still makes me laugh now."

That night, Alistair woke up from a nightmare so realistic that he could still taste the metallic tang of fear in his mouth as he sat bolt upright, staring mindlessly into the darkness. The bedchamber was veiled in shadow, lit only from its eastern face by the muted glow of the hearth. The room was scented with the gently burnt scent of cedarwood, which mingled not-unpleasantly with the salty air creeping in through the open window.

Alistair could not remember what had transpired in the Fade that had caused his heart to leap forward so erratically. He had a suspicion that it was one of the two subjects that fuelled the majority of his nightmares: either some haunting memory of Ostagar, or a macabre vision of harm befalling his former sister-warden.

Reflexively, he reached out beneath the furs and felt for his wife. There was a dent on the pillow beside him and a hollow in the mattress where her body had curled; yet the bed beside him was empty. With an irrational twist of alarm in his gut, Alistair pushed himself up against the cushions, squinting through the shadows.

Just then, the door opened a fraction and Flora sidled in, barefoot in her nightgown and clutching a candle in a holster. She smiled when she saw Alistair awake, the small flame bobbing in the gloom as she padded across the flagstones.

"This is the _third time_ I've had to use the privy tonight," she whispered, rolling her eyes as she set the candle down on a low cabinet. "I think the baby's head is pressed against my bladder."

As Alistair set eyes on his wife, he suddenly – with a recoil of horror - recalled the subject of his nightmare. A choked sound of dismay escaped his throat, and Flora peered at him in alarm.

"Flo, I _hit_ you!" Alistair breathed, a distinct tremor to his words as they filtered through the darkness.

"What?" Flora asked, confused. _"When?"_

She sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching over the mound of blankets and furs to touch Alistair's paling face.

"When we were fighting the blood mage in the warehouse," he muttered. "I- I _punched_ you in the face. I punched you, and you were _four months with child. Maker's Breath!"_

He passed a hand roughly over his face with a grimace of almost physical pain, bending double.

Flora stared at her best friend for several moments, his powerful frame wracked with the twin wolves of guilt and grief. She had no memory of the fight against the powerful maleficar; but had been regaled on its details by Wynne later the same day.

"Alistair," she said with Herring logicality, squinting through the gloom in an effort to see his face. "You were mind-controlled by a blood mage. It wasn't _you_ that hit me. We've been over this before."

"I could have hurt the baby," Alistair breathed, clearly not listening to her. "I could have _killed_ it, if I'd hit you anywhere else."

"It wasn't _you,"_ started Flora, then changed tactic. "Anyway, the baby was fine. It wasn't hurt at all."

She reached out to take his hand and placed it on the curve of her belly; the little creature obligingly gave a vigorous wriggle. Alistair inhaled unsteadily, sliding his hand between the buttons of her nightgown to caress the fleshy mound protectively. For a moment, Flora thought that he had calmed; then his face contorted once more.

"What kind of father am I?" the king asked her, tremulously. "One who endangers the life of his child?"

"Well, what kind of _mother_ am I?" Flora countered fiercely, her pale, solemn eyes bright within the gloom. "I was _five_ months with child when I led our armies against the Darkspawn. I felt the baby move the night before the _final battle,_ and I still fought. I went to face the Archdemon convinced that we were _both_ going to die."

Alistair was silent for a moment, the green flecks in his hazel eyes illuminated by the muted light of the hearth.

"But you did it because there was no alternative," he replied, quietly. "Denerim would have been overrun if the Archdemon hadn't been slain. We would all have died if you hadn't fought. You had no choice."

"And neither did _you,"_ Flora replied immediately, having bargained on Alistair reaching this conclusion. "You were mind-controlled. You had no choice, either."

Alistair stared at her for a moment, his mouth opening to offer a counter argument and then realising that there _was_ none. Flora pressed her advantage, crawling over the blankets and clambering bodily into her husband's lap; wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.

"I'm a Herring limpet," she said into his shoulder, the words muffled. "You'll never pry me off."

Alistair drew her tight against his chest, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head. He inhaled unsteadily, combing tender fingers through loose strands of dark red hair and thumbing the curve of her ear.

"If it were up to me, I'd never let you go," he replied, softly.

Weary from being woken three times already that night, Flora fell asleep on his chest within minutes. Alistair remained sitting upright against the cushions, holding his wife in his lap and stroking a hand determinedly up and down the line of her slender back.

 _And I'll never let anything hurt you again,_ he thought quietly to himself. _I swear it._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Quick little chapter today, I'm back in Wales and it was my birthday yesterday so it's been busy!

Thank you ,replying to reviews in the reviews!


	77. Dealing With The Former Queen

Chapter 77: Dealing With The Former Queen

Over a breakfast of herbed eggs and unleavened bread in the Royal bedchamber, Eamon briefed the king on the day's obligations. The majority of the afternoon would be spent in preparation for the progress, which was scheduled to depart the next day. Alistair, Flora, Wynne, Teagan, Zevran and an elite selection of Royal Guard would be embarking upon a two month long journey, which would not see them return to the capital until the early autumn. Fergus had also loaned them several Highever mabari to join the dogs from the palace kennels, as well as the use of his best knight, Ser Gilmore.

"Do _you_ want some eggs, Arl Eamon?" Flora offered the Chancellor amiably, as he paused for breath.

"I've already broken my fast," murmured Eamon with some reluctance, trying not to eye the steaming bowl on the table before him. "And Isolde has told me to watch my waistline."

"Go on," Alistair wheedled, nudging the bowl of eggs across the table towards the arl. "They're delicious. Flo and I won't tell, we _promise."_

As Flora gave a solemn nod of confirmation, Eamon relented; forking a generous helping of buttered, chive-sprinkled eggs onto a spare platter. Alistair poured his uncle a fresh tankard of ale as Flora stifled a yawn, shifting on the chair beside him.

"So, preparations for the progress are happening this afternoon," the king repeated, tilting his head absentmindedly towards a seagull's clarion call from the window. "And I'm going to go down to the kennels and see the dogs. Fergus' bitch – Saela - whelped a litter yesterday evening. I want to choose the strongest two pups for Flo; they'll be ready to leave their mother by the time we return to Denerim."

Alistair reached over to pat Flora's knee, and she smiled at him with slight trepidation. Flora had not had much experience with Mabari – nobody in Herring could either _afford,_ or had any _need_ for one, and the Circle Tower had cats to keep the mice population under control. Jethro – Finian's dog, who had perished defending his unconscious master from the Darkspawn during the final battle – had been friendly enough; but also had a tendency of barking loudly and putting his paws up on her shoulders. Flora, who was on the short side, had found this a little unnerving.

 _Which is ridiculous,_ she thought sternly to herself. _I'm a Fereldan native, descended from the oldest Alamarri tribes. Mabari hounds are part of my ancestry._

 _Probably_ literally, _if the rumours about my namesake, Teyrna Reginalda, were true. Ha!_

Eamon finished forking down the last mouthful of eggs, casting a rueful eye down at his own waistline.

"It feels as though I've put on a hundredweight since I've been in Denerim," he said, easing himself back in his chair. "Too much ale and rich food. Perhaps Isolde has a point."

"Personally, I think it's a great improvement from when you were wasting away from the maleficar's poison," Alistair countered, and the arl gave a soft grunt of agreement.

 _Jowan,_ Flora thought to herself. _I'll have to light my candles tonight. I don't know when we'll next be in a Chantry._

"What's planned for this morning?" Alistair asked, wiping his mouth with the napkin before tossing it onto the table. Wandering over to the mirror, he picked up the small shaving blade and inspected the rough stubble rising on his neck. "I have a feeling you're going to say _five hour meeting._ Say it quickly, it'll be less painful."

"No, not a meeting," replied Eamon, and then paused.

The hesitation in the arl's voice drew the attention of both king and queen. Alistair put down his shaving blade and turned around, eyebrows rising in silent query.

"Uncle?"

"The stonemasons' guild has finished a programme of repairs at Fort Drakon," the arl said, softly. "They've invited you both to come and see the work."

Alistair inhaled unsteadily, his gaze swivelling to meet Flora's solemn stare. From her face, it was clear that she was thinking along similar lines.

 _I don't have any good memories from that place. First, Howe held me prisoner there for three days, and then…_

As shocking and unexpected as a traitor's blade, the Archdemon's fanged maw rose to the forefront of Flora's memory; clear as if she had seen it only the previous day.

 _It carried its head low, like a snake; hooded eyes flickering and full of malice._

Beside the mirror, Alistair had gone several shades paler, and Flora suddenly felt very sorry for him.

 _I don't even remember killing the Archdemon on the rooftop. I remember creating my barrier, and letting my spirits in – then a black tide floods my mind, the sound of the Waking Sea in my ears._

 _Poor Alistair; his first memory of Fort Drakon is seeing me, seemingly Tranquil, docile in the arms of Arl Howe. His second memory is of me 'sacrificing' myself to the Archdemon on the rooftop._

 _No wonder he doesn't want to go back there._

"I can go and see the repair work," Flora said, impulsively. "I don't mind going, Arl Eamon. Alistair, you can stay here if you want."

Alistair shook his head, the corners of his mouth pulling tight with barely restrained emotion.

"No, my love," he replied quietly, turning back to the mirror and picking up the shaving blade with a trembling hand. "Of course I'm coming with you."

A moment later he let out a muffled curse, dropping the blade with a clatter onto the dresser as a bead of blood swelled on his jaw. Flora pushed herself upright, feeling the baby fidget within her belly as she went to Alistair's side. No longer able to heal her best friend's shaving nicks with a kiss from her parted lips, she instead licked her finger and pressed it against the cut. Alistair stared down at her with a myriad of emotions fighting for dominance within his green-speckled eyes.

"I'm still here," Flora whispered up at him, softly enough that her words did not reach Arl Eamon. "I'm still here, you're still here. That's what _matters."_

She withdrew her finger, her own pale grey eyes searching his face. Alistair took a deep, steadying breath; ducking to kiss her on the forehead.

"Right, so – Fort Drakon this morning," he said, turning back towards his uncle. "The fortress is a vital part of Denerim's defences; it's good to know that it's been restored."

Flora smiled at him surreptitiously, proud of her best friend's raised chin and stiffened shoulders. She knew that Alistair had his own version of _deep breath, chin up, eyes straight,_ and that he was utilising it now.

"Good, I'll speak to the steward and get the horses prepared," replied Eamon. "Will you be ready to leave soon?"

"Yes," replied Alistair, and there was no tremor in his voice. "As soon as I've gone to see Anora Mac Tir."

Flora, who had just sat down on the bed to tighten the leather strap around her knee, looked up in alarm. She had naively assumed that Alistair had forgotten about the thrown-tankard incident from several days prior; the cut on her head was now merely a small scab resting atop a fading bruise.

However, it was now clear that Alistair had not forgotten – or forgiven – the contempt that Anora had shown to his wife. Instead, he had deliberately waited for the passage of a day to dull the sharp edge of his fury; the blind rage cooling into a more calculated anger.

As the king strode towards the newest section of the Royal Palace with his fingers grasped tightly around the hand of his queen, he went over - for a fifth time - the speech that he had planned the night before. Unlike Flora, who spoke best in bouts of spontaneity, Alistair felt more confident when he had had time to prepare his words in advance.

Flora, close at his side, was experiencing feelings of mild trepidation. She had not heard Alistair's meticulously planned speech, and was half-expecting the words _off with her head!_ to emerge from her husband's mouth. As they turned onto the wide, sunlit corridor with the faded ochre and cream tapestries hanging from the wall, she tried to think of ways to save Anora's slender neck from the headsman's blade.

The Royal Guard posted outside the Mac Tir quarters gave a prompt salute; they had been anticipating the king's arrival. Alistair barely spared a glance for the desecrated Mac Tir dragon above the entrance, heading without pause towards the doors. The guards hastened to open them and Alistair strode through with eyes glinting like chips of bronze.

Flora followed him into the chamber, grimacing at the stagnant odour of mildew and rotten food. The room was in no better condition than it had been two days prior. The only significant difference was that now the bedsheets had been hung up over the grimy windows, shrouding the chamber in dull gloom. The lifeless hearth was filled with ashes and the sad remnants of Anora's royal gowns.

Anora herself was sitting at the end of the bed, clad in the same nightgown, her hair hanging in loose tendrils around her face. Her eyes were sunken, her skin greasy and mottled, and she looked far older than her three decades. Despite the fact that the woman had thrown a tankard towards her head the last time that they had come face to face, Flora suddenly felt desperately sorry for her.

Alistair paused for the briefest moment at the general disarray, then strode over to the windows and methodically yanked loose the bedsheets. Sunlight filtered in through the dirty glass, casting a mellow pallor over the chaos within. Anora flinched, putting up a hand reflexively to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness.

"I want to _see_ that you understand what I'm saying," Alistair said over his shoulder, the clipped Theirin drawl shaping each word as it emerged. "So that there's no chance of confusion."

Anora looked at him, the resignation writ clear across her face. It was clear that she expected either the block or the stocks; at the very least, some manner of public humiliation as a consequence for her impulsive throw. Alistair gazed back at her, and Flora suddenly thought that she saw a shred of pity mingled within the cold, refined anger of his glare.

"I don't know whether you deliberately sought to hit my wife with that tankard, or whether you've just got poor aim," he started, with a faint vein of Marician menace. "I think it must be the latter, because you seemed to have _missed_ a few important things recently. You know that the Blight is ended, don't you? That the Archdemon is nearly two months dead?"

Anora let her pointed chin drop forward a fraction; she was not ignorant of recent events. Alistair continued, his tone balancing on the line between anger that was controlled and anger that was _not._

"And the person responsible for _both_ of those feats is standing beside me. My wife will be named in the archives as the _Hero of Ferelden;_ vanquisher of the Fifth Blight; saviour of Denerim; gatherer of the first united force in the nation's history. And you _disrespected_ her! All because you believe that she's ' _taken'_ your rightful position as Queen."

Alistair's voice lashed across the room like a whip, sharp and stinging. Anora opened her mouth but he raised his voice, retaining control of the conversation.

"You didn't lose your status as Queen at the Landsmeet, or when I took Flora as my wife. You lost your status as Queen when you failed to take action to protect your country; when you and your father let the Blight spread over the south for _months,_ denying its existence even when refugees were pouring into Denerim in their thousands."

Anora stared at him, the whites of her eyes standing out stark against the pale blue irises. Her bony shoulders, which stuck out through the thin material of the nightgown, hunched over, and she began to twist her wedding ring around her finger.

"I'd… rather the axe than the noose," she murmured, her voice hoarse and rasping.

Alistair looked at her, and his voice softened a fraction.

"I'm not going to have you executed; you're no longer a threat to me," he said, quietly. "But it's time to accept reality and... forge a new path for yourself. I won't have you wasting away in this chamber, for starters – you have obligations to your father's neglected teyrnir. I'll send servants to clean your quarters – you're going to permit them to do this – and I'll have some linens and clothing sent up. The guards will take you into the grounds, if you want some fresh air."

Alistair paused to take a breath and when he spoke again, the cold steeliness had returned to his voice.

"However, if you raise a single finger against my wife again – or disrespect her in _any way –_ I won't be able to guarantee your safety. Nor will I be inclined to do so. Do you understand me?"

Anora paused, and then tilted her head an infinitesimal degree.

"Yes, King Alistair."

"Just _Alistair_ is fine," the king replied, returning to the doorway to reclaim Flora's fingers. "After all, you are my… sister-in-law."

Flora, who was both proud of and slightly awed by the authority in her best friend's voice, squeezed his palm tightly. Alistair returned the pressure, nodding for the guards to open the door.

"I wasn't trying to hit you with the tankard, Florence. I swear to the Maker."

The words filtered out from the grubby room as they made to leave. Flora turned around, her solemn eyes focusing once more on the forlorn figure sitting on the end of the bed.

"I believe you," she said, impulsively. "Your aim is as bad as mine."

As the Royal couple headed back down the wide, sunlit passage; Flora cast an admiring glance at her tall, golden-headed husband. The light streaming through the leaded windows illuminated the strong profile of his face, the prominent angle of the Marician jaw and high, noble brow.

"You spoke very well in there," she whispered, proudly. "Very _commanding_."

Alistair let out a rueful laugh, bringing their conjoined fingers to his mouth to plant a kiss on her knuckles.

"I practised what I was going to say last night, my love," he admitted, cheerfully. "I had all my lines planned out in my head."

"Well, it didn't sound rehearsed at all," the loyal Flora replied, without hesitation. "And… thank you for being merciful towards Anora. I was worried that you were going to chop her head off."

Alistair gave a little grimace and did not answer immediately, reaching out to steady her arm as they descended the wide stone staircase that led back to the old heart of the palace. The west corridor was in the middle of repairs – one wall had crumbled away, leaving a gaping hole that looked out onto the estuary.

As always, Flora paused to take in the view. She gazed down at the milky green stretch of water below, crowded on both sides with a sprawl of myriad structures. The tall, pointed tower of the Grand Chantry rose up like the hat of a priestess, casting a stern shadow across the Square of the Bride. Flora swung her gaze from the impressive buildings in the noble district – she knew well enough what they looked like – and sought out instead the high walls of the alienage. It was huddled on the southern face of the city, a desolate labyrinth that gained very little sunlight.

 _The new waste-water channel will have been finished by the time we return from this progress,_ she thought to herself, determinedly. _Then I'll think about what can be done next to improve the alienage. I'll try and meet with their ha- har- harhan – their leader._

Flora's thoughts were interrupted by Alistair wrapping his arms around her from behind, encircling her belly with proud, protective tenderness. He rested his chin atop her head, his eyes fixed not on the city but on the mottled blue and white sky; the sun burning through the last of the morning mists.

"I _did_ want Anora dead at first," he murmured, fingers caressing the swollen curve of flesh. "But, Teagan was right; I shouldn't make decisions when I'm angry. Anora isn't a threat anymore, and… she should have a chance of showing some loyalty. Her father – as much as it pains me to admit it – is beginning to make amends, so she should be given an opportunity to do so as well. Apparently, she was a decent politician before she let her own father usurp her."

Flora twisted her head to beam up at him and Alistair ducked to brush his lips softly against her approving mouth.

"Hard to believe that going to see _Anora Mac Tir_ was actually the _high point_ of the morning," he added, a grim note creeping into his tone.

The eyes of both king and queen swung above the rooftops in silent synchrony; resting on the ancient basalt citadel that sat on the very edge of the city.

 _Fort Drakon._

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOhhh this was a good chapter to write! I think Alistair showed a lot of maturity when dealing with Anora – once he'd calmed down, lol. It was also nice to write him acting 'kingly', even if he had to practice his speech the night before, haha. It's hardened Alistair in action – he's showing Anora some compassion, but it's within rigid guidelines and on his own terms… and the threat of punishment if she steps out of line!

Castles like the palace at Denerim – or any large castle – would have been in a perpetual state of ongoing repair. There would always be bits falling down, or holes in the walls… it's why I don't mind the holes in Skyhold, lol. It's normal to have a bit of disrepair at all times!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	78. Return to Fort Drakon

Chapter 78: Return to Fort Drakon

Like its counterpart at Ostagar, the ancient Tevinter stronghold of Fort Drakon was built to _intimidate_ ; to loom ominously above the buildings huddled in its far-reaching shadow. With the jagged towers and battlements silhouetted against the morning sun, it appeared more weapon than structure.

They could not take the most straightforward route to the fortress, since the roadway atop the city wall had been mangled by the Archdemon during the last, chaotic chase towards Fort Drakon. Alistair had urged the resolute mare forwards at breakneck pace; while Flora had shielded them from the angry dragon as it clawed its way along the wall in their wake.

Instead, Eamon led them on a circuitous route around the rear of the Grand Chantry, across the Square of the Bride and over the traders' bridge; thus avoiding the majority of the crowds. Alistair and Flora, perched atop the same saddle as usual, followed the arl's tawny mare, alongside Leliana and Leonas Bryland. Many of the soldiers from the Royal Army had been recruited to assist the stonemasons, their efforts overseen by the new general.

Flora could feel Alistair shifting unhappily in the saddle behind her, trying not to look at the looming tower as it gradually expanded to take up the skyline ahead. He had said very little to either Leonas or Eamon on the journey down from the palace, and since Flora was not an especially _talkative_ individual; it was left to Leliana to make conversation. Fortunately, this was the bard's speciality. She managed to maintain a light and natural dialogue with both Leonas and Eamon for the entire duration of the journey; veering between discussing the coronation, the wedding, the entertainment and the weather.

Finally, they turned onto the final approach leading up to the fortress – a narrow, cobbled incline lined with crumbling and barely recognisable statues of Fereldan heroes from Ages past.

"Flora, I've had some travelling clothes sent up to your bedchamber," Leliana called across from where she sat astride her grey mare, finally beginning to exhaust her conversation reserves. "Do you have much skill with a needle? You'll need to let all your tunics out over the course of the two months."

Flora nodded; she had been darning holes in fishing nets since she was a child.

"I'm going to be _huge_ by then," she breathed, glad to be distracted from the towering spectre of Fort Drakon ahead. "I'm going to be as round as I am tall. I'll be _rolling_ back to Denerim!"

"My sweet little pumpkin," Alistair chimed in, momentarily roused from his brooding. "Wynne says that a big, strong babe is a _good_ thing."

"Says the person that doesn't have to _push it out,"_ Flora retorted, and her best friend grinned and pressed a kiss to the back of her head.

Then the long shadow of Drakon's highest spire fell over the road, and all conversation died away. The ancient fortress – far older than the city it now guarded – still bore the scars from the final battle. The eastern face was blackened from dragon fire, the charring deep enough that it could not be washed away. One of the lower towers had been knocked down by a glancing blow from the Archdemon's wing; the rubble had been removed, but the fortress now seemed oddly asymmetrical. The gatehouse had been swarmed by the Darkspawn as they responded to the clarion call of their old god for aid, and now stood only with the aid of extensive scaffolding.

The horses came to a halt outside the main entrance as the portcullis was raised in slow, creaking increments.

"Look at that," Eamon murmured in an undertone to Leonas, gesturing to the walls at either side of the entrance. The stone was disfigured with hundreds of claw marks; vicious, deranged slashes as though the enemy had been trying to burrow their way inside the fortress.

"Aye," the general replied wryly, nudging his horse forwards beneath the raised portcullis. "I understand well enough what damage the Darkspawn are capable of inflicting."

He raised his maimed hand in an ironic salute, squinting up against the midday sun. The stonemasons had downed tools for the royal visit; dozens of workers stood in neat rows at the centre of the courtyard. Their numbers were bolstered by fifty men from the Royal Army, who were grateful not to be drilling in full armour beneath the Solace sun.

As several workers hurried forward to take their horses, Flora felt Alistair take a deep breath behind her; her best friend steeling himself for what was to come. Dropping agilely onto the cobblestones, he immediately reached upwards to lift his wife down in his wake. Alistair's eyes moved briefly over her face, as though reassuring himself that she was alive and well before him. This confirmed, he exhaled long and steadily; and although her husband was not currently wearing the crown of state, Flora saw him lift his chin to bear its invisible pressure. He did not spare a glance for the high balcony overhead where Howe had flaunted his 'Tranquil' Cousland trophy; much like she was determinedly ignoring the corner of the courtyard where Riordan had plunged to his death.

"Ready, my dear?" he asked, softly.

When Flora gave a little nod, Alistair reached out and took her arm in courtly manner. As he did so, the flat of his callused thumb brushed over the fourth finger of her left hand, touching _Mairyn's Star_ and the fish-rope wedding ring as though they were talismans of fortitude.

Together, the king and queen of Ferelden headed across the cobblestones to greet the master of the stone masons. Alistair had met the master mason before, during one of the countless council meetings that had taken place in the post-Blight weeks.

"Master Answald," Alistair said, recalling the man's name just in time. "I'd like to introduce _my wife,_ Florence Cousland."

Pride gilded the king's words, his eyes warm as he glanced down to where she stood dutifully at his side. A small ripple of excitement went through the crowd of assembled workers; and there was a shuffling of feet as those at the back shifted for a better view. Several of the soldiers, recalling the slight, crimson-ponytailed figure standing at the head of the Fereldan free army, lifted their arms in a salute.

The master mason bowed once more towards Flora, a slight tremble to his knees.

"It's an honour – _no –_ the _greatest_ honour to welcome you, your majesty," he croaked, stumbling over his words in his nervousness. "Your… Hero-of-Ferelden-ness."

There was a somewhat bemused silence, as Leliana let out a soft, Orlesian snort. The master mason was now as red as a beetroot, a bead of sweat rolling down his nose.

Flora, recalling the haughty coolness of her natural face, smiled and stepped forward. She put her hand on the man's elbow, resting nail-bitten fingers on his forearm.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the repairs," Flora went on to say, with the soft, throaty and entirely incongruous intonation of a northern peasant. "Let's go inside."

Beaming, the master mason proceeded inside the main body of the fortress with the queen on his arm. Unable to help himself, Alistair cast a quick glance up at the high balcony where Howe and Flora had once stood. To his intense irritation, it appeared to have survived the final fight with the Archdemon unscathed.

The lower levels of Fort Drakon had been swarmed by the Darkspawn during the last frantic moments of the final battle. After the death of the Archdemon, they had fled in mindless confusion, only to meet the division of soldiers sent by Leonas Bryland to aid the troops at the fortress. Whilst on the lower floors – which mostly consisted of barracks and armouries – they had left deep claw marks on walls and doors; dislodged flagstones and smashed every item of furniture in their path.

The master mason led them down the wide central corridor, a double height stone passageway lit by iron rings studded with candles hanging from the ceiling. Proudly, he gestured to each refurbished armoury and garrison; showing off the re-tiled floors and freshly plastered walls. Leonas Bryland, in his capacity as general, asked pertinent questions about the replenishment of the armoury stock, which the mason could answer to a limited degree.

"Four armouries out of the six have been fully restocked with new weapons," he replied, gesturing them towards a circular staircase. "The other two still require weapon-stands before they can be used."

"We don't need to wait for _weapon-stands,"_ replied Leonas, with a small grunt. "Lean the bloody pole-arms against the wall if need be."

"Aye, General. I'll see to it."

Alistair took Flora's hand in his as they approached the circular staircase, noting the steepness of the steps. She smiled sideways at him, appreciating the concern.

"Everyone else can go in front," she said, apologetically. "It takes me longer to go up stairs."

As they brought up the rear of the party – with only the ubiquitous quartet of Royal Guard behind them – Alistair squeezed Flora's fingers tightly, dropping his voice to a murmur.

"This isn't – _traumatising_ for you, is it?" he asked, in an undertone. "My love."

"Eh?"

"You _were_ here as Howe's prisoner for three days."

Alistair's face contorted as his mouth formed the name of the man who had ultimately superseded Loghain on his list of enemies. Flora thought for a moment, her eyes fixed on the stone steps as she plodded determinedly up them one at a time.

"No-oo," she said slowly after a moment, brow furrowing. "When I remember being here, the memories – they're not very clear. Even though it only happened a few months ago. It's like… they're blurred. The colours are diluted, I can't remember what people said. I can't remember how I _felt_."

As Flora spoke, she realised that this obscuring of her memories was most likely the work of her spirits.

 _They took the sharp edges from the memories of my imprisonment, so that I couldn't cut myself on them later._

At this poignant manifestation of how her spirits had looked out for her well-being, Flora felt hot tears starting to well beneath her lashes. Not wanting to proceed up the steps with blurred vision, she stopped and rubbed her sleeve roughly over her eyes. Alistair reflexively reached out to embrace her, his eyes bruised with concern.

"My love, if you want to leave, just say the word," he murmured, smoothing a tender palm over her tousled head. "We don't have to stay here a moment longer."

"No, I'm fine to stay," Flora replied, blinking back her tears fiercely. "Anyway, they're giving us _lunch_. I don't want to miss that!"

Alistair smiled down at her, a touch wistfully.

"Alright, sweetheart."

The master mason showed them into the officers' quarters, a series of austere stone chambers with little to distinguish them from the barracks below. He led them through a sitting area missing most of its furniture, then into a dining room that Flora vaguely recognised. The windowless chamber was lit by torches set in recesses along the wall; and underfoot there was a distinctive black and white tiled pattern set into the floor.

Flora fought her subconscious for the memory – her spirits had done an exceedingly efficient job of obscuring her days spent as Howe's prisoner. While she searched the recesses of her mind, they took their seats at the long table in the centre of the room. A pair of Leonas Bryland's retainers had brought out a cauldron of meat stew and a vegetable pottage for Flora, along with hunks of crusty bread and salty cheese.

"You can barely tell that the Darkspawn overran this place," Leliana said admiringly to the master mason, who flushed and mumbled something incoherent under his breath. "It's very impressive."

"Took _weeks_ to get rid of the smell," the mason replied, with a curl of the lip. "We had to build a fire in every room and burnt all the herbs we could lay our hands on. Their stench was worse than an open privy in summer."

Leliana did not appreciate such graphic detail during their meal; but politeness overruled her distaste and she shot a sweet smile at the man.

"You've all done an excellent job, then. It's fortunate that the General was able to spare some troops to assist with the repairs."

Leonas paused in his conversation with Alistair to let out a small, nonchalant grunt. He was gripping a piece of stew-soaked bread awkwardly in his maimed hand – fifty years of using five fingers had left him ill-prepared for having only three. The two men were busy discussing the guards that would be accompanying the royal progress.

Alistair listened closely to the details, asking the occasional question in-between ladling stew into his mouth. Beside him, Flora suddenly dropped her spoon onto the table with a clatter; eyes widening.

"I _remember_ being here before," she breathed, swivelling her pale gaze to where Alistair sat at the head of the table. "Arl Howe made me come and eat dinner with him. He was sitting where _you_ were sitting!"

Alistair's resulting expression was one of mingled alarm and disgust; he looked almost as though he wanted to jump out of the seat immediately. The rest of the table had fallen attentively quiet – Flora rarely spoke about what had happened to her during her three days as Howe's prisoner. They knew that the treacherous arl had not gone so far as to _assault_ her, but the rest of her time in Fort Drakon remained a mystery.

Flora sought to clarify the image in her own mind, holding it up to the light of her memory.

"I was pretending to be Tranquil," she continued slowly, staring unseeing at the hunk of ragged bread on the plate before her. "I had to – I think I had to serve the food? Or the wine, I can't remember."

Flora was fascinated by the gradual emergence of the memory- she had a firm grasp on the image now, and was tugging it from her subconscious like a loose strand of wool from a fraying jumper.

 _He made me sit on his knee while he ate. I wasn't allowed to eat anything, even though my stomach was rumbling. I remember thinking how horribly wrong his hand looked on my leg; the knuckles bony and the skin covered with liver-spots._

Seeing Alistair's face, Flora decided not to mention that particular part of her memory.

"Then Loghain came in through the door – _that_ door over there – and I wanted to _kill_ him," she said instead, her eyes distant as she remembered the surge of blind rage that had swelled in her stomach on seeing the traitorous general. "But I couldn't react, obviously. Or they'd know I wasn't really Tranquil."

"How did Mac Tir react on seeing you?" Eamon asked softly, his pale green Guerrin stare focused unblinking on her thoughtful face.

Flora's brow creased as she pulled the memory out further; examining it like a piece of clouded sea-glass extracted from a rock pool.

"Loghain was angry with Howe," she said, slowly. "He said that illegally Tranquilising me was… it was a _waste_ , and not a Fereldan thing to do. He was really furious, actually. And then he laughed when a servant came in and said that Howe's estate had been burnt down. Told Howe that he'd brought it on himself."

A silent Alistair shifted in his seat – wishing fervently that he could move elsewhere than the vacated chair of Rendon Howe – and reached out for Flora's hand under the table. Flora took it, entwining their fingers and squeezing their palms tightly together.

 _I'm not going to probe my mind anymore,_ she thought determinedly to herself. _My spirits obscured those memories for a reason. What's that old expression?_

 _Let sleeping Mabari lie._

"As much as it was satisfying to see Howe's head broken apart like an egg," Leonas commented drily, picking up his abandoned spoon. "I wouldn't have minded getting my hands on him. Both for his kidnapping of you, lass, and for what he did to your parents. I'd known Bryce for thirty years."

Flora bit into a hunk of bread and considered for a moment whether she would have wanted Howe to be tortured.

 _He killed my parents; which I'm outraged about more on principle – I don't remember enough about them to take it personally. He murdered my nephew – Fergus' son. He sent assassins after me and Alistair._

 _Ooh, we did end up meeting Zevran as a result of that, though. So, not all bad._

 _Would I have countenanced torture for him?_

 _No. Death, yes. Even a messy death – which is what I ended up giving him. But not torture._

She glanced sideways, noticing that a slightly pale Alistair had put down his spoon. Feeling guilty for putting her best friend off his lunch – he always went very quiet whenever Howe was mentioned – she gave his fingers a squeeze. He swallowed and dutifully returned the pressure, but his spoon remained on the table for the remainder of the meal.

After lunch, the tour of the refurbished Fort Drakon continued. The master mason led them around the upper quarters, pointing out freshly plastered strategy rooms, holding cells and officers' residences. Conscious of her best friend - who was still brooding on thoughts of Howe - Flora did not point out the arl's bedchamber. She had spent a single, restless night in Howe's bed, fortunately without Howe alongside her. Later, Flora had learnt that Loghain had summoned the arl to the Royal palace and kept him there for countless hours on the pretence of a meeting.

"Look at the thickness of these walls," Leliana said admiringly, dragging her fingertips across one particular half-metre wide section. "During the Avvar rebellion in the Steel Age, the warlord Balak laid siege to this place, with little success. Isn't there an old saying, Arl Leonas: _if one wishes to take Denerim, one must first take Fort Drakon?"_

Leonas gave a grunt of assent; he had indeed heard of this traditional adage.

They had come to a pause at the foot of yet another circular staircase, plain and nondescript. There was nothing to distinguish it from previous ones they had taken, yet Flora's mind gave a sudden twinge of recognition. Beside her, Alistair stiffened; his hand clutching hers several degrees tighter.

"We've managed to repair the western spire," the master mason said, hesitantly. "The lower turret is still scaffolded, but it'll look good as new once we're done. But… this tower, we've not been able to make much headway on."

"Is it badly damaged?" Eamon asked, casting an eye up at the nondescript stone steps. "It seems reasonably intact from within."

"Oh, there's no _internal_ damage, my lord," the mason hastened to explain. "It's… the roof. It's – well."

Alistair shot a sideways glance at Flora, who was shifting from foot to foot with nervous curiosity. Leliana had also fallen uncharacteristically quiet, her pale blue gaze swinging towards them. All three were fully aware of this particular tower's significance.

 _This is where the Blight was stopped. This was where the Archdemon was slain._

"It'll be easier if I show you, my lord," continued the mason, with a slightly helpless shrug. "If you'll follow me."

Flora, conscious both of her sore knee and heavy stomach, once again dropped back to the rear of the party. Alistair reached out to take her elbow, the movement mindless; his face cast in a shadow of reminiscence. He didn't speak until they were halfway up the spiralling steps, and even then his voice was quiet and hollow in tone.

"The worst moment of my life was on this rooftop, Flo."

Flora's heart gave a little lurch; she knew full well what he was referring to. Coming to a halt on the narrow twist of the shadowed stairs, she reached out to put her hand on his arm, her eyes anxiously searching his face.

"Don't come up," she said, impulsively. "I'll say you've got indigestion."

Alistair laughed, but there was no humour in the sound.

"Might as well see if the place looks like it does in my nightmares," he replied, the words bleak and hollow. "At least it'll make them more accurate in the future."

They climbed the rest of the steps hand-in-hand, with Flora silently deciding that she was not going to release her husband's fingers until they were safely back inside. The stairs above them began to lighten in small increments as they approached the top of the tower, and then they heard Eamon's astounded voice filtering down towards them.

" _Maker's Breath!"_

Then followed a wry reply from Loghain: "I take it you haven't been up here before. It's certainly a… a _sight,_ isn't it?"

Alistair swallowed, and felt Flora's fingers tighten around his own. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his chin and led her around the last sharp twist of the steps. Sunlight met them at the top from the open doorway, momentarily dazzling.

Once they had both recovered their eyesight, the former Wardens stepped out onto the rooftop where the Fifth Blight had been officially ended.

"We weren't sure whether to try and… repair it," the master mason was saying, his expression indicating the impossibility of this task. "Or demolish it. Or keep it as some sort of monument."

Flora, whose memories of this rooftop were shrouded in a fog of war, gazed about her in astonishment, mind prickling with small pinpoints of recognition.

The rooftop was divided in half, as neatly as though some vast line tool had been used to delineate one side from the other. The half closest to the door appeared relatively unscathed – the flagstones were clean and intact, the battlement walls had little visible sign of damage. There was even a flagpole still standing incongruously in one corner, though its accompanying banner had been lost.

The other side of the rooftop appeared like something from a lyrium-dream, warped and distorted beyond recognition. The stone of the rooftop – tiles, basalt and mortar – had been contorted into high, jagged peaks; like the sea frozen at the peak of a storm. Most of the flagstones had not survived, they were either caught up in the alien crests, or shattered beyond recognition. The landscape was blackened, charred to the very bones of the building below.

Throughout the centre of this chaotic, scorched terrain, a single channel of clean and unbroken tile remained. This narrow path – which originated from the undamaged half of the roof – cut a swathe though the contorted remains.

Flora stared at it, feeling her heartbeat escalate rapidly in her chest.

 _Was that me? I don't remember. I don't remember anything that happened up here after we came through the door._

"That was you, _ma petite,"_ Leliana said quietly, reading Flora's thoughts on her face. "I know you don't recall it. The Archdemon was in that corner, there. You brought up your barrier to keep us from stopping you. And then you went towards it."

 _Everyone at the Circle thought I was defective; since all I could do was heal and shield. They felt sorry for me for four years._

 _But my healing could cure the taint, and my shield could withstand an Archdemon's flame._

 _I was only able to do two things, but – thanks to my spirits – I did them quite well._

"Maker's Breath," repeated Eamon, once again. He strode over to the edge of the warped stone and placed a hand against it, feeling the mutated rock beneath his hand. "That's harder than bloody silverite."

"Our workers haven't been able to make a dent in it," confirmed the master mason, a frown embedded in his forehead. "So repairs on this tower have been delayed."

As the others went to explore the strange landscape, Alistair stood rigidly in place; staring fixedly ahead like a blind man in unfamiliar surroundings. There was a distinct grey undertone to his handsome face, and Flora could see a muscle in his jaw trembling.

"Lo, you can go and have a look as well if you want," he said, through gritted teeth. "I'm sure it's… fascinating. I'll just stay over here."

"I don't care about seeing it," Flora replied placidly, turning her back on the spot where the Fifth Blight had been brought to an end. "This is a _much_ nicer view, over here."

She led him to the battlements that faced out over the city. Denerim lay spread out below them, a collection of wood and stone rooftops, punctuated by lofty Chantry spires. Although they were too high up to make out any detail, an almost-perceptible _hum_ of activity rose from the buildings; a murmur of commerce, and craftsmanship, and people going about their daily business. The market square was now crammed with stalls, whereas a month ago, it had been only a quarter-full. There were trade ships queuing up in the wide mouth of the estuary, waiting to be guided in by pilot vessels. At first, Alistair stared unseeingly down at the sprawling city, still preoccupied with the traumatic events that had transpired on the rooftop behind him.

Gradually – in slow increments – his attention was caught by the activity and energy of Ferelden's capital. His gaze moved from the estuary, to the marketplace; then across to a slender caravan of traders waiting to be admitted at the northern gate. He was able to make out a half-dozen carts laden with goods, covered with canvas to protect them from the unpredictable Fereldan summer.

Faced with this bustling, thriving city below, Alistair couldn't help but admire the resilience that ran in Denerim's veins. With a sudden surge of pride, he leaned forward and pointed out one of the ships to Flora; a tall vessel with mulberry-coloured pennants.

"That's from Rialto, one of Denerim's old trading partners – Eamon told me that they'd lifted the embargo!" he said suddenly, eyes lighting with recognition. "Zev will be pleased, they're our main importer of Antivan wine. He can stock up before the progress."

Flora smiled up at her best friend, not as well versed as he in vexillology. Alistair leaned forward on the battlements and extended a finger towards the market square, his face alight.

"And Eamon said the other day that there were too many stalls to fit within the marketplace. Look, Flo – he was right! Can you see the stalls running down that road there, just by the chapel? We might have to extend the size of the market square."

Flora beamed, and then felt the baby give a particularly enthusiastic wriggle within her belly. She reached down to rub the heel of her hand over the woollen mound; Alistair saw the movement from the corner of his eye and drew her into his arms, cradling the weight of the ripe curve within his palm.

"My love," he breathed and Flora was relieved to see the earlier shadow lifted from his handsome, tawny face. "Have I shown you how much I adore you today?"

"Not since we broke our fast," she replied solemnly and Alistair grinned, lifting a hand to gently cup one side of her face.

"Then let me rectify that _immediately,"_ he murmured, bending his head to kiss her.

Some time later, Eamon had made his throat hoarse by issuing several pointed coughs; none of which had succeeded in drawing Alistair's attention. The arl shot a slightly pleading look at Leliana, who had far fewer reservations about interrupting the enamoured newlyweds.

The bard dutifully sailed across the flagstones and came to a halt just behind the preoccupied Alistair. Moments later, she unleashed a shriek of banshee-like tone and volume towards the back of his head.

" _ALISTAAAIR!"_

Alistair, eyes bulging, hastily released a dazed-looking Flora and turned to face Leliana.

"Andraste's flaming posterior," he said, and promptly received a glare for such blasphemy. "What is it?"

"The master mason needs a decision, Alistair," Eamon interjected, hastily. "What do you want to happen to this tower? It could be demolished, they could attempt to build over the damage, or - "

"Leave it as a monument," Alistair replied, his voice now clear and steady. "A testament to my wife's bravery, and to… to Fereldan fortitude."

Leliana bestowed him with a benevolent look of approval, and Eamon hid a small smile.

"That sounds good to me, son. Right – I think it's about time that we returned to the palace."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Vexillology is the study of flags! What a pretentious word, I had to look it up, lol.

I liked this chapter because Fort Drakon was the location of some of the grimmest moments in the whole original story, and it has a lot of bad memories for both Alistair and Flora. Fortunately for Flora, her spirits obliterated or blurred a lot of these bad memories before they departed; but they're still fresh and painful for poor old Alistair!

Originally, once they got onto the rooftop where the Archdemon was slain, I was going to have them recall the slaying of the Archdemon, and then I actually changed my mind! Instead of dwelling on the past, they go and look out at the revitalised Denerim; and that's the whole point of this sequel, moving on and rebuilding.

Thank you for reading, replying to reviews in the reviews!


	79. The Legendary Mabari of Ferelden

Chapter 79: The Legendary Mabari of Ferelden

During their return journey to the castle, Alistair cheered up immensely; delighted at the prospect of the upcoming visit to the royal kennels. If he had not been bearing his wife on the saddle before him, he would have spurred his horse at breakneck pace up through the palace grounds. To compensate for the delay that Flora's presence caused, Alistair chattered excitedly about various Mabari hounds he remembered from his childhood at Redcliffe Castle. Flora leaned back against his chest, fiddling idly with the laces of her tunic as she listened.

"Did I ever tell you my favourite story about Gelert the Mabari, my love?" he asked her as they crossed into the palace grounds, starting on the gentle incline that led up to the forecourt of the castle. "Teagan told me this one when I was a boy."

Flora shook her head, feeling Alistair take a deep breath behind her.

"King Calenhad had a whole pack of Mabari, but his favourite hound was named Gelert. Gelert was a true war-dog, who had fought alongside the king in many battles against Ferelden's enemies."

Flora listened to the slow, nuanced drawl of her best friend's voice, running her fingers up and down his sleeve.

"One night, Calenhad came back from a long day of hunting, and went up to his infant son's nursery. The babe was vanished, and Gelert's muzzle was covered with blood."

She twisted in the saddle to turn appalled eyes on Alistair; he hastened on with the story.

"Calenhad believed that Gelert had attacked the child, and so he thrust his blade straight into the dog's heart. The Mabari died with a little yelp, collapsing at his master's feet."

"This does _not_ sound like a suitable story to tell a child! Bann Teagan had better not tell this one to _our_ baby."

"Then," Alistair continued, earnestly. "Calenhad heard a little cry, coming from near his feet. He bent down and saw his son, unharmed, hidden beneath the cradle. A dead wolf lay alongside the child, the teethmarks of a Mabari sunk into its neck."

"The wolf had tried to eat the baby?" Flora whispered, with eyes wide and tremulous. Alistair nodded, cradling the swell of her stomach in the broad palm of his hand.

"Yes, and Gelert came to the child's rescue. Anyway, Calenhad was so stricken at what he had done – and haunted by the Mabari's last pitiful yelp – that he didn't smile again until his dying day; when he told his council that he was not afraid of death, because Gelert would be waiting to greet him at the Maker's side. Such is the loyalty of the Mabari."

Flora, afflicted both by hormonal imbalance and the sadness of the story, proceeded to burst into tears. Alistair, half-guilty and half-laughing, tried to comfort her as best he could while perched on a saddle with only one arm free.

"Baby, it's just a legend- "

" _He killed his do-o-o-g!"_

"I don't even know if there's any truth in it!"

" _And the dog had saved the baby, aaah- "_

The imposing face of the Royal Palace rose up before them, stark and brutally intimidating; almost as solid in its construction as Fort Drakon. The horses came to a halt on the gravel, stable boys scampering out immediately from a nearby alcove.

Eamon dismounted with surprising agility for a man of his years, silvery eyebrows rising in mild confusion as he stared at the weeping Flora. Alistair had just lowered her gently to the gravel and she was standing motionless on the spot, still weeping profusely. It was a pitiful sight; especially in contrast to her usual public stoicism.

"Alistair, what have you said to your wife to upset her?" the arl chastised, while a tutting Leliana offered Alistair her own lace-edged handkerchief. "Florence, what's the matter?"

"He _murdered_ his Mabari!" snivelled back Flora, as Alistair dabbed tenderly at her wet cheeks with the silken square. "He murdered his Mabari in cold… _in cold blood!"_

"What?" replied Eamon, thoroughly confused. "Who did?"

"Because he thought the Mabari ate the baby," she continued, melodramatically. _"But it wasn't true! The Mabari saved the baby!"_

"I told her the story of Gelert," Alistair hastened to explain, anchoring his wife's fingers within his own and kissing her knuckles. "Sorry, sweetheart. I didn't realise you'd take it – well. Take it to heart so much."

"The story of _Gelert?"_ repeated Leliana, who was naturally familiar with this old Fereldan legend. "That's not really a suitable story to tell an expectant mother."

Flora wiped her nose on her sleeve, _Mairyn's Star_ flashing as the sun reflected off its curved, opalescent face.

There was a scene of gentle chaos inside the entrance hall – the moth-eaten blue carpet was being taken up in preparation for a new, plush replacement. Servants were rolling it from different ends, dust was flying up in plumes and the bellowed instructions of Guillaume could barely be heard above the sneezing.

Fergus was stood at the side of the hall, leaning against one of the hearths and eyeing the proceedings with mild alarm. As Alistair and Flora joined him, the teyrn started to make a comment on the disarray, and then noticed his sister's blotchy, tear-stained cheeks.

"Floss! Are you alright?" He reached out to touch her arm, bluish grey eyes darkening in concern.

As Flora nodded mutedly – she did not quite trust herself to speak yet – Alistair explained the cause of her distress.

"Oh!" said Fergus, once the king had clarified. "Oh, _Gelert_ is a great story. Nanny used to tell it to Finn and I at bedtime. You know, there's a rumour that Calenhad built a memorial to his Mabari somewhere in the Bannorn, and buried half of his wealth within it to show his gratitude to the hound. The knights used to joke about trying to find it."

As he spoke, the teyrn was guiding them towards the palace kennels. Other Royal residences within Thedas housed their hunting dogs either in or near the stables; keeping them well away from the splendour of their own living quarters. Ferelden, as one would expect, was a living contradiction of this convention. Rather than being located in an outbuilding on the palace grounds, the royal kennels were housed within the castle itself. They were situated on the ground floor not far from the kitchens, in a large, hearth-lit chamber which had easy access to the gardens. Four servants were employed to look after the needs of the twenty or so Mabari who dwelt within the kennels. The dogs themselves were given free rein to wander about the palace; many of them chose to made circuits around the noble quarters, begging for scraps.

About half the Mabari were present within the chamber when king, queen and teyrn arrived. They immediately crowded about the doorway, yapping excitedly and competing to lick Alistair's hand. Although they had only recently been introduced to this new Theirin, the perceptive hounds could recognise his similarity to Cailan – and the older ones saw the likeness with Maric. They were gentler with Flora, sensing that she was a little wary of them and intelligent enough to discern that she was bearing young.

As Alistair squatted down to ruffle fur and tug delightedly on ears, Flora reached out a tentative hand and patted a grey-spotted hound on the head. The bitch gave a little whine and licked her fingers gently; gazing up at Flora with calm, pale blue eyes that incongruously reminded her of Wynne.

"How's my Saela?"

Fergus directed his question to the kennelmaster, who had just emerged from an adjacent chamber. The man brightened, bowing perfunctorily towards king and queen before beckoning for them to follow.

"Mother and pups are doing well. Poor bitch is exhausted – took her nearly twelve hours to whelp them all."

Flora blanched – she was aiming for a personal labour time of approximately _twenty minutes,_ and hearing stories of other creatures taking the length of a Chantry _vigil-candle_ was not very reassuring.

The kennel master led them over to a heap of coarse woollen blankets in a quiet corner of the room. Saela – Jethro's litter-mate – lay prostrate and replete alongside the wall, with eight blind, squirming creatures nestled into her belly. The bitch opened wary eyes to see who was approaching; on spotting Fergus, she let out a tired whine of delight.

The teyrn crouched down beside Saela, extending his fingers for her to lick before rubbing the top of her head, affectionately.

"Poor old girl," he murmured, fondling one of her ears between finger and thumb. "Twelve hours is a long time for a whelping."

The king crouched down beside Fergus, scratching the bitch's neck with gentle fingers.

"Who's a good girl?" he cooed, and the Mabari gave a little yap in response. "Sounds like you've had a long night."

"Hey, little sister. You and Saela have something in common," Fergus said over his shoulder as Flora was brought a stool to sit upon by the hovering kennel-master.

Flora lowered herself onto it, eyeing her brother warily.

"Eh?"

Fergus grinned at her, momentarily distracted. " _'Eh'_ – you're such a northerner, Flossie. Anyway, both you and Saela went into the final battle against the Darkspawn while heavy with pup. Although we all _knew_ about Saela."

Both king and teyrn shot Flora simultaneous looks of reprimand, before turning back to the bitch.

"They all look healthy," Alistair said in an aside to Fergus, eyeing the plump, squirming bodies of the pups as they clawed their way blindly through the nest of blankets. "Unusual for there to be no runt in a litter this size."

Fergus nodded, reaching down to nudge one squirming creature onto its side to show off its rounded belly.

"This is Saela's third litter for the Couslands – probably her last – and she's always delivered strong pups. She's a good girl."

Saela gave a little bark of approval, eyeing Fergus appreciatively.

"I want the strongest two for Flora," Alistair went on, earnestly. "Hounds that will _brutally savage_ the manhood from anyone who even _thinks_ an ill thought in her presence."

Flora eyed the wriggling bundles of fur, trying to envision them lunging, teeth bared, towards the groin of an attacker. Fergus, who had been raising Mabari in the Highever kennels since he was a boy, had a breeder's eye for assessing a dog's potential. He had already identified two pups as the strongest in the litter; now, he reached down and plucked up one fat, snuffling creature from its siblings.

"They're both bitches," Fergus said, passing the wriggling pup to Alistair before scooping up a second. "Good pink gums, larger than their litter-mates. Active, and curious about their surroundings at only a day old."

Alistair, who was trying to hide how delighted he was, stroked the soft bellies of each pup as he held them in his arms. Still blind, they were letting out little squeaks of alarm at being separated from their mother.

"Here, my love. Take them."

Gently, the king lowered the newborn pups to Flora, placing them on the bulge of her stomach as she sat on the stool. Unseeing, they began to crawl over the plump mound; their motions clumsy and unpractised. Maternal instinct surging, Flora gathered them up to her breast and held them there; not wanting them to fall. One was a tawny gold, the other a soft, silvery grey, and she could feel their muscle beneath the downy fur.

They wriggled for a moment, their bodies firm and velvety, and then settled down against the warmth of her chest. One of them licked the underside of her chin, and the other followed suit.

Alistair was beaming proudly down at her – he was aware that Flora was not used to being in such close proximity with Mabari.

"Never mind us standing in the Landsmeet chamber dressed up and fancified," he murmured, huskily. "I'd prefer a painting of you sat there with those pups, darling. I don't think I've ever seen a nicer sight."

Flora smiled at him, leaning back and trying not to move as one of the pups started to make an ambitious climb up the slope of her neck. Fergus grinned down at his sister, continuing to scratch Saela behind the ears.

"While you're both away on progress, I'll take the whole family up to Highever and keep them with me. Once they're a few weeks older, I'll start introducing them to your scent; Alistair has already given me some of your old nightclothes."

Alistair crouched down and ruffled Saela's speckled fur affectionately, and the dog let out a little whine of pleasure.

"Your pups have been chosen for an important job," he told the dam, solemnly. "They're going to protect the queen of Ferelden, _and_ the new heir, when it comes."

Saela gave a proud little yap and Alistair beamed, patting her hindquarters gently.

"Floss, what do you want to call them?" Fergus asked, watching his sister nuzzle her face against the soft heads of the puppies. "I'll start using their names so they get used to them."

"Cod," said Flora immediately, ducking her chin towards the grey-furred pup. "And Lobster."

This second name was directed towards the one with the tawny coat. Fergus struggled to keep a straight face as he envisioned himself yelling _Cod!_ and _Lobster!_ across the training yard. However, he managed to bite back his laugh and gave a little nod.

"As you wish, petal. Cod and Lobster it is."

Flora pressed an impulsive kiss to each pup's small head, suddenly wondering _why_ she had been so nervous at the prospect of this. Her own baby, annoyed at being ignored in favour of the new arrivals, gave a sudden, vigorous squirm and swung it's foot into her kidney.

As Fergus reached out to take little Cod and Lobster from their new mistress' breast; Flora dropped a hand and patted her stomach.

"Don't get jealous," she said firmly, and felt the baby wriggle in response to her voice. "I haven't forgotten about you, tadpole."

With a final look down at the pups as they fought for position at Saela's teat – Cod and Lobster naturally asserting dominance – king, queen and teyrn made their way out of the royal kennels.

The rest of the packing and preparations for the progress took up the remainder of the afternoon and much of the evening, dinner only a brief respite from the activity. Although they would be travelling reasonably light, with only a handful of carts; it was surprising how long it took to provision and organise supplies for an eight-week journey. They did not know the condition of the land for the first half of their travels – both South Reach and Lothering had been overrun by Darkspawn – and so sufficient food rations needed to be brought.

Once the carts were readied for tomorrow's departure, Fergus issued an open invitation for several rounds of Wicked Grace in the Cousland quarters. Teagan lost a great deal of coin to Finian; Eamon, who had years of experience to counter Finian's Orlesian training, promptly won it back.

Alistair tried, unsuccessfully, to teach Flora how to play chess. Flora – who was even worse at chess than she was at cards - kept laughing, making illegal moves, and stealing his pieces when he wasn't looking. Eventually, the king gave up and decided to take his cackling wife to bed instead; standing up and leading her next door with a firm grip.

Some time later, they lay tangled beneath the furs on the bed, bare-skinned and sweaty, still conjoined as they recovered from their exertions. Alistair wrapped his arms around his wife from behind, relishing the sensation of her warm, solid body against his own. He was unable to resist several more surreptitious, slow thrusts underneath the cover of the bearskin even as a servant entered discreetly to add more logs to the hearth. She let out a satisfying little squeak, pressing her mouth against her arm to muffle the sound.

However, once the door had closed, Flora squirmed and wriggled free from Alistair's clutches; kicking the furs away with a flailing foot.

"I'm so _hot,"_ she bemoaned, patting her fingers against her cheeks and listening to the wet sound of her own sweaty face. "I'm hotter than an Antivan pepper."

The king clambered out of bed with limbs still sated and clumsy. He went to the window, unlatching the lock and pushing gently at the frame; letting in a gust of oceanic air.

"Come and sit here, baby."

Flora heaved herself out of bed with some effort, simultaneously wondering how immobile she was going to be in two months' time.

 _This baby is already weighing me down like a cartload of basalt._

 _I'll have to roll everywhere, or crawl around like a crab._

Banishing this grim prospect from her mind, Flora wandered across the flagstones and joined her new husband on the cushioned bench; turning her face towards the open window with a little sigh of pleasure.

"I think we were quite _quiet_ that time," she said hopefully, inhaling a deep lungful of salty air. "Or at least, Finian didn't bang on the wall."

"I know you were being quiet, sweetheart! I thought you'd actually fallen asleep at one point. Wait, you didn't _really_ fall asleep, did you?"

"Nooo!"

In readiness for their upcoming accommodation under canvas, both former Wardens had attempted to be as stealthy as possible in their lovemaking. This had been accomplished with limited success – Finian had indeed not banged on the wall, but only because those remaining in the Cousland quarters had rapidly relocated to Eamon's chamber after Alistair had led Flora out, aware of what was shortly going to follow.

Alistair laughed, reaching out a palm still damp with perspiration to cradle her flushed cheek. Flora smiled at him, sleepy and satiated, her hair in a disarray of dark crimson whorls and tangles.

"Maker's Breath, my love," he murmured, pressing the ball of his callused thumb against the middle of her lower lip. "My lovely Lo. I'm going to have to kiss you _once_ more before we go to sleep. Just enough to last me until morning."

Flora reached up to draw him to her, their lips coming together with a soft and familiar tenderness. Alistair did not seek to deepen the kiss straight away, but brushed a series of feathery caresses across her mouth; gently testing the fullness of her lower lip with his teeth before tracing the upper lip with the tip of his tongue. Only once he had lavished both lips in affection did he seek to part them, his tongue teasing its way into the sweet, familiar warmth of her mouth.

She yielded to him immediately, feeling him draw the air from her throat with the rich intensity of the kiss. The rest of the chamber faded away into a faded, fire-lit blur; her senses focusing themselves entirely on the man kissing her as though they were about to be parted for a lifetime. Her body bent itself towards him like a bow and somehow she ended up in his lap with her bare legs around his waist; their mouths working each other with increasing, desire-fuelled intensity.

It was the king that reluctantly broke it off, forcing himself to withdraw in a slight daze, eyes unseeing and thoughts clouded.

"You need to rest, my love," Alistair croaked, made hoarse from the richness of their kiss. "We can't be up for hours. It's a long day on the road tomorrow."

Flora knew that he was right, her rational mind struggling with the urges of her lust fuelled body. She knew from experience that if she straddled him at that moment, he would not be able to resist. Instead, she retreated, slithering back down on the window bench.

"Mm," she whispered back in reluctant agreement. "Alright."

Alistair leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to the centre of her forehead. Clambering to his feet, he lifted her up in his arms as she yawned; curling an arm around his neck.

"Come on, _sweet wife,"_ he said, with the same affectionate tone that he once used when calling her _sister-warden._ "Let's try and get a few hours of sleep, eh?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: I'm editing this while watching The Descent which has basically put me off going in any cave ever again! Not even the cheese grottoes of France!

I think a twenty minute labour might be slightly wishful thinking, Flo. Lol!

The story of Gelert is based on a really famous (and depressing) Welsh story, about the Welsh prince Llywelyn and his loyal hound, Gelert. There's a little village in Snowdonia (in the northern part of the country) called Beddgelert, which literally means Gelert's grave. We've got quite a lot of stories about legendary dogs in Welsh folklore (aaah why am I not a Welsh historian? Opportunity missed!) and they remind me a lot of the Mabari of Ferelden.

Introducing COD AND LOBSTER, who will be the main Mabari guardians of Flo and unnamed Royal baby!

For anyone who likes the smuttier bits of my writing, I'm in the process of writing two E-rated short stories that will be up on my AO3 account (same username as here). One of them is uploaded already and features a bit of an alternate-universe scenario based on events at Ostagar, with a bit of an unusual (but perhaps not that farfetched) new pairing for Flo, lol.

Incidentally, I always wonder if I should change my username! It's not very fantasy-author is, is it? Hahaha I was going through a bit of a Mad Max phase when I made this account (Hardy not Gibson, obviously!)

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	80. The Journey Begins

Chapter 80: The Journey Begins

The morning's sky held a promise of fine weather; the sun set against a clear and unbroken expanse of pale blue. It was not exceptionally warm – there was a faint hint of a chilly breeze blowing west from the ocean – but it was good conditions for journeying.

The party gathered on the gravel forecourt of the palace in a tangle of horses, Mabari and covered carts; stable-boys and retainers scampered around to fetch last minute items. Bann Reginalda would be accompanying them as far as her own bannorn of White River and she was already perched on the saddle, impatient for the off. Eamon, who would be acting regent while Alistair was on progress, drew the king aside for a few last-minute discussions. Zevran and Wynne were waiting with the air of experienced travellers; their saddlebags already packed.

As Alistair was murmuring quietly to Eamon, Flora was engaged in several surprisingly traumatic farewells. Her brothers - whom she had only recently been reunited with – each had their own territories to return to.

Fergus needed to head north to take over his father's old domain. Highever, as the largest and most prosperous teyrnir – was a fundamental facet of the Fereldan economy, and needed to be carefully managed. Fergus was not particularly looking forward to residing alone in the vast, empty castle of Highever, with only retainers and the ghosts of his family for company. He was grimly resolved to throw himself into being teyrn; to spend most of his time inspecting the mines, and visiting the string of little villages within his territory.

Finian, as the newly invested Arl of Amaranthine, would also need to settle into his new estate. He would keep an eye on the Wardens at Vigil's Keep, updating Alistair frequently via letter. Finian also had several quietly ambitious plans of his own – to found a university within Ferelden to rival the one within Orlais. Amaranthine needed another source of income other than its port – many of its inhabitants had fled in advance of the impending Blight – and an institute of higher education would attract wealth and international influence.

The three siblings - all that remained of Bryce Cousland's family - clung to each other on the gravel forecourt before the palace. Fergus, prior to the events of the Blight, had not seen his brother for the four years that Finian had spent in Val Royeaux, and his sister for the _fourteen_ since she had been smuggled out of Highever. The teyrn now found it hard to envision life without seeing his brother and sister every day.

"I'll see you in six weeks or so," Flora whispered, having already found out the time that it would take for their journey to reach Highever and Amaranthine. "Will you write to me? Using _big_ letters, not joined up together, please."

Both brothers promised that they would write – in a hand that she could read - embracing their rediscovered little sister as tightly as they dared.

"You're going to be as big as Fort Drakon," Finian said cheerfully, pecking Flora on the cheek before squatting down and patting her stomach. "Goodbye for now, niece or nephew. You'll be almost ready to come out the next time I see your mama again!"

Meanwhile, an anxious Fergus had ventured across to Alistair; slightly self-conscious but earnest in his entreaty.

"Finian and Florence are all that's left of my family now," he muttered, keeping his voice low beneath the excited chatter of the others. "Please look after my sister on the road. There are still Darkspawn out there, and bandits."

Alistair was about to retort that Flora was his _wife_ and his best friend in the entire world, that he was not planning to take his eyes from her for a second longer than was necessary - then he noticed the hollowness in Fergus' cheeks; the spectre of a murdered wife and child hovering in his blue-grey irises.

"I swear to the Maker," the king said quietly instead, reaching out to grip Fergus' elbow. "Not a single hair on her head will come to any harm."

As Alistair and Fergus conferred with their heads together, Flora was faced with an even more distressing parting. Leliana had been the first of their companions to freely join them during the Blight; she had accompanied their travels from the early days in Lothering, she had journeyed with them to Redcliffe and to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. At South Reach, she had transcribed Flora's summons to the three armies; keeping their assembly a secret until it was revealed at the Landsmeet. She had played a fundamental role in helping Flora look the part of first _Lady Cousland_ and then _Queen of Ferelden;_ and had even willingly imprisoned herself in Revanloch Monastery for a month at Flora's side.

After breaking her fast in the Cousland quarters, Flora had gone straight down to see the bard; bursting through Leliana's bedchamber door and then – uncharacteristically – bursting into tears. Leliana had scolded her for such emotional display, while simultaneously mopping up her cheeks with a silk handkerchief.

"Florence," she had chided with mingled exasperation and affection, brow furrowed. "Pull yourself together, _cherie._ You are soaking my chiffon gown."

"But how can I be Lady Cousland without you?" bemoaned Flora, her voice muffled as she spoke directly into Leliana's ample chest. "How can I be _queen_ without you? You've always been there to help me."

"Nonsense," replied Leliana briskly, extracting Flora and shooting her a stern, Wynne-like look. "Your kind heart and brave spirit is what makes you _Florence Cousland, queen of Ferelden._ All I ever did was dress up the outside."

Now that they were on the palace forecourt and the moment of parting was near, Flora was doing her best to maintain a stoic expression; managing to embrace Leliana and kiss her on the cheek without breaking down again. She still didn't quite trust herself to _speak,_ so nodded mutedly in response to Leliana's issued instructions.

"I've labelled two clothing bags with _travelling_ and _formal_ – get someone to read it for you if you aren't sure," the bard said briskly, stepping back and giving an encouraging nod. "And I've packed up all the herbal teas that the midwife left for you."

Flora let out a little grunt of thanks, then shuffled forwards to put her arms around Leliana one final time.

" _Mercy,"_ she whispered, trying her best to mimic her friend's Orlesian intonation. "For everything."

Leliana laughed; pale blue eyes warm with affection.

"No need to say _merci, ma crevette._ I will see you in eight weeks, _hm?"_

Flora nodded, taking a deep gulp of air.

Alistair, who had just exchanged a final few words with the chief steward, received the reins of his usual bay mare. After checking the horse's hooves and fetlocks with a quick, experienced eye, he led the mare across the gravel towards Flora.

"Ready to leave, my love?"

Flora swept her gaze once more across the faces of her brothers, Leliana and Leonas Bryland – who had also come to see them off – and gave a small, wordless nod. With exceptional care, Alistair gripped her by the hips and hoisted her up onto the saddle; making sure she was seated securely before removing his steadying hand.

As the king planted a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up effortlessly behind her, Flora was momentarily distracted.

"Do you think you'll still be able to lift me up onto the saddle by Kingsway?" she asked, settling back against Alistair's chest as he reached around her for the reins. "I'm going to be _huge."_

"I'm not sure," Alistair replied, cheerfully. "If not, I'll enlist Teagan to help me. Or use a winch and pulley system."

Flora stared into space for a moment, envisioning her bloated body being hoisted into the air by some complex piece of machinery.

"I miss being my old size," she said, wistfully. "Everything takes more effort now. Even getting out of bed, and going up stairs."

Alistair brushed several wisps of hair aside and pressed a sympathetic kiss to the back of her neck.

"Not much longer, darling. Less than three months."

Flora privately thought that _three months_ sounded the length of an Age, but remained quiet.

The sun had just reached its apex when the company departed from the castle, taking the route through the fruit gardens to exit at the rear of the palace grounds. Ser Gilmore – a loyal Cousland retainer deployed by Fergus – led the way; a map tucked away in an easily accessible saddle-bag. Teagan rode alongside him, more at ease on horseback than he was on foot. The bann was delighted to be on the road once again – he was not accustomed to extended periods of time cooped within city walls.

Alistair and Flora came next, flanked on each side by Zevran and Wynne. The elf was humming softly to himself, his quick-fire mind drifting between a number of topics: his former Crow contact in Highever, which company member he might invite to his tent that evening, and finally - the possible whereabouts of the last Howe brother. Zevran had found out through his sources that Nathaniel Howe had left Kirkwall on a ship bound for Ferelden a week prior; his current location was unknown. Zevran had promptly passed the information on to Alistair, who agonised for several days and nights about whether to inform Flora. Finally, the king decided to keep it to himself until more specific details had been uncovered, not wanting Flora to worry.

Wynne's thoughts, on the other hand, were focused on a single topic: the wellbeing of the Circle. Irving had kept her updated on the renovation of Kinloch Hold, and she was eager to see her former home with her own eyes. The memory of the upper floors seething with maleficar taint was still raw and painful to think on; she wanted to suppress it with the sight of a rejuvenated, revitalised tower.

The three cart-loads of equipment brought up the rear of the party; escorted by Leonas' choice of Royal Guard. They were not wearing the usual garb – a full suit of armour was hardly suitable for horseback – but their prominent weaponry and grim expressions would serve as deterrent for any would-be ambushers.

"On the road again, _amigos,"_ drawled Zevran, rousing himself from his thoughts and flashing a dazzling beam at his companions. "Aah, this reminds me of when we were travelling from South Reach to Denerim."

"Except, this time, we don't have to sneak on back-routes through the hills of the Bannorn," Alistair replied, the same thought having occurred to him. "We can take the West Road."

"And there's no Darkspawn army on our heels," chimed in Flora, sitting up straight and beaming. "It's a nice feeling to be out in the countryside _without_ the Blight looming over us."

Trusting in Alistair's arms to keep her steady atop the saddle, Flora twisted as best she could from side to side to take in the view. Over her shoulder, Denerim Castle loomed on its high, defensible bluff; the crenelated turrets and Theirin heraldry just about visible. To the west, the cliff dropped sharply away into the pea-green Amaranthine Ocean, which was serene and flat as the surface of a mirror. Ahead lay the low, rolling hills of the Bannorn; an undulating dark green meander on the distant horizon.

Flora had not been intending to look to the east, but found her eyes drawn towards the Alamarri plains with the irresistible pull of a lodestone. They stretched out for a mangled mile, deforming the natural landscape with churned up mud and half-collapsed earth-works. The twisted wood and iron remnants of siege weaponry rose up from the dirt like the half-exposed bones of some ancient creature. The _majority_ of the dead had been reclaimed from the marshy soil, but not _all;_ there were bodies sunk below the mud that would rot away without ceremony. In some future Age, their rotted skeletons would surface amidst the soil, and some archivist would open up a dusty tome and say _ah, these must be casualties of the Battle of Denerim._

Alistair, who knew full-well what his wife was staring at, gently but firmly drew her attention in the opposite direction.

"Look, my love. There's the mouth of the River Drakon."

Flora turned her head obediently, her fingers clutching Alistair's arm as she swivelled.

"Oh!"

Sure enough, the end of the river widened out into a placid, sand-banked mouth that fed directly into the ocean. There were several children collecting crabs on the shore, their buckets seeming too large for their slender bodies; as they caught sight of the Royal party, they shouted and waved their arms in excitement. Alistair lifted a hand to them, and they began to caper in excitement. One bucket was dropped from careless fingers and its contents went scuttling frantically to freedom across the sand.

"Oh no!" breathed Flora, with disproportionate horror. _"The crabs are escaping!"_

A cackling Zevran gave a cheer for the ambitious crustaceans, and she shot him a look of disapproval.

"Don't pout at me, _carina,"_ he purred back, grinning down at the child as it bent to retrieve the toppled bucket. "You know I love a daring escape."

They rode on, following the line of the river as it undulated leisurely further inland. This part of Ferelden had been untouched by Blight, the fields were bountiful with summer crops and flowers sprung from the undergrowth. The hedgerows at either side teemed with life; birds and other small creatures going about their business with little comprehension as to the horrors that had befallen the south.

"It's going to get worse from here on, isn't it?" Alistair asked Wynne in a quiet undertone, their horses ambling leisurely side by side. "The further south we get. I remember the field we once saw – the one that was Blighted. Everything looked… _rotten."_

"By the end of tomorrow, I imagine we will start to notice some difference in the landscape, yes," the senior enchanter replied, knowing that there was no point in avoiding reality.

Alistair hissed softly between his teeth, brow furrowing as his fingers tightened on the reins.

"I remember reading that Tevinter took an Age to recover from its Blight," he replied, grimly. "And they had far more wealth and resource at their disposal than we do."

"Yes, but the Darkspawn ran riot over their lands for decades, remember?" Wynne reminded him, steering her horse around a pothole in the road. "The taint had time to sink its claws into the soil. The Fifth Blight – thanks to you and Flora – only lasted a year. The Darkspawn moved quickly, and made use of the Deep Roads."

"Aye," Teagan chimed in, pulling gently at his mare's head to drop back alongside them. "From what the scouts suggest, there's a polluted swathe of land from Ostagar to South Reach, a mile or so wide. It's not continuous – as Wynne mentioned, the horde used the Deep Roads in places, especially as they approached Denerim."

Alistair let out a long exhalation – this was not as bad as he feared. Flora was quiet against his chest; a moment later she let out a soft snore and he tightened his grip around her waist.

"A mile-wide swathe from Ostagar to South Reach," he said after a moment, summoning a map of Ferelden to the forefront of his mind. "I imagine Lothering falls somewhere within that path. Poor sods, I hope most of them managed to get out."

* * *

OOC Author Note: ON THE ROAD AGAIN! I love writing journeys! This is definitely not a realistic royal progress – which would have been a ballache to write about, since they included hundreds of people. So this is a much more intimate _Royals on Tour_ squad, hehe. With shenigans and adventures on the way! Anyway, Alistair goes wandering around with Isabela and Varric without a huge entourage.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	81. Making Music in the Woods

Chapter 81: Making Music in the Woods

The company rode westwards through the afternoon, eventually stopping for a very late lunch at a roadside inn. The innkeeper, star-struck and intimidated in equal measure at such lofty guests, rapidly hustled up a vegetable pottage with chunks of bread and Fereldan cheddar. He apologised profusely for such prosaic fare, only to be assured by Alistair that it sufficed perfectly for their needs.

Flora, who had snacked surreptitiously throughout the journey, had spoilt her appetite. After saving her bread and cheese for later, she made her excuses and wandered off to find the privy. The baby was digging both heels into her bladder - it had been doing so all day - and she gave her stomach a gentle prod in the hope that it would shift position.

Naturally, she was accompanied to the very door of the outdoor privy by two Royal Guard. They were no less professional for their lack of closed-face helms and full armour; Flora, used to being under the scrutiny of the Templars, barely noticed their presence.

On the way back to the main tavern building, she paused and then wandered past the entrance, coming to a halt to survey the scenery. The river valley had become more defined, rising steep and craggy on both sides of Drakon's watery course. The river itself had not yet matured into the wide, leisurely flow that fed into the ocean; it was narrow and impatient; it surged around boulders and crested joyfully over waterfalls. Both sides of the valley were thickly fringed with coniferous trees, their foliage a dense, bristled bottle-green even in the height of summer. The inn itself was built atop a stone bluff overlooking the river, close enough to a small waterfall that the spray from the rocks blew upwards to speckle the aged wooden sign hanging over the tavern door.

Flora paused on the stone bluff, admiring the peaceful, pastoral scene before her. She had been telling the truth earlier: viewing the Fereldan countryside without the threat of a Blight hanging overhead was like seeing it for the first time. For one who had spent the vast majority of their life first in a tiny, isolated village, and then locked up in a Circle; it had been a day of new experiences.

"This is _amazing_ ," she said in awe to the Royal Guard at her left – the one with the beard. "Ferelden is _beautiful_. I didn't realise how… beautiful it was."

Flora realised that she sounded slightly moronic and did not care – the sight took her breath away.

"Please, your majesty," he replied, eyeing the drop between the rocky bluff and the churning water below. "Step away from the edge."

Flora took a single, reluctant step backwards, bringing up a hand to shield against the afternoon sun as she squinted down at the agitated water.

"I wonder what kind of fish swim in this river?" she said to herself, not really expecting an answer. The next moment she startled in surprise as the bearded guard opened his mouth to reply.

"Salmon, I'd reckon."

"Oh! Oh. I agree, but what _type?_ Copper? Pink? _Scaly?"_

Flora stared longingly at the edge of the bluff, wishing that she were not so physically incapacitated.

"I used to be able to climb things," she said wistfully to the guards, who made no reply. "I used to climb up onto the roof of the Circle tower. I could've climbed down _there,_ easily."

She canted her head towards the rocky cliff, which shelved steeply down towards the river.

 _You must be deluded! You've got as much chance of climbing down there as you do climbing up into the sky._

Instead, Flora turned towards the surrounding woods, gazing off into the shadowed undergrowth beneath the tall pines. The trees grew densely together, lined in gradually ascending rows up the shelving slope of the valley.

"Have you ever seen a _wolf?"_ she asked, impulsively.

The two guards looked at one another in perplexion, then at her.

"My dad used to chase 'em from his farm on the occasion," said the beardless one, eventually. "Why's that, your majesty?"

"I've never seen one," Flora continued, a touch of wistfulness now in her tone. "A wolf. I _know_ they're out there, but…we didn't see any on our journey."

 _Apart from werewolves and forest spirits,_ she thought, recalling the strange inhabitants of the Brecilian Forest.

Flora took an exploratory few steps towards the edge of the trees, and one of the guards issued a slightly awkward cough.

"Queen Florence, you aren't intending to _look for wolves!?_ We can't countenance- "

"I'm just having a quick look," she replied, evasively.

"Flo? Darling, the innkeeper has rustled up an apple tart out of nowhere- "

Alistair appeared in the doorway of the inn, ducking his head to avoid the low sill. As he caught sight of Flora standing at the edge of the trees, his eyebrows rose into his hairline.

"My love, what are you doing?"

"The queen is hunting for wolves," replied the bearded guard, both his tone and expression carefully neutral.

" _Wolves?"_

Alistair blinked for a moment, and then recovered admirably quickly. Letting the door of the inn swing shut behind him, he strode across the muddied grass and came to a halt beside her, squinting off into the thick tangle of undergrowth.

"Duncan and I saw a wolf once," he said, slinging an arm around Flora's shoulders and pressing a kiss to her cheek. "It was on our way to the Circle, actually. It must have once been tawny, but its fur had gone almost completely grey. It crossed right in front of us - we were close enough to see the whiskers on its muzzle."

"Oh," she replied, shooting him an envious glance from the corner of her eye. "I'm jealous."

Alistair grinned down at her, and then reached down impulsively to twine their ringed fingers together.

"Let's see if we can spot a wolf then, my dear."

The guards shot each other a look of mutual confusion.

Squeezing Flora's fingers against his palm, Alistair led her a few steps into the woods. Immediately, the noise from the tavern was muffled, the light level plummeting as the high canopy blocked out the early afternoon sun. Thick tree roots erupted leisurely from the crumbling soil, covered with moss like the tentacles of some aquatic giant. Patches of faded grass were interspersed with clumps of vine and fallen logs; the occasional shaft of sunlight pierced the dense canopy to illuminate the forest floor.

Flora gazed around in vain for any carnivorous mammals, peering into the bushes and the wells of deep green between the tree trunks. The king gave a cursory glance around the forest clearing, and then slid his arms around his new wife's swollen stomach from behind; ducking his head to press desirous lips to the side of her neck.

"Mm, sweetheart. I wish we had this quietness all the time."

"You're meant to be helping me spot wolves," a reproachful Flora chided, reaching up blindly to touch the side of his face. "Not _distracting_ me."

Alistair smiled into his best friend's neck, inhaling the clean, soapy scent of her skin. Despite her reproach, he could feel her subconsciously pressing back against him; curving into his frame like a tautened bowstring.

"Well, I can't help but get distracted," he replied, thumbing the curve of her ear. "Your hair looks so beautiful against all this green."

Flora swivelled around in his arms until she was facing him, reaching up to tighten the loose strings hanging from the front of his travel leathers. This was more an excuse to feel the hard, defined contour of his chest, which curved pleasingly against her spread fingers.

"But if a _sudden wolf_ lunges out from behind the trees now, I'm going to _miss_ it," she breathed, lifting her pale gaze to meet his rich, mead-coloured stare.

"If a _'sudden wolf'_ lunges out from behind the trees now," Alistair murmured back, cupping her cheek in his palm. "I'll be carrying you over my shoulder back to the tavern, while shrieking at the top of my lungs."

Flora laughed, and he took advantage of her parted lips to lean forward and press his mouth to hers; aware that moments of privacy were sure to come few and far between over the upcoming weeks. She reached up to put her arms around his neck, sinking against him without hesitation as her boots pressed into the damp, mossy earth.

They emerged from the woods some time later, flush-faced and bright-eyed. Unfortunately their entire company was gathered before the tavern, the horses readied and waiting. A dozen expectant faces turned towards king and queen as they appeared beneath the trees; both appearing slightly startled at their unexpected audience. Expressions ranged from Wynne's mild exasperation, to Teagan's carefully summoned neutrality, to Zevran's face-splitting grin.

" _R-i-iight,"_ said Alistair, clearing his throat in an attempt to brazen it out. "Are we… ready to go, then?"

"We've been ready for a half-candle," Wynne retorted with a little sniff, sitting atop her saddle with better posture than anyone else present.

"We were looking for wolves," Flora said - rather unconvincingly - and then undermined her excuse further by laughing.

As Alistair hoisted Flora up into the saddle, Zevran nudged his horse closer; leaning over to finger a strand of dark red hair that had been tugged free of its leather tie.

"It appears as though wolves have feasted on _you,_ _mi sirenita,"_ he murmured, pulling gently on the thick lock before letting it go.

Flora flushed, aware of the mottled pink aftermath of Alistair's affection covering her neck and throat. Hastily, she reached up to check that the lacing on her tunic was fully fastened – fortuitously, it appeared to be so.

"We keep forgetting I can't heal them," she replied, wiping her grass-stained palms on her trousers. "By the time we remember, it's too late."

"Too late for what?"

Alistair, who had just returned from checking Teagan's map, swung himself up onto the saddle behind his wife. Instead of replying, Flora canted her head to the side to show off the brands left by his desirous mouth. Alistair eyed her neck for a moment and then grinned, sliding an arm around her waist as he reached forward for the reins.

"What can I say? You're delicious, baby," he replied, cheerfully. "And I'm a weak, weak man who can't resist. Ready for the off?"

They continued to follow the line of the valley; the trail gently winding between the clustered coniferous trees. Although the sun bore down with muted persistence, the majority of their route was shaded by the high canopy above. The gentle rustling of woodland creatures echoed within the undergrowth, while the occasional bird called out to its partner from the branches overhead. The trail was littered with pine cones, which made a satisfying _crunch_ each time they were compressed beneath the iron-clad hoof of a horse.

"It's a shame that Leliana isn't with us," Wynne murmured, taking a deep lungful of forest air. "The journeying doesn't seem quite the same without an accompanying song. Alistair, you've a nice baritone. Do you know any folk tunes or tavern melodies?"

"No," Alistair said, hastily diverting the senior enchanter from that particular train of thought. "None that are appropriate for the ears of nice old ladies. Flo, you've usually graced us with a song or two by this point."

Flora reluctantly tore her eyes from the undergrowth, where a patch of grey had turned out to be a sunlit boulder rather than a skulking wolf.

"I'm _never_ singing again in front of anyone ever again," she said, a touch melodramatically. "You all hate my voice. I can't help that I sound like a… a pig being skinned. I didn't realise that I sounded so horrible, no one in Herring ever said anything."

Wynne breathed a small sigh of intense relief. Alistair, on the other hand, felt a swift kick of guilt straight to the gut. He let the reins drop – the horse was happy to follow the path unguided – and wrapped his best friend within both arms, kissing the top of her head.

"Darling," he breathed, full of contrition. "I'm sorry. I want you to sing; I _love_ your voice."

"You don't! You used to make earplugs from bits of bedroll."

"No, my love! I _adore_ it."

Ignoring Zevran and Wynne's frantic head-shaking, the king continued to plead with his wife for the next twenty minutes.

Finally, Flora relented, and proceeded to regale the company with a selection of traditional Herring songs. The nature of the little fishing village being what it was, the songs ranged in character from the mildly melancholic to the gratuitously tragic.

As she embarked upon the penultimate verse of a song discussing a troop of sailors being eaten by sea creatures – verse fourteen was about a vast octopus with tentacles the breadth of tree trunks – Zevran leaned over to whisper plaintively to Teagan.

"My horse is about ready to jump into the River Drakon," he whispered, wide-eyed. "I think I can see the poor thing's _ears_ bleeding. How can such supple and sensuous lips produce such grating sounds?"

"What's that?" Flora broke off her verse and twisted her head around to eye her Antivan companion.

"I was only saying what a beautiful _mouth_ you have, _nena,"_ Zevran replied, smoothly.

Flora shot him a suspicious look, but continued on with verse fifteen; a particularly depressing stanza about a crab that pinched men in half with vast, razor-edged claws.

As the horses crossed a bridge alongside a gushing waterfall, Zevran took advantage of the noise to lean over to Teagan, murmuring deftly in the bann's ear.

"Trust me, _I_ could make beautiful music emerge from that slender throat."

"Elf! You're _incorrigible."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: OMG editing these chapters takes twice as long now that the Great British Bake Off is back on! I love Bakeoff! Even though I can't actually bake. I read somewhere that cooking is an art, and baking is a science.

ANYWAY we haven't had a good #forestshag in a while, not since the Brecilian Forest? Anyway, this was nice and PG rated, I'm slightly burnt out on smut from writing my E-rated AU on AO3, lol. Although I actually think there's some smut coming up in the next couple of chapters (well obviously, they are like rabbits haha)

Poor Flo still has a hideous singing voice! I liked the bit about her not realising it, because nobody in Herring cared that she sounded horrendous!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	82. A Campfire in the Bannorn

Chapter 82: A Campfire in the Bannorn

They made good progress throughout the afternoon and early evening, the forested valley gradually flattening out into a shallow dip in the landscape. The densely-packed trees had become sparser as they descended; this wide, flat basin had only a few dogged conifers clinging to the soil. The river had become a wide, meandering ribbon of silver that stretched off towards the horizon, several thin tributaries ran off it like skeins of thread. Underfoot, the ground alternated between waterlogged marshland that sucked at the horses' hooves, and bare expanses of exposed rock. It was not a particularly attractive part of the bannorn, yet sunset's mellow cast loaned it a coarse and unexpected beauty.

"There, King Alistair! The Imperial road lies just to the south."

One of the scouts pointed as Alistair drew up his horse, squinting off towards the man's raised finger. Sure enough, lit by the soft light of sunset, the pale, ridged spine of the Imperial Highway undulated across the landscape. Raised by stone and magic many Ages ago, it was designed to facilitate travel and inspire awe; even now, it was still an architectural marvel.

Alistair peered at it for a moment, and then cast an assessing eye west towards the setting sun.

"We'll make camp here, tonight," he decided, as the scout whistled for the return of his falcon. "The light is falling quickly, and the Highway isn't in good condition."

Alistair and Flora knew this from first-hand experience; having often forsaken the unreliable Tevinter highways for more prosaic – and reliable – footpaths on their own journeys.

They stopped on an exposed stone bluff, with a gentle slope of shingle that ran down to a large pond. Although this would not be the most comfortable campsite, it was preferable to pitching tents in the soggy marshland.

One guard took charge of the horses, save for one which had a stone shard caught in its shoe. Alistair and Teagan – who, between them, had several decades of experience in the stables – took the horse to one side and began to confer on the best way to remove the stone. A pair of scouts disappeared into the clumps of reeds to hunt hares; Bann Reginalda instructed her own manservants to start building a fire.

Flora, who had gone to offer her assistance with the assembly of the larger tents, had been politely turned down. Slightly perturbed, she wandered across to where Zevran and Wynne were sorting their own accommodation.

"They won't let me help," she said, wistfully watching Wynne's bulky tent soar several feet upwards. Following the precise movements of the mage's staff, the sheet of canvas folded itself neatly over its wooden scaffold. "Are you both sharing a tent?"

The elf was prostrate on the stone, soaking up the last crimson rays of sunset. A pile of canvas sat abandoned beside its accompanying frame, several feet away.

"Tragically, no," Zevran replied, without opening his eyes. "Even though I have often declared my _appreciation_ for _seasoned women_. The older the wine, the richer the taste, after all! It is not too late, Wynne! We could still share a bedroll."

Wynne let out a derisive snort, sliding her pack beneath the canvas with a far more prosaic kick of her boot.

"Zevran, I'm flattered, but I hope you'll accept my polite refusal. And, Flora, you should sit down and _rest._ It's been a long day."

"I can't sit down yet," Flora said immediately, clamping both hands over her leather-covered rear. "My rump is _so_ sore. Why are saddles so uncomfortable? I think I'd rather sit on the horse's _naked back."_

Zevran was about to make an inappropriate offer involving his massage skills, but was distracted by Flora heaving up the mass of canvas he had discarded. Immediately, he sprung to his feet with the agility of a mountain cat and was at her side seconds later; reaching out to take the heavy folds of material.

" _Carina,_ allow me to do it. If you want to help, you can find me some pegs, hm?"

Flora dutifully began to wander around the campsite, humming a tuneless melody under her breath as she peered down into the grass. Zevran, meanwhile, had espied where the royal tent had been placed – it was indistinguishable from the others, save for an inner lining sewn in to protect the childbearing queen from chilly summer nights. Pointedly, he arranged his pile of canvas close to theirs, their tent walls almost within touching distance.

The senior enchanter, whom nothing escaped, noticed this and gave a little sigh.

"Why torture yourself, Zevran? It will only hurt if you hear her with him."

"Ah, but it is an _exquisite_ pain," replied the elf smoothly, flashing her a white-toothed smile in the twilight. "And I shall at least have the company of my imagination."

Overhead, the first few stars were igniting behind a rose-silver veil of cloud as twilight settled in over the bannorn. It was a mild evening, still and silent; their campfire the only man-made source of light for as far as the eye could see. According to the map, a string of small villages were situated on the other side of the Imperial Highway, yet their presence was hidden by both distance and the rapidly descending dusk.

Teagan had managed to coax the stone from the horse's hoof, while Alistair stroked its nose and murmured calming words. The scouts had returned with three large hares, which were summarily skinned, jointed and placed on roasting spits. Bearskins had been retrieved from one of the carts; these were arranged around the campfire so that the company did not have to sit directly on the damp grass.

Flora had given herself the job of organising the vegetables – partly because she wanted to feel useful, and partly so she could reserve herself the earthiest portion. She no longer questioned _why_ the baby craved the taste of soil and tree bark, but merely sought to appease it's desires in the hope that – in return – it would never develop an aversion to _fish._

Teagan was showing Alistair their progress on the map, tilting it towards the light of the fire.

"We've reached here," he was saying, pointing towards a spot on the West Road. "We've made good progress today. If we make similar distance tomorrow, we'll be in sight of South Reach by the end of the day after."

Alistair nodded his gratitude, eyeing the map a moment longer before clapping his uncle on the shoulder and wandering back in the direction of roasted hare. Flora was seated amidst her companions, balancing her plate on top of her stomach and grimacing at something that Wynne had said.

"The baby needs more than just vegetables," the senior enchanter was saying, delicately wiping her greasy fingers with a handkerchief. "Go and get yourself some cheese, or nuts."

Flora was about to clamber to her feet when Alistair hastened to stop her; heading across to the provisions cart to rummage around in their food supplies. Wynne, Zevran and Flora watched him hunting determinedly through the crates, waving aside a tentative offer of assistance from one of the scouts. Clearly, the king was determined to bear responsibility for nourishing his fat-bellied wife.

"I'm very proud of that boy," Wynne said softly under her breath, leaning back against the bearskin. "He's come a long way."

Zevran and Flora both swivelled curious gazes towards the senior enchanter; though the latter already had an inkling what Wynne was referring to.

"When I first joined your company, the boy had taken no responsibility for anything," the old mage said, watching Alistair hunting for the wheel of Fereldan cheddar buried at the bottom of the provisions. "He had delegated all decision making to _you_ , Flora. He put his fingers in his ears and _babbled nonsense_ whenever his birthright was mentioned."

The loyal Flora immediately sprung to the defence of her best friend.

"He was grieving for Duncan," she protested, earnestly. "For the Wardens. And he was still in shock after what happened at Ostagar."

"And you were a sheltered and immature girl freshly plucked from a Circle," Wynne retorted, gently. "Anyway, child, let me finish! It has been my pleasure to see Alistair mature over the past year. He has not only taken responsibility for the governance of the country, but he has taken responsibility for _your_ wellbeing, Flora."

Just then, Alistair appeared from the shadows, triumphantly wielding a large hunk of cheese. Sinking down beside Flora, he planted a kiss on her cheek; one hand dropping to stroke the curve of her stomach.

"Here you go, my love. I want you to eat it _all."_

Flora took the cheese with a beam of gratitude, sinking her teeth into it as Alistair settled himself on the bearskin at her side.

"That's good Fereldan cheddar," he declared, proudly. _"Infinitely_ superior to any varieties with mould in – I'm looking at _you,_ Orlais! Really, who would deliberately let their cheese go bad?"

Alistair then trailed off, looking around at his friends' faces in bemusement.

"Why are you all staring at me like I've grown a second head?"

"No reason, dear boy," Wynne replied quietly, handing him a plate of roasted hare. "Here, eat up."

Alistair took the plate, shooting her a suspicious look. When the senior enchanter continued to smile enigmatically, the king gave a little shrug and tucked into the meat, forking it enthusiastically into his mouth.

For several minutes they ate in silence, gazing up at the starry firmament as it slowly emerged from the sheer veil of twilight. The stars seemed to ignite one at a time, like vast and looming lanterns; the moon was as round as a robin's egg. Teagan soon came to join them, accepting a plate of meat with a grateful nod.

"When I was younger and staying with a farmer and his wife, I can remember eating roasted hare," Wynne said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence.

They all turned to look at her; it was rare for the senior enchanter to divulge anything from her life before the Circle.

"The farm was plagued by hares, and they attracted foxes, so the farmer hired some local boys to hunt down as many as they could. We were eating hare for _months._ Except for on my sixth birthday, when they cooked a goose to celebrate."

Flora looked up from her carrot, swallowing hastily to ask her question.

"When _is_ your birthday, Wynne?"

"The last day of Kingsway," the senior enchanter replied, and gave a little nod when Flora's eyes widened. "Yes, about when the baby's due to arrive."

"You'll get a free flagon of ale at the tavern if you share a birthday with the next king or queen of Ferelden," Teagan offered, and Wynne smiled.

"A little bird tells me, Bann Guerrin, that you have coin wagered on the babe being born in Harvestmere."

"Aye, you're not wrong," the bann replied wryly as he lifted his ale flagon. "Quite a few coins, actually!"

Flora, meanwhile, had turned her attention to Zevran. She gave him a pat on the knee, curious eyes settling on her friend's rich, tattooed face as he reclined against the bearskin.

"Zevran, when is your birthday?"

The elf gave a little laugh, propping himself up on his elbows to eye her.

"I have no idea, _mi sirenita._ I am not even sure how _old_ I am, exactly. I know I was born around the fourth or fifth year of this Age, but the actual month and day is a mystery. Anyway, even if it had been recorded somewhere, the Crows would have made sure that I forgot it. They like to obliterate anything about one's self that existed before they did. As far as they are concerned, you were born when you became a member of your House."

This was a long speech for the elf, which was unusual in itself. Zevran snickered at the ensuing silence, reaching up measuredly to tuck a strand of white-blond hair back into place.

"Anyway, _mi florita,_ your birthday was not celebrated either for much of your life."

"But I still knew when it was," Flora replied, and then stretched out an impulsive hand to rest on top of his own. "Why don't you choose a birthday now? Then we can mark its passing."

"You choose for me, _carina."_

" _Really?"_

" _Sí."_

Flora thought for several moments, her brow furrowed. It took a while for her to recall the exact names of the months – even after five years away from Herring, she still was more familiar with the fishing seasons – but eventually, her face lit up.

"The twelfth day of Harvestmere," she said after a moment, triumphantly.

Nobody could work out the inspiration behind this proud declaration – it seemed a date randomly plucked from the ether.

"It's the day when you came to us," Flora continued, kindly not mentioning the circumstances. "I remember _specifically_ because Alistair was singing a song called _The Dozen Blushing Maids of Redcliffe_ in honour of the date."

Zevran said nothing, but looked at her very closely. Flora kept her hand atop the elf's tattooed fingers, her pale eyes gazing steadily into his cocoa-dark irises. Although she did not elaborate further; her intention was writ raw across her face.

 _It's the day you threw off the black-feathered mantle of the Crow, and became a free man. It might not be your actual birthday, but it's not far off._

"It's a day worth celebrating," she said at last, patting her palm against his knuckles.

The elf remained silent, trusting in his decades of training to maintain the neutrality of his expression. Instead of replying, he turned his palm over to entrap her fingers; bringing them to his lips for the briefest of moments. Flora smiled at her friend, squeezing his hand tightly in return.

"' _The Dozen Blushing Maids of Redcliffe',"_ Alistair said out loud, his brow creasing as he recalled the verses. "I haven't heard it in full for _months._ Teagan, what verse comes after ' _Clair with the golden hair'?"_

" _Bess with the lovely legs_ ," replied Teagan, with a snort. "Maker's Breath, is that song still doing the rounds? It was popular when I was a boy."

As the night deepened, each member of the company took to their tent. The campfire continued to smoulder away; a beacon in the darkness competing with the silvery wash of moonlight from above.

To Zevran's disappointment, there were no muffled sighs or stealthy movements within the newlyweds' tent. Sated from taking his queen against a tree in the forest earlier, the king was instead determined to ease any of her residual aches from the hours spent in the saddle.

"Anywhere else, baby?" he asked, kneeling amidst the furs with her bare feet in his lap.

Flora, clad in one of his shirts and sprawled flat on her back, shook her head with a little yawn. He had attended to her sore knee, her aching calves and her swollen feet in turn; she was both soothed and intensely grateful.

"Can't I do the same for you?" she whispered as he lay back against the bedroll, lifting his arm for her to settle against his chest. "You can't have _no_ sore bits."

Alistair laughed; he was so accustomed to the saddle that long periods spent on horseback barely affected him.

"None yet. I'll let you know when I get some," he offered, drawing her close to his side and pressing his lips to her hair. "Are you comfortable? Warm enough? I can have more furs brought in."

Flora let out a Herring grunt that translated to _I'm fine,_ turning her face against his shoulder and yawning. Alistair cast another eye at the tent doorway to ensure that it was fully fastened, surreptitiously shifting himself so that his broad back formed a barrier between his wife and the entrance. He reached down to find her hand already groping for his; their fingers twining together.

"'Night, my love."

"'Night. Don't let the weever fish bite!"

There followed a few moments of silence, and then Zevran's outraged voice filtered out of the darkness from the adjacent tent.

"Really? Not even a _quick_ _grope?_ I am disappointed! Call yourself _newlyweds."_

Flora hid her laughter in Alistair's armpit as he propped himself up on an elbow, directing a glare towards the canvas wall.

"Stop eavesdropping and go to sleep!"

"I cannot _eavesdrop,"_ retorted the elf, sulkily. "We are in _tents._ There are no _eaves."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: YES! I love campfire scenes! Haven't had one in aaaaaages. Anyway, I got the bit about Zevran having no idea when he was born from the wikia. I thought that the day that he relinquished his Crow contract and joined the Wardens would be a good day to choose for his new birthday; since it's a fresh start/life free from indentured servitude.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	83. Reunion With An Old 'Friend'

Chapter 83: Reunion With An Old 'Friend'

The next day dawned even more benevolently than its predecessor. The sun smiled down kindly upon the company as they made their way out of the shallow valley, eventually re-joining the River Drakon. It was far wider than it had been near the coast, carving a leisurely swathe through the landscape like a Highever-blue ribbon. They had a good view of the meandering watercourse from the elevated Imperial Highway; which crested the hills and stretched westwards as far as the eye could see.

The ancient Tevinter trade route was in remarkably good condition, considering its advanced years. It was built from the whitestone quarries of the bannorn, which were renowned across Thedas for the longevity of their products. The elevated roadway stood thirty feet above the faded grass, with crumbling watch towers and decorative arches rising at periodic intervals. It cut through woods, divided fields and bridged rivers; straight as a Minrathous yard-stick.

The company made good time, stopping for lunch in the shadow of a ruined guard tower. Flora, who had burnt beneath the unforgiving sun, was hiding in the shade while Zevran had stripped beyond the point of appropriateness and was sprawled atop a toppled granite column. The rest of the group were either positioned on the tiles, perched on the edge of the cart or leaning against the wall.

"Look," Ser Gilmore said suddenly, his elbows resting on the stone as he made a gesture towards a hilltop to the south. "You can see what remains of Caer Anwir. Family seat of Bann Gethin."

The eyes of the company turned towards the old ruins, silhouetted like jagged teeth against the backdrop of the forested hills.

"Bann Gethin?" Alistair asked, looking up from his bread and cheese. "That's not a name I know. Is he a member of the Landsmeet?"

"He was a traitor," Teagan interjected, gazing at the single turret left standing on the abandoned castle. "During the Orlesian occupation, he hosted the _chevaliers_ and provided them with a base to prepare their assault on Denerim."

Alistair frowned, feeling an irrational and personal indignation at an event that had occurred decades before his birth.

"What happened to the bann?"

"The freeholders rose up against him," Bann Reginalda interrupted, casting a final glance up at the ruined building. "Burned down the castle, right to its bones. Gethin was forced to flee."

"To Denerim?"

"No, to Orlais. He threw himself on the mercy of the old Emperor. Adopted an Orlesian name and opened a _salon_ in Val Royeaux."

Alistair let out a derisive snort, eyeing the ruins with new resentment.

As the king and nobles gazed up at the crumbling remnants of the traitor's old seat, Flora withdrew further into the shade of the watch-tower and methodically munched her way down a carrot.

" _Mi florita,"_ called Zevran, shielding his eyes from the sun as he stretched out a hand towards her. "Come out from the shadows. You are lurking in the gloom like a little _gnome."_

"I need to stay in the shade," retorted Flora, pressing her fingers to her flushed cheeks. "Everyone else has gone brown, and I've gone _crimson."_

She gestured towards Alistair, indignant. Two days beneath the sun had deepened her best friend's tawny skin to a rich, smooth olive and bleached golden streaks atop his head.

"It's your _hair_ , child," advised Wynne, who was leaning elegantly against the side of a nearby cart. "Redheads are always quicker to burn."

"Well, Leliana never did," Flora said, outraged at the unfairness of it all. "And she's redheaded, too."

Zevran sat up, the tunic flung across his naked loins slipping dangerously low. He eyed Flora, and then gave a giggle that was part-sympathetic and part-amused.

"You are the shade of a boiled lobster, _nena."_

"Thank you for the compliment," she breathed, earnestly. "Lobsters are my _favourite_ crustacean. "

The party continued to follow the Imperial Highway west as the elevated road ran alongside the languid meander of River Drakon. The sun bore down relentlessly on the heads of those on horseback; fortunately, the clever Tevinter engineers had built wells into the foundations of each watch-tower. Every few hours, they paused beneath the shade of these crumbling parapets while a pair of scouts ran down to refill the water-pouches and a bucket for the horses.

Seeing the miraculous Tevinter engineering reminded Flora of her own engineering project back in Denerim. As they waited for the scouts to refill the water pouches, she gave Alistair a little nudge in the ribs.

"By the time we get back to Denerim, the new water channel for the alienage will be dug, won't it?"

"Should be, sweetheart," he replied, reaching down to adjust the length of his stirrup.

Flora thought to herself, a faint line furrowed across her brow.

"Maybe once the water channel is finished, we could put some proper drainage into the alienage?"

"Of course, baby. Whatever you want."

Teagan, who had been casually eavesdropping, interjected with a wry smile on his face.

"Flora, your good intentions are admirable. But do you really think you can make a difference to the position of elves within Thedas? I don't agree with the mistreatment of the poor sods, but it's going to take more than some water and sewers to change their situation."

Flora gazed back at the bann, considering his point for several moments.

"It'll make a difference to the elves in the alienage," she replied, with a small shrug.

Teagan opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again; flashing her a slightly wistful grin.

"Aye, poppet. You're not wrong."

By early evening, they had reached their designated point of camp. The ground had flattened out into marshy river plains, the hills of the Bannorn behind them. Tucked into a curve of the river, the camp was located beside a small copse of trees that provided some shelter from the elements. Tents were assembled in a loose semi-circle and a fire was built in their centre. There was no need to go hunting; the company would eat the remainder of the hare that had been caught the previous evening. They cooked the strips of flesh in wide roasting pans, accompanied with root vegetables and a small pot of turnip stew for their meat-averse queen.

As soon as the moon crested just to the north of the eastern hills, Wynne retired to her bedroll with the excuse that she was tired. In reality, the senior enchanter wanted to finish her letter to Irving using the far superior light of her staff, and the use of magic always made their accompanying scouts and guards twitchy. Teagan and Zevran played several quiet rounds of Wicked Grace, accompanied by Ser Gilmore and Bann Reginalda. After Reginalda had lost a sum of coin to her fellow bann - and an even larger amount to the cackling elf - she also retired to her tent with the declaration that she would bankrupt her beleaguered bannorn if she continued to play. Teagan, Ser Gilmore and Zevran embarked on a fourth game; doling out cards on a convenient flat-topped stone with their ale flagons precariously balanced beside them. The dogs rested at the boundaries of the camp, yawning and snapping their jaws idly at crickets.

Alistair was sitting on the damp grass, his sweat-dampened shirt spread over a nearby tree trunk. Flora was kneeling behind him, her fingers working their way into the tight knots of tension that wreathed his broad, bare shoulders. Every so often, her thumbs would alleviate a particular ache that had throbbed for hours and he would let out a soft grunt of relief. Whenever this happened, Alistair would reach up to catch her hand; bringing her fingers to his mouth to kiss them.

One of the scouts brought the map across to show the king, angling it towards the firelight to illuminate the creamy parchment. As the scout began to illustrate the next day's journey using a twig to trace the route across the map, Flora surreptitiously admired the sun-bronzed definition of her best friend's back. Years of wielding a weighty sword and shield had broadened his shoulders and hardened the muscle beneath; and although it was now a familiar sight to Flora, it still made her breathless.

"You are practically _drooling, mi sirenita."_

Flora beamed at her elven companion, and then slid her arms around Alistair's neck to embrace him from behind. Still talking to the scout, he reached up to caress her slender forearm with his palm; unable to stop himself from grinning as she pressed a kiss to his ear.

"At least there should be some more _entertainment_ for me tonight," Zevran observed in a laconic undertone, watching Flora nuzzle her face against Alistair's broad neck. "She can't keep her hands off him. _Buena niña!"_

The scout made a tactful retreat with the map as Alistair swivelled his head to seek out his wife, reaching up to draw her face down to his. She beamed against his mouth, parting her lips readily to admit his desirous tongue.

"I see that you two are still incapable of restraining yourselves in public," came an acerbic voice from the shadows above them. "'Tis nice to know that some things do not change."

The guards flailed, scrambling around in a rare display of ill-preparedness. They were trained to respond to an assault at ground level; not a snide voice filtering down from the branches overhead.

Flora, however, recognised the voice's owner immediately. She let out a squeal of delight and thrust herself gracelessly to her feet, using Alistair's shoulders to propel her swollen belly upwards. Her knee gave a soft twinge of protest and she ignored it, too focused on the arrival of this unexpected visitor. Stepping over the prostrate Zevran, she scuttled barefoot across the grass in the direction of the voice.

"Morrigan?" she bleated up to the shadowy branches, head swivelling back and forth. "Morrigan?!"

A dark shape dropped from the branches, briefly taking on the silhouette of a bird before fluently elongating into recognisable form. The Witch of the Wilds rose upright, clad in her customary rustic garb. Her skin was tanned a rich nut-brown; though the sun's attention had not lightened the glossy crow's wing sheen of her hair. The usual tiny bones and polished beads hung around her neck, and dangled from matted dark locks. She appeared as though she had not slept beneath a roof in weeks; indeed, the slight hesitation in her steps suggested that she had spent much of the past month as something _other_ than human.

Hearing Alistair approaching from behind, Flora came to a halt several yards before their oldest companion. She shifted from foot to foot in slight agitation, her fingers quivering at her sides.

Morrigan eyed her for a moment, and then gave a little sigh of manufactured resignation.

"Alright, then. If you _must."_

Flora immediately launched herself towards the dark-haired woman, throwing her arms around Morrigan's tan waist with a muffled squawk. Morrigan rolled her feline eyes, but brought an arm around Flora's shoulders to embrace her gingerly in return.

"Still as sentimental as ever, I see," the witch observed laconically, patting their former Warden on the head with guarded affection. "Now, now, that's enough, Flora. Let me look at you."

Extracting herself from Flora's octopus grip, Morrigan stepped back and swept her gilded gaze up and down the redhead's body. Her eyebrows shot into her hairline, and she let out a small squawk of amusement.

" _Ha!_ You are _gargantuan_."

"Garga- what?"

" _Vast._ Are you _sure_ that you did not lie with Alistair earlier than you claim? That babe looks almost ready to drop."

"Reasonably sure," Alistair interjected pleasantly, coming up to stand beside his wife. "And Flo isn't _gargantuan_. She's gorgeous. How are you?"

Morrigan ignored the pleasantry. Her eyes moved appraisingly over Alistair's bare chest, then dropped to the ring he bore on his fourth finger, then darted across to its twin on Flora's hand; this smaller version resting neatly beneath a fat, gleaming pearl.

"So, you two are finally bound in the eyes of the Chantry, now," she observed, with a sardonic smile. "Congratulations, _'your majesties'_. I certainly hope you don't expect me to _bow._ Alistair, I assume that you would like to know the state of the Wilds?"

"Come and sit down first," insisted Flora, reaching up to pluck a stray leaf from the witch's hair. "Rest for a bit. Have you had any dinner?"

"Only a few worms and beetles," replied Morrigan, delighting in Alistair's grimace. "And a _frog."_

"We have some hare left over," continued Flora, earnestly. "And I've got some vegetable stew you can have."

Morrigan followed the king and queen back to the circle of firelight, glancing down at the prostrate elf as he waved slender fingers in her direction.

" _Buenas noches,_ my dusky beauty. As titillatingly dressed as ever, I'm pleased to see!"

The witch resisted the urge to plant her leather bound toe between the elf's ribs, setting herself down on the grass before the campfire. Flora immediately began to sort out the remainder of her vegetable stew, tipping it into a bowl and rummaging around for her spoon. Alistair, rather grudgingly, donated the last few strips of his roasted hare to the steaming mixture.

"Here," Flora said at last, offering the bowl in both hands. "You must be tired."

Morrigan made no reply, but took the bowl with a slight inclination of the head. The guards and scouts had withdrawn a short distance behind the wagons to give them some privacy. Teagan eyed the witch for a moment with a carefully neutral expression – he had met Morrigan on a handful of occasions, but was still not entirely comfortable in her presence. After a few moments he retreated to his tent, leaving the flap ostentatiously open.

For several minutes, nobody spoke as the witch tucked hungrily into the stew. Alistair, suddenly self-conscious, reached for his tunic and pulled it on over his head. Flora absentmindedly rubbed her belly, feeling the outline of the baby pressing against the heel of her hand. Zevran rolled over onto his stomach, weaving together strands of dry grass with deft, tea-leaf brown fingers.

"So: the Wilds," Morrigan said at last, licking her lips clean and reaching inside her skirts. "I have marked a map, Alistair, lest you have trouble grasping my meaning."

"Thanks," remarked Alistair drily, shifting himself over on the grass to peer down at the map. Despite the initial wariness, his pupils soon constricted in concentration as he stared at the inked markings.

"Here are the Wilds." Morrigan darted a pointed nail onto the parchment, tracing the outline of her former home. "See? Ostagar is _there,_ marked with the dot."

Flora felt the now-familiar shiver run down her spine; an icy trickle that sprung forth whenever the old fortress was mentioned.

"I have shaded the areas that were swarmed by the Darkspawn," Morrigan explained, steadily. "The areas which have been the most tainted are shaded the darkest. The soil there is dry and crumbling, there are patches of decay running through it. The trees and foliage have rotted into mere skeletons. The marshes themselves hold no more life; they are stagnant and impure."

Alistair nodded, grimly. He pointed to the area either side of the black shading, which had been lightly speckled with ink.

"What about this part?"

"The Darkspawn passed through the land, but did not stay there for a long duration," explained Morrigan, with surprising patience considering whom she was speaking to.

"And the condition of the soil?"

"Tainted on the surface, but I do not believe that the poison runs deep," she replied, letting him take the map to study it more intensely. "The Chasind are working to reclaim their old lands. There is one tribe which claims to have mixed a fertiliser that can cleanse tainted soil and make it arable again."

"Do you think it works?"

"'Tis possible, I suppose." Morrigan shrugged a bare shoulder elegantly, the small bones about her neck rattling. "They are renowned for being gifted at the alchemic arts."

Alistair nodded and then fell silent, his olive brow creased in thought. Morrigan eyed him for a moment, letting out a soft, slightly exasperated sigh.

"If you wish me to investigate further, Alistair, then simply say the word. I have a great range of talents, but _mind-reading_ is not one of them!"

"Ah," Alistair raised his head, hopefully. "Sorry. Yes – yes. That would be very helpful… if you don't mind."

"Then I will do it, since you ask so _politely._ 'Tis always good to have a king beholden to one."

Flora beamed, delighted at the lack of the rancour between the former Templar and the hedge witch. Alistair and Morrigan had spent much of the journey around Ferelden sniping at one another; but he had matured since accepting the mantle of king, and she had learnt a fraction more patience during her months spent in the company of others.

"Oh," Flora said, suddenly. "Did you ever find your mother?"

"Flemeth? Why, it's a mystery, really," Morrigan replied, raising both eyebrows while adjusting the red fabric that hung across her breasts. "Our hut – as I suspected – was destroyed. But she has gone, and taken our possessions with her. Indeed, I have heard rumours that she has gone north. She _could_ be hiding out in the Marches. Equally possible, she _could_ be on a mountaintop in the Anderfels. She could be advising the Empress Celene in Val Royeaux! Who knows?"

Flora did not know quite how to respond and so stayed silent, biting anxiously at her thumbnail. Morrigan snorted, and then rose elegantly to her feet.

"You're not staying the night?" the queen breathed, glancing over her shoulder. "We could find a tent for you."

"Plenty of room in mine, _amor,"_ offered the supine Zevran, cackling.

Morrigan curled her lip, and gave a small shake of the head.

"No, I will waste no time. I shall fly south to seek out these Chasind, and see if there is any truth in their claim. If there _is_ something to it, Alistair, then I shall bring back a sample of this miraculous fertiliser. Expect me in a few weeks."

Alistair gave an appreciative grunt of thanks, his gratitude wary but genuine.

"No offence," he said suddenly, as the witch turned to leave. "But you're being so… _helpful._ Why?"

Morrigan let out a small, amused laugh; her gilded eyes flashing like those of an owl in the darkness.

"Do I _have_ to have an ulterior motive, Alistair? Is a desire to repair this crippled country not enough?"

When he remained silent, eyeing her with unblinking focus, the witch relented a fraction.

"I may also have a wish to travel in the future, beyond the borders of Ferelden," she said, quietly. "And I should like to say that I am acquainted with both of your _newly prominent_ selves if some foolish Templars – or anyone else – attempts to interfere with my journeying."

"You're more than an acquaintance," Flora replied, solemn and earnest. "You're our _friend."_

She elbowed Alistair, who gave a mildly ambiguous grunt.

The witch inclined her head, licking a finger to ascertain the direction of the prevailing wind. Without a proper farewell – as was her custom – she stepped back into the shadow of the tree. Moments later her shape blurred into a winged form, ascending above the canopy with several powerful flaps and angling itself towards the south.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Hurray Morrigan! There's a lot of headcanon stuff in this chapter, like the bit about Bann Gethin, you won't find it on the DA wikia but I enjoy just making little lore things up. Hopefully it fits in reasonably well with existing lore! Also about the Chasind fertiliser that restores life to Blighted soil. But Ferelden can't remain fucked forever! This story is called the BLOOM after the Blight, after all, hehehe

Thank you! Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	84. Uncontrollable Urges

Chapter 84: Uncontrollable Urges

Alistair, Flora and Zevran gazed after the witch's shadow as it diminished into the night; their expressions ranging from wariness, to admiration, to wistfulness.

"I still don't trust her, Flo," Alistair said eventually, reaching for Morrigan's discarded bowl and spooning up the scraps. "Not _fully."_

"Mm, I know. She's so _clever_ , though," breathed Flora, enviously. "I want to see her transform into a fish."

" _So close,"_ bemoaned Zevran from beside them. "I was _convinced_ that was going to be the moment when her shirt would finally slip to the side. Honestly, there is some enchantment on that fabric that makes it cling so _stubbornly_ in place."

Alistair gave such a grimace of horror that it was visible through the fire-lit gloom. Zevran cackled, reaching out to rap him pointedly on the knee.

"Come now, Alistair! I know that you and Morrigan have had a few squabbles- "

"A few? A _few?!"_

" – a few _minor disagreements._ But you cannot deny that she is a beautiful woman, despite the prickly exterior."

Alistair let out an ambiguous grunt, handing the bowl to Flora so that she could scoop up the final spoonfuls of cooked carrot. Zevran rolled over onto his side, dropping the braided grass and smiling wickedly up at the king.

"If things had gone a little differently, you would have had to _lie_ with the witch, to save the life of the one you love. Remember?"

Alistair snorted, watching Flora as she assiduously wiped the bowl clean with a handful of leaves.

"I think we both would have needed to wear bags over our heads," he said, wry and honest. "Or blown out the candles _very quickly._ Do you need any help, darling?"

"No," she replied, leaning forwards to stack the bowl neatly alongside the others. "Who hasn't cleaned their plate? The ants will _swarm_ it."

Plucking up a fresh handful of leaves – fortunately, they lay about the clearing in abundance – Flora wiped clean the plate. She then spotted some scattered cutlery in the dirt several feet away, and let out a little grumble of disapproval. As she reached for it, Alistair clambered to his feet with Morrigan's map; rolling it up as he went to retrieve a square of the soft, oiled leather used to protect documents.

Flora, distracted by thoughts of _transformations into fish_ , accidentally let a spoon drop into the tangled branches at the base of the fire. Without thinking, she reached her hand towards the heart of the flames to retrieve it; instinctually expecting the glimmering shield to form around her naked, vulnerable skin.

Quick as a viper, a set of richly tanned fingers wrapped around Flora's pale wrist, intercepting her hand before it could pass into the flame. Zevran had spotted her thoughtless gesture and had lunged forwards, whip-like; acting just in time to stop her from burning herself.

Flora stared speechless at the elf, and then down at her hand. Her pale grey eyes widened, gleaming with sudden sadness. Her lower lip gave a dangerous tremor as she was reminded, once again, of what she had lost.

" _Ooh- !"_

"Shh, shh, _carina_ ," Zevran crooned, shooting a quick glance over to where Alistair was still rummaging through the wagon. "We don't want dear _marido_ to worry, do we? Already, he frets too much about you."

The former Crow patted her cheek gently and Flora took a deep breath, knowing that he was correct. Feeling her heartbeat slowly return to a more sedentary pace, she reached up to cover Zevran's hand with her own, grateful for his quick thinking.

"Thank you," she whispered, clutching his fingers tightly against her palm. "I really am an idiot."

"Don't be ridiculous, _nena,"_ he replied, flashing her a wistful smile. "Just be more careful in the future, _eh?"_

Flora nodded, squeezing Zevran's palm hard once more before letting his hand go. She took another gulp of cool night air, calming herself down and letting the solemn mask fall once more over her face.

Alistair returned to the campfire several minutes later, wielding the leather-wrapped map in triumph.

"Took me ages to find the cover," he said, cheerfully. "Buried underneath a lot of fancy outfits for you, Lo. I think Leliana was under the impression that you'd be attending all sorts of _parties_ during this progress!"

Flora stared up at her handsome, honest-featured husband, firelight flickering over the olive skin and gilded hair. Alistair grinned back at her as he lowered his muscled frame onto the grass, just about managing to fold the lengthy limbs into place.

"You've got a bit of a peculiar look in your eyes, sweetheart," he said, peering at Flora's face through the gloom. "Are you alright?"

"Nooo," Flora whispered, shuffling across the grass until she was pressed against his side. "I'm very sad."

Alistair's eyebrows rose upwards into his hairline, the green flecks in his hazel eyes standing out in dismay as he stared at her. The concern radiated from him in waves, immediate and intense. Flora felt a rush of affection for her best friend, who always showed such consideration for her feelings.

"Darling, what's wrong? Tell me, and I'll sort it."

"I'm sad because you put your tunic back on," she replied, earnest and straight-faced. "And I wish you hadn't."

Alistair's wide, generous mouth curved into a grin; the natural hauteur of his face dissolving into relief and pleasure.

"Well, that's easy to fix, my love," he murmured, pulling off his shirt in a single, swift gesture. "There we go."

Flora beamed up at him, clambering over the grass in a crab-like motion until she could crawl into his lap. Alistair laced his fingers behind the small of her back, and then laughed as she spread greedy palms across the hard muscle of his chest.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?"

"I'm doing… an inspection," his wife replied vaguely, tracing the sinewy outlines of sun-bronzed pectoral muscle with her thumbs.

"An inspection of _what?"_

Flora gave an indecipherable mumble in response, and slid her fingers up to grip both shoulders, admiring their breadth and latent strength. Lifting a hand, Alistair caught Flora's cheek gently in his palm, turning her face towards him. The muted glow of the fire lit strands of copper in her hair; her pale eyes loaned artificial warmth by the reflected flame.

She parted her lips as her husband's mouth came down on hers, letting her tongue nudge gently against his own. He let out a muffled groan and deepened the kiss, feeling her exhale breathlessly into his mouth. Wanting suddenly to coax more of those wanton little sounds from his best friend's throat; Alistair began to bite softly at her lower lip, nibbling at the tender flesh until Flora was panting and flushed in his lap. As he made love to her mouth with his tongue, his fingers worked on the laces at her chest, pulling them loose.

Kissing the full, sulky curve of her Cousland mouth, Alistair slid the tunic down Flora's arm; wanting to trace her collarbone with his tongue. Instead, the navy wool slipped down far enough to reveal the creamy swell of a breast and the pink of a nipple. Alistair hesitated for a moment, and then his attention was caught by Flora's mouth landing firmly back on his own. Simultaneously, her hand delved down the front of his breeches; small, covetous fingers seeking out the proof of his desire.

For a few moments they kissed with a rich, enjoyable languidness; his fingers caressing her swollen breast and her hand moving surreptitiously down the front of his breeches. Leaning back to grant her stroking palm more room, Alistair happened to catch the elf's wide, fully-blown pupil.

"Maker's Breath, Zev!" he hissed, hastily tugging the fabric over his wife's shoulder. "I forgot you were – you should have _said –_ anyway. Come on, Flo – I think we'd better retire to our tent."

Flora reluctantly withdrew her hand, instead gripping Alistair's fingers as he led her towards their tent.

"Night, _mi florita,"_ the elf murmured as she wandered past him, barefoot in the grass.

"Night, night," Flora croaked back dazedly, wanting nothing more than to have her best friend _at that very moment._ She did not know what had brought on this sudden tide of lust – possibly it was part of the general unbalancing of her body due to the baby – but it was a far more welcome side-effect than the nausea or the indigestion.

Alistair was already unbuttoning his breeches as he followed in her wake; loosing the last button while ducking into the privacy of the tent. As the entrance flap dropped, his breeches were thrust impatiently down around his strong thighs; olive buttocks contracting in preparation.

Zevran, holding his breath but knowing that he was as silent as a cat in his movements regardless, crept around to his own tent. In similar manner to the previous night, he had positioned his quarters directly behind the newlyweds' tent.

To his surprise, the distinct sound of bodies moving frantically together was already filtering through the canvas. Flora was clearly trying to muffle her whimpers of pleasure; his rhythmic grunts escaped through tightly gritted teeth. The couple continued in such a manner until she let out a trembling, throaty sound that was half-wail and half-sob. There followed a brief pause while they changed position, and then the slick, percussive rhythm of wet flesh colliding began again. The king was having a more difficult time concealing his pleasure in this round; his soft, low moans carrying on the cool night air. The former brother and sister-warden climaxed together this time, breathing heavily in each other's arms.

Kissing followed for the next short while; gradually accompanied by the unmistakable sound of conjoined loins.

" _ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!"_

The reprimand split through the night air, loud and authoritative. It came from the only person in the company brave enough to issue orders to a king and queen; an old lady of the Circle who had known them when they were both humble, inexperienced and virginal warden-recruits.

"Now, I'm no _prude,"_ Wynne continued, her stern words easily able to penetrate the layers of thick canvas. "But _three times_ in a night is, frankly, _excessive._ You both need to get sufficient rest!"

"Wynne! They are _newlyweds."_ Zevran sprang to the royal couple's defence. "They are young and beautiful. Let them enjoy themselves!"

Alistair let out a groan, while Flora hid a sudden fit of laughter against his chest.

"Sorry. I… I suppose I got carried away. Wait, I can't believe you're all _listening!"_

"I didn't intend to, believe me," Teagan offered grimly from his tent on the other side of the campfire. "It seems that a _single_ pair of earplugs won't be sufficient."

The king gave an embarrassed cough, and his queen whispered something unintelligible to him.

"Right," Alistair said, clearing his throat and retaking control of the conversation. "I swear to the Maker that I won't lie with my brand new, gorgeous wife for the rest of the night _._ I hope you all feel _bad!"_

The next morning, Alistair was determinedly chatty; resolved not to be self-conscious about engaging in a wholly natural activity with his Chantry-blessed partner. Flora, who had found the whole episode hilarious, kept dissolving into laughter over her spiced eggs.

"You're _incorrigible_ , child," Wynne said sternly as the tents were being loaded onto the wagons. "I don't know where you get the energy from."

"I don't know, either," Flora replied, shifting position on the toppled log and taking a long gulp of water. "I had a sudden _urge_ when we were sitting by the campfire last night. I practically _lunged_ at him. We almost did it in front of Zevran."

"I'm sure the elf wouldn't have minded," the mage commented, drily. "Anyway, it's not unusual for women in your condition to experience such… _sudden cravings._ Bouts of uncontrollable lust, if you will."

"Ooh," the queen replied covetously, eyeing Alistair as he helped Ser Gilmore manhandle a bundle of heavy canvas into the back of a wagon. "Really? It's _normal?_ He's so handsome. I wish we could go back to bed."

"Close your mouth, my dear. You look like one of the Mabari slathering over some meat."

"I _feel_ like one of the Mabari slathering over some meat!"

Rejoining the Imperial Highway, the company followed the ancient route for the next few hours. They had made good time along the West Road, but would soon be diverting along a tributary route to the south-east, where Leonas Bryland's abandoned seat of South Reach lay. The weather was fair to middling; the sun occasionally bothered to drift out from behind a curtain of cloud. Flora – who had burnt yesterday – was grateful for the cool reprieve.

Soon after, they descended from the elevated highway and began following a dirt trail, lined with prickly bushes on both sides. Once the company had reached a circular clearing, Wynne, Ser Gilmore, Teagan and Alistair dismounted to inspect the map once more. Their compass seemed to be malfunctioning; it insisted stubbornly that the north lay in the direction that the sun had risen earlier. The map had an unhelpful ink blotch across the juncture they were seeking, and nobody could quite agree on the direction of travel.

After several minutes of discussion, Alistair and Teagan elected to ride swiftly around a copse of woods to see what lay beyond. Ser Gilmore and the scout would climb to the top of a nearby ridge to gain an elevated view of their surroundings. The rest of the company would remain within the sun-dried patch of grass, surrounded by waist high tangles of butter-yellow gorse and blushing lavender.

After letting Flora gently down into the arms of a guard, Alistair shifted position on the saddle and squinted off towards the small wood, spread sparsely over the next hillside.

"Right," he said, gathering the reins in one hand and returning his gaze to his barefoot wife. "I'll be back shortly, my love."

The king's gaze swung over to Zevran, who was leaning against a mossy boulder and fiddling idly with the leather strap around the hilt of his blade. Feeling the heat of Alistair's stare, the elf inclined his head a fraction.

 _Worry not, my friend. No harm will come to her while she is with me._

Alistair and Teagan cantered off towards the small copse of woods, their horses glad to pick up the pace after days of ambling along at a plod. The scouts and Ser Gilmore made for the hill, dismounting to lead their own steeds along a narrow, fern-lined trail.

Wynne sat down on Zevran's mossy boulder and took out her half-completed letter to Irving, perusing what she had written to ensure that it made good sense. Zevran read over her shoulder for a few moments and rapidly grew bored; returning his eyes to where Flora had been standing. She was no longer there, and the elf's heart stopped for a fraction of a second.

Seconds later, his sharp eyes spotted the top of her crimson head, clashing against a clump of butter-coloured gorse. Flora was kneeling down within the bushes, plucking the small flowers and storing them in a leather pouch.

Zevran sauntered towards her, taking several deep breaths to calm his nerves.

" _Mi sirenita,"_ he purred, inching his way through the bristling gorse bushes. "You gave me palpitations. I thought you had run away."

"I don't think I could run anywhere," Flora replied, sucking her finger after pricking it on an errant thorn. "I'm collecting the flowers. Mab – the midwife – told me that gorse tea was good for the baby."

She showed him a cupped palmful of yellow petals, several drifting to the mossy soil as she unfurled her fingers.

"Ah! I admit, all herbal teas smell and taste the same to me. Like diluted grass. There are _better_ uses for herbs."

Flora snickered, since she was not particularly a fan of tea either. Still, she tipped the palmful into the leather pouch and continued to strip the bushes of their flowers. Zevran went to assist, his elegant fingers far more skilled at extracting the petals without getting pricked. They worked in tandem for several minutes, until Flora's leather pouch was overflowing.

"How do you spell gorse? Is it like _horse?"_ she asked as they sidled their way back through the bushes, pollen dust leaving steaks of yellow on their trousers.

" _Sí, mi florita._ It is very similar."

"H-o-r-s?"

"And an _E."_

" _G-o-r-s-e,"_ Flora breathed, trying to envision the shapes of the letters in her mind. "Huh."

Once they had negotiated their way out of the waist-high bushes, she went to the cart where her leather pack was stored; leaning in to tuck the pouch into a side pocket. Zevran returned to the faded grass, sprawling himself out beneath the midday sun. Now that the early cloud had burnt off, the day was turning out to be far finer than the gloomy morning had suggested.

For several minutes, Flora watched Wynne writing her letter, a touch wistful at how swift and fluent the senior enchanter scribed her sentences. Realising that she was growing envious, she turned away and wandered back to the bushes. Zevran brushed his fingers over her bare ankle as she passed; proving that the elf was equally alert prostrate as he was standing.

"Don't go too far, _nena."_

Flora nodded, stepping over his legs and heading to the waist-high clumps of lavender that sprung joyfully upwards at the edge of the clearing. The sun bore down with increasing intensity, and she turned her back on it, reaching forwards to finger the dusty violet blossoms. The soft, gentle hum of bumblebees rose from the bushes; at least a half-dozen fat, striped creatures hovering about the perfumed herb.

Flora watched them for a moment, fascinated by their erratic, lurching flight. She wondered if Morrigan was able to turn into a bumblebee. Tentatively, she held out a finger to coax one of the insects onto her palm; they all ignored her.

Almost an hour later, there came the sound of hoofbeats thudding dully against grass. Teagan and Alistair had returned from scouting out the far side of the woods, and based on their perplexed and frustrated faces, their mission had been unsuccessful.

After dismounting and watering his horse, Alistair tied its reins to a tree stump and reached for his own waterpouch. Draining the contents, he swung his gaze across the bush-lined clearing, his furrowed brow easing as he set eyes on his wife. She was standing amidst the lavender, a sprig of it held to her nose.

"Did you see anything?" Flora asked as he approached, lowering the scented bundle.

The king bent his head to kiss his queen on the mouth; passing a brief palm over the top of her head.

"Not a thing," he said, with a little shrug of frustration. "The wood ends in a cliff dropping down to a stream, which is definitely not the right direction."

"The scouts might have more luck," Flora offered, smiling up at him.

Alistair nodded, unable to stop himself from smiling back down at her.

"Flora, surrounded by flowers," Alistair continued, struck by sudden inspiration. "Hey, isn't _Flora_ Ancient Tevene for _flower?"_

Flora shot him a slightly bemused stare, unsure why he would assume that she had any knowledge of _Ancient Tevene._ Alistair's smile widened into a grin, and he reached down to pluck a stem of lavender from her fingers; sliding it gently into her hair.

"Beautiful girl."

After a short while, the scouts and Ser Gilmore returned down the hillside trail, their faces equally grim. At first those waiting in the clearing below assumed that the men had been unsuccessful and that the company was still hopelessly lost. Then those waiting below saw the pallor on their faces; the slight tremor in their legs as they made their way down to the clearing.

"We've found the path," Ser Gilmore said, gulping down several mouthfuls of water. "It's just over the hill. There's a lower road that the carts can follow, to the west."

"And what _else_ did you find?" asked Wynne quietly, rolling up her letter to Irving. "Your faces have a strange pallor to them, gentlemen."

"What the Darkspawn left behind," replied one of the scouts, in a low and sombre voice. "It's… well. You'll have to come and see for yourself."

Flora saw Alistair's eyes move from her, then across to the cart, and _knew_ what he was about to say.

"I'm coming up as well," she breathed, a steeliness in her tone that brokered no argument. "I want to see."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol pregnancy hormones! Flora has never had much impulse control so she's pretty doomed, hahaha.

In terms of where they are at the moment, if you google a map of Ferelden, the company is on the road just to the north-west of the "S" of South Reach!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	85. Return to South Reach

Chapter 85: Return to South Reach

Wynne elected to accompany the guards, Mabari hounds and Bann Reginalda on the lower road, unsure of her capability to climb the hill. They were accompanied by the carts and the horses, who would have struggled with the steepness of the ascent. The others began to climb the narrow trail; a single-file dirt path which wended its way through the gorse and lavender bushes.

A quarter of the way up, Flora felt a twinge of protest from her knee. She came to a halt, having learnt her lesson about overstraining her weakest joint. Alistair also stopped in his tracks a pace behind – he had been watching each of her footsteps like an eagle, prepared to grab his wife if she lost her balance.

"Darling, want some help?"

Flora nodded, swivelling around and reaching out. Bracing his knees, Alistair hoisted her up onto his waist; she wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms about his neck. He took a moment to grow accustomed to this new imbalance of weight, then kept determinedly treading his way up the hill.

"Are you feeling equally generous, Bann Guerrin?" Zevran whispered to Teagan, who gave a snort in response. "I'll reward you _amply_ later."

"I think you'll be fine, elf," replied the bann drily, brushing a sprig of gorse from his lean, leather-clad thigh.

The scout reached the top of the hill first, coming to a pause on the grassy ridge and shielding his eyes from the sun. Teagan and Zevran arrived almost simultaneously; moments later, the bann inhaled an unsteady gulp of air.

"By the void!"

Even Zevran was uncharacteristically quiet, his coal-black eyes in pinpricks of focus as they swept across the terrain. He glanced sideways at Teagan, who had put a hand to his head in disbelief.

Alistair appeared over the rise of the hill shortly afterwards, a flush warming the cool olive tone of his skin. Flora planted a grateful kiss on his cheek and gave a wriggle; he let her down gently onto the grass.

"Uncle, you look like you've seen a ghost," he started, striding in Flora's wake as she headed towards the apex of the rise. "You're making me _nerv- "_

He came to an abrupt halt beside the bann, stopping at the top of the ridge. Flora had also frozen in her tracks, her pale eyes expanding in dismay.

Before them stretched miles of what would have been a typical Fereldan pastoral scene: rolling hills, farmland and the occasional copse of woods. The fields were a patchwork of mottled green and gold; crossed with streams like strips of navy ribbon.

Yet this bucolic terrain had been carved brutally in two by an ugly strip of land at least a half-mile wide that divided fields, severed streams and demolished woodland. The soil had been churned up into a maelstrom of blackened, poisonous mud, clouds of yellowish miasma drifting over the fetid mire. It stretched into the horizon for as far as the eye could see; nearer to them, it ended in a great mass of loose mud, where the horde had burrowed their way back underground. Remnants of farmhouses and steadings – little more than rubble – rose from the oozing soil. Any other traces of civilisation within its reach had been obliterated by the Darkspawn army as they streamed north.

"Have to erase those two villages there," murmured Ser Gilmore to the speechless bann, making a gesture towards the map. "They've gone."

"Maker's Breath," breathed Alistair, astounded and horrified in equal measure. "And this goes south as far as Ostagar?"

"One would assume so," Teagan replied, softly. "Via South Reach and Lothering. Over a hundred miles."

Flora had last set eyes on a Blighted stretch of land months prior, on their journey to the Brecilian Forest. Confronted with the ravaged landscape, she had shrieked in rage and plunged down the hill; snatching up the nearest hard object and hurling it at a stray Darkspawn that had fallen behind the rest of the horde.

Now - eight months later - the new queen reacted with no less anger. She let out a sound that was part-fury and part-shock; colour rushing up her neck to flood her face with a great wash of crimson. The others turned to look at her, startled at such vehement anger from their gentle and compassionate companion.

" _They've destroyed_ everything!"Flora wailed, caught up in a sudden bout of irrational despair. "It's – it's all _tainted. How dare they!"_

She quivered on the spot, impotent and furious; a storm-tossed ship in a bottle. Having no enemy to take out her anger on – there was no Hurlock present to batter with a frying pan – Flora instead turned her anger on herself.

" _I_ should have ended the Blight sooner," she continued, her voice trembling with every word. "I should have called the armies sooner. Killed the Archdemon more quickly. Then there wouldn't be so much of this – this – _poisoned land! And I can't even purify it any more!"_

"Darling- " started Alistair in alarm, reaching towards her. Flora side-stepped him, shifting frantically from foot to foot as the colour in her cheeks deepened.

"What about all the people who lived _there!"_ she wailed, waving an arm in the vague direction of the Blight scar. "If I'd killed the Archdemon earlier, they might still be alive!"

They could practically see the pulse racing in Flora's throat, her eyes wide and bright with guilt. Yet again, the realisation of her own new uselessness hit her like a lead mantle; and she put her hands over her face, letting out a choked sob.

"You need to calm her down," Teagan murmured to Alistair, who was already striding anxiously towards his wife. "The stress could cause her to go into premature labour; if humans are anything like horses."

Alistair's face contorted in horror, his fingers clamping around Flora's trembling arms.

"My love, sit with me," he entreated, sinking down to the grass and bringing his best friend with him, drawing her onto his lap. When he wrapped his arms around Flora, he could feel her still quivering in rage, her heart racing against his chest.

"Come on, baby. Deep breaths, now."

Flora inhaled unsteadily and then let out a painful, hacking cough; for a moment, he thought she was going to be sick.

" _Please,_ Flo. It's not _healthy_ for you to get so upset."

The note of desperation in her husband's tone punctuated the red veil of anger and guilt, and Flora curled her fingers against his shoulder. When she turned her tearful face towards him, Alistair ducked his head and kissed her damp cheek with gentle concern, his own fingers seeking out hers.

To his relief, Alistair could feel her frantic heartbeat gradually begin to slow. He murmured half-intelligible praises into her ear, stroking a palm up and down her back as he felt the baby fidget within her belly.

Teagan crouched down beside Alistair, eye-level with Flora's sad face as she rested her chin on her husband's shoulder.

"Petal, you performed a miracle ending the Blight as quickly as you did," he said, soft and earnest. "Nobody could have asked for more."

Zevran had been standing back in deference to Alistair; on seeing Teagan going to offer his reassurance, the elf decided that he was not going to be left out. He too went to Flora's side, nudging her cheek with a finger and making a quick gesture behind him.

" _Carina,_ do not spend overlong looking at that forlorn strip of land. It is but a _strip_ , in a land that is still fertile and ripe for harvest. A man is neither defined, nor _weakened_ by his scars, after all."

Flora nodded quietly, feeling the tears drying in place on her cheeks. Zevran's words were sweet and thoughtful, and she appreciated Teagan's reassurance; yet most comforting of all was the gentle, measured stroke of her best friend's palm along the length of her back.

"Yes," she whispered, suddenly embarrassed at her own outburst. "I'm sorry. Thank you, everyone."

A relieved Alistair cupped the back of her head lightly in his palm, stroking his thumb around her ear.

"My lovely Lo," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her tear-stained nose. "I understand why you're angry. I'm furious too, but – you can't blame yourself. We… we did our best, didn't we?"

She nodded silently, curling her arms about his neck.

They made their way down the hill, quiet and contemplative. From the vantage point, they had been able to see the correct road wending its way southwards. At the bottom of the hill, they met up with the other half of the party; who took in Flora's pale, tear-stained face and said very little.

The isolated, exposed bluff of South Reach was now visible on the distant horizon, emerging like some great prehistoric creature rising up from the earth. They could just about see the silhouette of the Bryland castle perched at the apex of the granite peak. The road ran south towards it, straight as a dart, running parallel to the Blight-scar. To everyone's relief, the corrupted soil was mostly hidden from view by trees, or by the curvature of the land. Nobody wanted to look at it too long, lest it brand itself irredeemably into their memory.

Bann Reginalda left them at a junction in the road, taking a narrow trail east towards her bannorn of White River. Teagan offered to escort the bann to where her retainers were meeting her; Reginalda laughed and offered a derisive refusal.

"Lad, I was riding the hills of the bannorn when you were but a young rake carousing in Ansburg! I'll be fine, I promise you."

Before she left, the bann drew her horse alongside Alistair's saddle, tapping Flora firmly on the thigh. Flora had been hunched into Alistair's chest, despondent, for the past few hours. At the bann's touch, she looked up with pink-edged eyes.

"Stop _sulking,_ Florence," the bann told her, gentle but firm. "It's a single strip of land, in a nation three hundred miles wide. If not for you and your husband, the entire country would have been Blighted from Denerim to the Frostbacks."

Flora nodded, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve. Behind her, she could feel her husband slumping in the saddle with weariness and dejection; as Ferelden's new king, he took its wounds as personally as one inflicted on his own body. Thrusting away her own frustration and anger, she turned her attention on Alistair, running her thumb over his knuckles and sitting up a little straighter to prompt the same from him.

The sun began to sink into the horizon, flooding the scarred landscape with shades of mellow umber, ochre and nectarine. Wisps of rose-coloured cloud manifested in the fading light, delicate as a lady's gossamer-thin nightgown. The first faint pinpricks of starlight peeked through the veil of cloud; a prelude to the encroaching lushness of night.

The company reached South Reach just as the moon rose from behind the eastern hills. The great rocky bluff rose up like the back of an armadillo from the grasslands; the buildings of the town clinging to the steep slope. The fortress-castle sat at the crown of the rise, squat, broad and ugly.

The king's party did not attempt to ascend the rise, instead making a wide circle around it to reach the base of the cliffs. The South Reach restoration committee had moved into an abandoned farm in the shadow of the bluff, converting the buildings and outhouses into basic accommodation and storage space. Although Leonas Bryland had not yet been able to visit his beleaguered seat due to taking charge of the Royal Army, he had no intention of neglecting South Reach. Dozens of carts filled with resources and building tools had been sent from Denerim over the past month; there was barely enough room in the farm courtyard for the company to leave their own wagons.

Several members of the South Reach restoration committee came out to greet the Royal party as they arrived. The interim mayor – whose predecessor had been killed in the flight from South Reach – stood at the forefront of a small crowd that had gathered in the courtyard. He was a bulky man named Silas, who had once made a living as a blacksmith.

Flora could feel Alistair barely disguising a yawn in the saddle behind her, her best friend taking a deep breath as he sat up straighter and prepared to greet the crowd. She could feel the weariness exuding from him as a pulse of dejected tiredness; the scar carved across his nation still at the forefront of his mind.

"Your majesties," the interim mayor breathed with blatant nervousness, bowing deeply as the king descended from the saddle and reached up to help down his queen. "Thank you for coming. It's our honour to welcome the King – and the _Hero of Ferelden."_

This last cognomen was breathed with a slight tinge of awe. There followed a brief ripple of appreciation from the crowd, especially once they caught sight of Flora's swollen stomach. They nudged each other in shock both at the sheer _size_ of her belly, and the realisation that she must have been heavy with child even when fighting the Archdemon itself.

Flora heard Alistair take one more deep, steadying breath and knew that he was about to ask how the initial survey of South Reach had gone; whether it was possible to venture up there tonight; what condition Arl Bryland's castle was in. Her best friend had always had a rigid sense of duty, following it even against his own best interests.

"We're honoured to be here," she said quietly, before Alistair could speak. "And keen to see the condition of the town. South Reach was where we gathered the support of the banns and arls before travelling to Denerim. But, if you don't mind, we'll do so _tomorrow_ morning. I don't feel well from the journey, and… I need to rest."

"Aye, and the king must attend to his wife. I'm sure you understand," Teagan added, and Flora shot him a grateful look.

The interim mayor hastened to assure them that _of course_ that was fine, that South Reach was not going anywhere. As he led them inside the main farmhouse building, Flora could feel Alistair's anxious eyes on her back. Once Zevran, Teagan, Wynne and the other members of the company had been housed in rustic, but comfortable, quarters; the blacksmith-turned-mayor led Alistair and Flora up to what once must have been the chief farmer's own quarters. They were decorated in a plain, rural style with dark furniture and white-plastered walls, exposed beams running across the ceiling. Some effort had been put in to make it more aesthetically pleasing; a vase of flowers stood on the dresser and a threadbare fur rug had been thrown across the bed. A trembling youth with the features of the mayor brought in several candles, scattering them about the horizontal surfaces to light the room.

"Sorry the accommodation isn't very fancy, your majesties," the mayor explained as he showed them inside the reasonably-sized chamber. "We haven't got much here, yet."

"Thank you very much," said the polite Flora in her soft, solemn northern tones; flashing father and son a rare public smile. "We look forward to seeing what you've accomplished in the morning. Would you be able to bring up something to eat?"

The door closed and they were finally alone, for the first time since early that morning. Alistair, ignoring his own tiredness in the light of his concern, immediately reached out to touch the side of Flora's face tenderly.

"Darling, you don't feel well?" he breathed, anxiety running through each word. "What's wrong?"

Flora reached up to cover his hand with her own, clasping their fingers tight together.

"I'm fine," she reassured her best friend, leading him with a gentle yet firm grasp over to the bed. " _You_ need to rest. It's been a long day, and I made you carry me – A SMALL PONY – up the side of a _mountain."_

Alistair laughed – intensely received that she was not genuinely feeling unwell – and leaned back on the lumpen mattress with a sigh.

"It wasn't a mountain, my love. And you're not a small pony."

He dragged a sleepy hand over his face, rumpling up the golden hair. Flora reached down to pull off his boots one at a time, tutting at him when he tried to assist.

"Lie down, husband," she instructed him firmly, giving his chest a gentle push.

The pressure of her small hand against the broad span of muscle was negligible, but Alistair still leaned back obediently against the square linen cushions. The scarred landscape was still writ bare across the king's features; he seemed years older than he had done when they had left camp that morning.

"As you wish, my own sweet wife." He smiled at her, eyes bruised with mingled tiredness and affection.

Flora shuffled about the chamber, ignoring the twinge in her own knee as she drew the curtains and poked vaguely at the hearth with the poker. A flagon of ale had been set out with two tankards on the dresser; she poured one out and brought it carefully over to the bed. The exhausted Alistair was already snoring against the cushions, his spread-eagled limbs taking up the majority of the mattress.

Flora had just placed the flagon gently atop the bedside table, when there came a knock at the door. Nostrils flaring in a manner reminiscent of Leliana, she scuttled across the room; determined to stop _anything_ from disturbing her weary husband.

To her dismay, the sound had not heralded the arrival of dinner. Instead, Teagan was hovering in the corridor, which was patrolled by a single yawning guard. Flora opened the door wider and eyeballed him suspiciously, positioning her fat-bellied body between the bann and the bedroom.

"Ah," he started; easily able to see over the top of Flora's head. "Is Alistair asleep? I was going to go over the schedule for tomorrow with him."

Flora's face now resembled a particularly belligerent mule, and it was clear that Teagan would have to bodily remove her to enter the room and disturb the sleeping king.

The bann smiled wryly down at her, and lifted both hands in surrender.

"Alright, poppet, don't fret. I won't disturb him. I hope – at some point - I can find a wife who guards my wellbeing as fervently."

Flora's ferocious expression softened and she stepped forward, patting her fingers gently on his elbow.

"I'm _sure_ you will," she breathed, gazing up at him in earnest as the door swung shut behind her. "Tell me what we're doing tomorrow and I'll tell him later."

Teagan nodded, offering Flora his arm as he spotted her favouring one knee over the other. Together, they headed to a bench positioned outside the room that had been assigned to Zevran. The bann let her down gently, knowing that the long day's journey must have taken its toll on her weak limb.

Flora sat down and stuck her bare, swollen feet out into the corridor, eyeing the sore patches of skin that had been aggrieved by her leather boots. The baby woke up and stretched it's limbs against the confines of her stomach; the movement shifting beneath the thin lambs' wool of her tunic. Flora patted it, tracing the outline of a rounded head with her thumb.

"This is the wrong time for you to be awake," she said sternly, gazing down at the quivering tunic. "I want to try and sleep soon."

Teagan stared down at the small ripples against her stomach, reluctantly fascinated. Flora caught a glimpse of his curious face, and nudged her elbow gently into his ribs.

"Haven't you seen that before?"

"Only with horses, pet. It's not quite the same."

"What about Lady Isolde, when she was heavy with Connor?"

Teagan let out a soft laugh - considerate of the dark shadows beneath Wynne's door - then gave another wry shake of the head.

"Isolde favours Orlesian gowns, which all tend to have about sixteen layers of ruffles. A regiment of soldiers could be performing troop manoeuvres under her skirts and we'd be none the wiser."

Flora smiled at the bann, then impulsively reached for his wrist; lifting his hand onto the curve of her stomach.

"Give him a tap," she suggested, and Teagan rapped his fingers lightly against the firm flesh.

There was a pause, and then the bann's eyebrows rose into his auburn hairline as he felt a responding nudge against his palm.

"Maker's Breath," he commented, astounded. "It could feel my touch?"

Flora nodded, an irrationally proud beam spreading over her face.

"He can hear us talking," she added, and the bann let out a soft laugh of wonder; tapping on her stomach once more. The baby responded with a kick so hearty that Flora gave a little grunt, and Teagan flinched.

"By Andraste – that's as strong as a kick from a Fereldan Forder! Eight weeks left of growing, yes?"

Flora nodded, wondering if it were possible for her body to be bruised from the _inside._ Teagan withdrew his hand, thoughtful and astonished in equal measure.

"Do you think it's a boy, then? You said, ' _he'."_

"In Herring, they believe that if you've got a desire for oily fish, it's a boy," Flora explained, wide-eyed. "And I've been wanting nothing but _sardines_ since we left Denerim. I've eaten half our stock already!"

Although it was just village superstition, based on nothing but hearsay and old wives' tales; when looking at Flora's solemn face in that moment, Teagan believed her. Both of them looked down at her twitching stomach, at the child who had survived werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, Arl Howe's treachery at Fort Drakon, multiple assaults by the Darkspawn and - ultimately – the wrath of an Archdemon. They were well aware of what the baby represented to the people of Ferelden, the townspeople of Denerim had wagered heavy coin on birth, weight, name and sex. It was a symbol of new life in the face of despair; of fertility, rejuvenation, and hope for the future.

 _It's a lot for one small baby to cope with,_ Flora thought, tracing the outline of the child's spine. _I'm sure you'll be fine, though. You've got Herring grit in your veins, just like me._

Teagan cleared his threat, quashing his sentimentality as he lifted her eyes to his face.

"So, tomorrow's schedule."

The bann relayed to her the information passed on by the South Reach mayor; Flora repeated each point until she had memorised the plan for the day.

"Thank you," she said at last, smiling up at him. "I'll tell Alistair when he wakes up. I think I'm going to eat a snack and then go to bed."

"That sounds like a sound plan," Teagan started, and then stopped abruptly as horizontal lines furrowed across his forehead.

Flora also tilted her head, attention caught by the same noise. There was a rhythmic thudding from the chamber behind them – a periodic collision of wood against wall – that could only be the sound of a vigorously used double bed.

"My room had better not be next door to the bloody elf," Teagan muttered, shooting a dark look over his shoulder at Zevran's chamber. "I wonder who he's got in there with him?"

Flora pushed herself upright, sidling across the corridor and coming to a halt before the occupied chamber door.

"Goodnight, Zevran," she breathed quietly against the wood, underestimating the sharpness of the elf's hearing. The frantic creaking came to a halt, there was a brief moment of silence, and then Zevran opened the door. He was entirely naked, save for a steel helmet positioned strategically over his manhood.

Teagan groaned and put a hand over his eyes, as Flora kept her own gaze diplomatically above the elf's neckline.

"I was just saying goodnight," she said, trying to resist the temptation to look beyond Zevran's lean, sinewy shoulder and see who was in the bed. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

"Nonsense," he breathed, tilting his tattooed cheek to one side in expectation. "I need my goodnight kiss, _carina,_ or I will have frightful nightmares."

He smiled at her, and there was a faint cast of truth over the rich darkness of his irises.

"Sometimes I envy your dreamless slumber, _mi corazon."_

Flora pressed her lips to one cheek and then the other, just as it was done in both Antiva and Orlais. Then, impulsively, she hooked an elbow around his neck and gave him a one-armed hug; trying not to dislodge the helmet. He embraced her back, beaming at her as he tucked a slender platinum braid behind his ear.

"See you in the morning, _nena."_

As the elf's door closed, Flora mouthed a silent _goodnight_ towards the senior enchanter's chamber; the audible snores indicating that Wynne was already fast asleep. Feeling her knee twinge – a warning that she needed to take the weight off – she went to say goodnight to Teagan.

"Thank you for coming with us," she said gravely, her pale eyes searching his face. "We appreciate you being here."

"I was getting itchy feet behind the city walls," Teagan replied, wondering whether to peck her cheek goodnight. Instead – as part of his efforts to act more _avuncular_ – he reached out and ruffled her hair, slightly awkward.

"Goodnight, Bann Teagan," Flora said, smiling up at him bemusedly. "See you in the morning."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I couldn't find much lore about what land looks like after it's been Blighted, so I just sort of made it up, hehe. I'm looking forward to having them go back to South Reach – they did spend about forty chapters there while gathering noble support. Those were fun chapters to write!

Also, do we think there's any truth in Flora's Herring old wives' tail, about the oily fish? Hehehehe

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	86. The Sad Remains of South Reach

Chapter 86: The Sad Remains of South Reach

Back inside the bedchamber, Flora pottered around for several minutes; relighting the candles that had gone out and adding another log to the hearth. Alistair was still snoring on the bed, flat on his back and fully dressed. While Teagan had been detailing tomorrow's schedule, a tray of bread and cheese had been left on top of the dresser by helpful servants. Flora used the knife provided to cut several thick slices from the loaf, and then placed flat squares of cheese between the slices to create a sandwich.

Tearing off a ragged chunk of bread for herself, she clenched it between her teeth and wandered across to the bed with the sandwich in hand. Sitting down on the mattress, Flora cast a fond look down at her best friend; his powerful, prostrate frame resembling a Tevinter statue toppled by the elements.

"I love you so much," she whispered impulsively, reaching out to pat his flung-out hand. "Brother-warden."

Alistair grunted, some barely conscious part of his mind registering her words. His fingers curled upwards to reflexively seek out hers; a moment later, he gave a yawn and stretched back against the cushions. One eye opened, and then the other, blinking away the bleariness of sleep.

"Darling," he mumbled, disorientated. "What time is it? Did I oversleep?"

Flora shook her head, rubbing her thumb over the calloused knuckles of his hand.

"It's still the evening. Do you want a sandwich?"

Alistair pushed himself up against the cushions, stifling a yawn as he smiled dazedly at her.

"Eh! I'm always disorientated after I wake up from a nap. And I'd _love_ a sandwich, my love."

Flora retrieved the sandwich from her lap and handed it to him, brushing away residual crumbs from her legs.

"Thank you, baby."

Alistair carefully divided the sandwich into two equal parts with strong fingers, handing half back to her. Flora took it, and then crawled up the bed to sit beside him, leaning against the cushions at his side. He ducked his head to press a kiss to her hair, and then they ate their sandwiches in comfortable, companionable silence. Flora dozed off shortly afterwards, her head resting on his shoulder.

She was submerged in her peculiar, dreamless slumber for an indeterminate amount of time. When she awoke, their austere quarters were dark and cold. The hearth had burned down to its ashes and the candles were blown out by the draught; there were no Royal servants awake to relight them.

Flora blinked, acclimatising her eyes to the soft, bruised well of shadows that flooded the room. In her sleep, she had slithered down onto the mattress and now – rolling over - she could see Alistair sitting up against the cushions. Her former brother-warden was staring unseeingly into the darkness, the day's stubble spreading dark across his cheeks. As Flora's vision clarified in small increments, she recognised the dull light of anger in Alistair's hardened hazel stare. It was the same vengeful, bitter look that had settled across his handsome face periodically during the Blight; usually after they had witnessed some wanton piece of devastation inflicted by the Darkspawn.

 _This is because of the Blight-scar from earlier,_ Flora realised, pushing herself up against the cushions. _He didn't show his anger then because I was hysterical and he needed to calm me down._

Usually sensitive to Flora's every movement, Alistair was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he had not even noticed that she was awake and staring at him. For all intent and purpose he was not in bed beside her, but wandering the ravaged terrain of the Blighted land, taking in the abandoned farmhouses, the ruined villages and the poisoned soil. When he inhaled, it was an unsteady and laboured gasp of air; as though his lungs were filling with tainted miasma. Despite being king for only a few months, he felt every Darkspawn-inflicted wound on Ferelden as acutely as a laceration on his own body.

Flora had not seen her best friend in this state for several months, regardless, she recognised it well enough. It did not matter that they no longer shared the corrupted blood; that the Archdemon was dead and the Blight ended; in that moment, she was Alistair's sister-warden once again.

She slid an arm around her husband's shoulders and let her breath warm his cold skin, her lips brushing against his ear. Instead of speaking, she kissed his neck; slender, nail-bitten fingers curling into his shirt. The king let out a soft exhalation, his queen's mouth coaxing him back to the present with each insistent press of her lips.

As Flora touched her tongue to Alistair's collarbone, he once more faced the choice between brooding over the day's events, or focusing on his wife's affectionate caresses. He had never before chosen the former, and tonight was no exception. Blinking, he gazed at the top of Flora's dishevelled, dark red head and reached down to stroke her cheek.

"Did… did I wake you, my love?"

"No," she replied, pressing her lips to the hard muscle of his chest. "I woke myself up. You can't sleep?"

"I tried," Alistair said, quietly. "I kept tossing and turning. I couldn't get what we saw earlier out of my head. I can _still_ see it when I close my eyes. All that ruined land, the destroyed buildings."

Flora had suspected as much, and wondered which of her various methods of comfort to employ. Alistair never failed to be distracted by the movements of their child, but the baby had gone to sleep several hours earlier. She thought about whispering reassurance into his ear; but realised that she would simply be repeating his own thoughts back to him. The rational part of Alistair's mind was well aware that it was only a _fraction_ of Ferelden that had been poisoned by Blight, that thousands of acres of arable land still remained, that the nation had been exceptionally lucky; yet, all he could see at that moment were the two obliterated villages that the scout had crossed out from the map.

Instead, Flora decided to use a tool of distraction that had never let her down in the past. Shifting slightly on the mattress, she reached up to fiddle with the buttons of her tunic. When Alistair glanced down at her a moment later, Flora gazed innocuously back up at him with one ripe, swollen breast exposed. The paleness of her skin contrasted with the blushing, rosy shade at its peak.

"Do you think my nipple is the size of a silver coin, now?" she asked, wide-eyed and earnest. "Last time we measured back in Denerim, it was the size of a copper."

"I… I don't know," Alistair replied, his gaze dropping to her breast. "I've got some coins in my pocket."

Pressing the cold metal against her nipples invariably made them stiffen. By that point, Alistair was suitably distracted from his sour mood; his tongue laving circles around one while he rolled the other between finger and thumb. Shortly afterwards, the dozing guard in the corridor was woken by the rhythmic thud of a headboard against the wall, the sound accompanied by the frantic creaking of a bed-frame.

Once they were both satiated, the newlyweds lay in each other's arms, bare-skinned and sweaty. When Flora peered up at her best friend's handsome face through the gloom, she was gratified to see that the shadows of anger had dissipated.

"Darling girl," he breathed into the darkness, stroking the back of her head with a clumsy palm. "It's… it's going to be alright, isn't it, my love?"

"Of _course_ it's going to be alright," Flora replied steadily, in the same confident tone that she had once said _of course the armies will offer us their aid. We have the Warden treaties. They can't say no._ "Ferelden will be _fine."_

The next morning, as the party rode on horseback towards the ruins of South Reach, Flora repeated her words over and over to herself.

 _Of course it's going to be alright. Of course it is._

The town of South Reach clung to the back of a bluff that protruded from the surrounding plains like the shell of some submerged animal. The buildings were clustered erratically up one tapering slope, which ended in Leonas Bryland's family seat perched precariously on the apex. On the other side of the castle, steep cliffs dropped sharply to the plain below, giving the bluff an almost lop-sided appearance. The population of South Reach had evacuated at the approach of the Darkspawn, many of them cut down on the road as they attempted to flee. The great tainted swathe of land lay to the west, a black stain cutting parallel across the fields of the bannorn.

The blacksmith-turned-mayor was at the head of the party, riding a stocky bay pony. Teagan rode alongside him, while Alistair, Flora and Zevran brought up the rear. Several other men from the South Reach restoration committee accompanied them on foot. On mutual agreement over breakfast, they had all brought weapons. Alistair had cast a mistrustful eye up at the shadowed town and gone to rummage through the cart to find his best whetstone, sharpening his blade to a razor's edge.

Flora had no weapon, but was perfectly content to ride surrounded by her companions, with her husband at her back. Unfortunately, nobody else was happy with this solution; aware of how vulnerable their former healer was without her shield.

" _Mi florita,_ you need to learn how to use some sort of weapon to defend yourself," Zevran entreated, his fingers wrapping around the reins as the road gradually began to climb upwards. "The world is a dangerous place, even with the Blight ended."

"But I've tried to learn how to use a weapon, lots of times," Flora protested, feeling Alistair give a little grunt in agreement with the elf. "Your friend Isabela tried to show me how to use a dagger and I couldn't do it. Sten gave up! I was _awful._ "

The elf shot her a pointed look of reprimand, one eyebrow arching upwards.

"Perhaps if you and Alistair had not ended up in bed with Isabela after twenty minutes, you might have learnt a little bit more!"

Several yards in front, Teagan nearly fell off his horse.

"You're right," Flora agreed gravely, then stifled a laugh. "Oh, dear."

Zevran continued, a slight plea in his tone to counteract the humour.

"And the Qunari was training you as though you were a seven foot tall behemoth. You are a girl of small stature, and his techniques were unsuitable; especially considering your current condition."

Flora had no idea what a _behemoth_ was, and so gave a solemn nod.

"Mm, bee-moth."

"I will train you myself, _nena,"_ the elf continued, determinedly. "During our travels. If Alistair is amenable, of course."

"As long as you don't overexert her," replied Alistair, pressing a kiss to the back of Flora's head. "But if you can do anything to make Lo safer – I'd be eternally grateful."

The elf nodded, and then shot the royal couple a sly, sideways grin; his dark eyes flashing.

"And what if I demand the same payment as Isabela, _hm?_ Which – as I recall – was a _kiss."_

"Zev," replied Alistair, without a shred of jest in his tone. "If you teach Flo something that she later uses to save her own life, I'd kiss you myself."

The elf cackled, pointing a finger marked in fading ink towards the king.

" _Done!"_

The company fell silent as they reached the edge of the town. The fields lay barren and crumbled, the soil appearing almost _burned._ The defences that the men of South Reach had constructed – wooden palisades, sandbags and pointed stakes – lay strewn about in forlorn smithereens. The Darkspawn had crashed through them like the tide would sweep away a sandcastle.

Flora swallowed, remembering how she and Wynne had watched Alistair, stripped down to the waist, building up these very defences. The men of the town had been forcedly cheerful, singing tavern songs and exchanging friendly banter as they drove the stakes into the earth.

 _There are the woods where I found the wandering Darkspawn. Alistair shouted at me because I went to face them on my own._

 _Ah, I was a bit of an idiot._

"As you can see, King Alistair," the mayor explained awkwardly, waving an encompassing hand. "The lower ward of the town – well. There ain't much left."

The horses proceeded up into the first part of the town, nearest where the city wall had once stood. This ward had contained mostly residential dwellings, dotted with the occasional unsavoury tavern or cheap brothel. Now, all that remained were the brutally amputated foundations; the empty outlines of where homes and livelihoods had once stood. The wooden frames and stone walls had been pillaged so thoroughly that hardly a roof tile had been left. Even the cobbled roadways were haphazardly ransacked, their stones removed to reveal bare patches of earth.

"The Darkspawn took the materials to build the siege weapons they used at Denerim," Wynne observed quietly, recalling a letter that Leonas had shown her. "But, Alistair – the air smells fresh enough."

Alistair nodded, forcing himself to lift his chin even as he clutched Flora a little more firmly about the waist.

"It doesn't seem like the taint has sunk deep into the earth," he agreed, with a small nod. "And the buildings can be raised again."

"Arl Leonas has already sent us six cartloads of materials," the mayor added, earnestly. "And he's promised labourers from his property in the Marches."

"He owns silver mines near Ansburg," Flora piped up, remembering that Fergus had once mentioned them. "And a slate quarry!"

They continued to follow the main road as it zig-zagged slowly up the sloping terrain. The mayor announced that they had now reached the middle ward, which had escaped with only minor damage. Many of the shops here had been boarded up; their owners fleeing even before the Wardens had arrived at South Reach. Flora recognised several blacksmiths, a half-dozen leatherworkers, three large taverns and myriad other businesses characteristic of a large and prosperous town. Despite the deterioration caused by months of neglect – missing tiles, broken windows and splintered door frames – their base structures appeared intact.

"This looks a lot more promising," Teagan offered as they rode past an abandoned silversmiths. "Wouldn't take more than a few weeks to get these businesses back up and running."

"So long as the original owners haven't fled to the Marches," replied Alistair, then felt Flora flinch. "Sweetheart?"

Teagan blinked, then realised that the king was talking to his wife. Flora was following Zevran's stare, down an alleyway lined with nondescript, rather ramshackle wooden housing. The elf turned, his dark eyes uncharacteristically sombre as they met Flora's anxious, pale gaze.

 _That house over there was where we helped the steward's sister with the birth of her child. Zevran cut it out of her stomach and I healed her up again._

 _Both her and the little baby never made it out of South Reach. I remember Arl Leonas telling me._

Flora hunched back into Alistair's chest, vaguely hearing Zevran quietly explain the significance of that particular house. Alistair inhaled unsteadily and let the reins drop, using his thighs to control the horse as he embraced her within strong arms.

"My love," he said into her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Do you want to go back to the farmhouse?"

"No, no," Flora protested, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"Darling, I _won't_ have you upset. It's not healthy for you or the baby."

"I'm fine, I'm fine! See!"

She bared her teeth at him in a vaguely terrifying grimace. Alistair stared down at her for a moment and then tightened his grip even more around her waist; reaching down to reclaim the reins.

As Flora composed herself, she distinctly heard her husband murmur an aside to Teagan, his voice low and anxious.

"Will you take Flo back if she gets upset again? I should have known this would be hard for her."

"Aye, she's a sensitive soul," Teagan replied in similarly soft tones. "Of course."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooh it's been a nostalgia trip so far during this chapter! I remember writing the construction of the South Reach defences chapter back in the original story – it was when Flora wandered off after hearing the call of the Darkspawn, and almost got skewered in a forest. Alistair got genuinely pissed off with her for the first time, and then they shagged in a stables. Aaaah memories!

How creepy would it be though, to travel through the ruins of an abandoned town? I did some research once on plague-villages, where entire settlements were abandoned when the Black Death killed almost the whole population. At least the upper parts of South Reach have escaped much of the devastation.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	87. The Macabre Residents of South Reach

Chapter 87: The Macabre Residents of South Reach Castle

The eeriest part of their slow ascent was the silence. South Reach, at its apex, had been the most prosperous town in the Bannorn. With a population of eight thousand, it had almost rivalled Gwaren in size and scale. Now it had become a ghost town, with windows and doors boarded over and shop-fronts shrouded with cobwebs. Surviving windows were caked with a thick layer of dust; not even stray dogs had remained to reign over the abandoned settlement. The market square – which was more of a curved U shape, meandering around three sides of the town Chantry – was desolate, the stalls collapsed into sad piles of wood and mouldering cloth. The sound from their horses' hooves echoed about the stone walls, inappropriately loud.

"I haven't even seen any rats," murmured Wynne, clearing her throat. "Nor heard any birds."

The senior enchanter lifted a hand, and a bluish glow radiated from her fingers. Flora, still sensitive to magic being used in front of her, hastily looked away. Wynne let her hand move from side to side, waiting for any corresponding prickles of life to echo in her fingertips. A moment later she shook her head, taking up the reins once more.

"Nothing," she breathed, a frown furrowing itself into her brow. "No signs of life at all."

They had now nearly reached the highest part of the bluff, where the brutal and uncompromising Bryland fortress sat squatly, facing the distant Brecilian Forest in silent challenge. It was one of the ugliest – but most fortifiable – castles in Ferelden, famously holding out against an Orlesian siege for almost a decade.

The entrance portcullis was wedged halfway up, the rusting iron spikes at an alarming angle. The Bryland banners hanging from the outer wall had mouldered away, only a few scraps of tattered green still clinging to their brackets.

"Have you been up here before?" Teagan asked the mayor, and the elevated blacksmith shook his head.

"Didn't feel right without no noble present," he replied, hesitantly. "Y'know, like we was trespassin'."

The party rode hastily beneath the treacherous portcullis, their horses' hoof beats sending percussive echoes about the looming walls. They came to a halt in the greater of the two courtyards, dismounting and tethering the horses to a nearby bracket.

As Alistair and Teagan conferred quietly, Flora wandered into the centre of the courtyard; the memories arriving like unexpected depositions from the incoming tide.

 _There's the wing where we stayed. We used to come down those steps every morning, head across the courtyard and break our fast in the great hall._

 _Up there is the tower where I made the golden ship sail in the sky for Connor Guerrin._

 _And over there is the lesser courtyard, with the little Chantry hewn into the bedrock of the castle._

 _I met Fergus for the first time – well, for the first time in a long time – here. Leliana and I sent off the letters that summoned the armies to Denerim from Arl Bryland's rookery._

 _I first realised that something was wrong with my body here. My moonblood was late and I was being sick every morning. I think I did know what was wrong, deep down, but denial was comforting._

As if on cue, the baby woke up and stretched; kicking two sturdy feet into the base of her spine. Flora put a hand to her belly, just as her name wended its way through the still air.

"Flo?"

She saw Alistair – sword and shield in hand – striding towards her, an expression of grim determination writ across his handsome features. Behind him, Teagan and the mayor were similarly armed, gazing up at the stern and inscrutable wall of the fortress.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, sheathing his sword and caressing the side of her cheek carefully with gloved fingers. "We're fetching some papers from Leonas' solar – deeds, ledgers, that sort of thing. Would you stay out here with Wynne and Zevran? We don't know what's inside."

Flora nodded, reaching up to rest her palm atop of Alistair's leather-clad fingers.

"Be careful," she instructed, feeling a twinge of sadness that she could no longer accompany him into the unknown. "Please."

Flora stood on her toes and he ducked his head to kiss her mouth, one hand dropping to caress her stomach affectionately. With Zevran and Wynne at her side, she watched her husband climb the shallow steps leading up to the castle's great hall. Teagan reached out to tug at the door and it yielded with a laborious creak, swinging outwards to reveal a well of shadow within. The men disappeared into the gloom with swords readied; the low sound of their conversation gradually fading.

"I wonder what condition the fortress is in on the inside," Wynne murmured out loud, shielding her eyes against the midday sun as she squinted up at the battlements. "It appears intact enough from out here."

"More's the pity," Zevran shot back, leaning back against the well and casting a look into its stagnant depths. "I'd forgotten how wilfully _ugly_ this place was. It makes Fort Drakon look like the palace at Halamshiral."

Wynne smiled, lowering her gaze from the eastern tower.

"It wasn't designed for _aesthetic,_ Zevran. Anyway, I doubt that Leonas will return here now that he's got the army to curate. His daughter, Habren, will most likely become arlessa when she comes of age."

The elf screwed up his nose, recalling the spoilt, dark-haired _arlina_ who had insisted on decorating her bedchamber in the Orlesian style.

"Ha! She'll have the entire place transformed into a Val Royeaux _chateau_ in months. _Nena!"_

This was directed towards Flora, who had begun to make her way determinedly towards the lesser courtyard. Zevran and Wynne exchanged a glance, and then hurried in her wake.

"Flora, Alistair doesn't want you to go inside, remember?" Wynne reminded her, nostrils flaring. "We don't know what's been trapped within those walls."

"I know," Flora threw over her shoulder, passing beneath the archway that led to the smaller courtyard. This had once been used as a drilling area, the training dummies leaned half-rotten against one wall. The stables ran along the opposite side of the courtyard, their doors hanging open and stalls empty.

"I promise I'm not going inside," she continued, spotting the narrow archway that marked the entrance to the kitchen allotments. "I want to see what's happened to the garden I grew for Arl Leonas."

Zevran and Wynne glanced at one another, but this request seemed innocuous enough and they could think of no reason why she should not do so.

They followed in Flora's wake as she made her way alongside the thick wall of the fortress. The kitchen allotments, which had once provided South Reach with a dozen different types of vegetable, were now barren and overgrown with weeds. The runner bean poles had toppled, the berry bushes were trampled, and the herb garden was obscured entirely by a thick nest of nettles.

 _I used to grab a raw carrot or potato whenever I passed through here,_ Flora thought sadly to herself, avoiding a puddle of stagnant mud. _I could never resist; I didn't know why at the time._

After ten minutes, the grey stone wall that ran around the perimeter of the enclosed garden came into view. The walled rose-garden had once belonged to Leonas' wife and after her death, the grieving arl had neglected to tend to it. During the Wardens' month-long sojourn at South Reach, Flora had taken it upon herself to clear away the overgrowth and plant new seeds; prompting artificially fast growth with selective application of her rejuvenative magic.

Now, Flora approached the stone archway with some trepidation, preparing herself for the inevitable sight of her efforts gone to waste. Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner and stepped into the garden.

Sure enough, as Flora had predicted, the garden had succumbed to disarray in the absence of any interference. The borders, which had once been an array of colourful flowers, were lost beneath a thick forest of blackthorn. The grass was buried beneath moss and creeping weed, and the peach tree was hunched over beneath its own weighty branches. The thicket of fruit trees at the bottom of the garden had been consumed with an overgrowth so thick that the orchard was a mass of shadow.

Flora swallowed, taking a deep breath and blinking back her sadness.

"It can all be pruned and replanted, child," Wynne said softly at her side. "The fact that weeds can grow in the soil shows that it's not polluted."

Flora nodded, grateful for the senior enchanter's comforting words.

"I think there's a few chrysanthemums over there," she said, determinedly. "Beneath those thorns. I'm going to see if I can get some cuttings for my garden."

 _If I can grow them in the garden back in the Royal Palace, I'll give the new plants to Arl Leonas._

The time passed with a slow languor beneath the afternoon sun; mellow heat flooding into the overgrown garden and bouncing between the stone walls. Zevran found a patch of grass and prostrated himself there; Wynne used the head of her staff to clear a tangle of bramble away from a stone bench. After adding a few more sentences to Irving's letter, the senior enchanter let out a soft curse as her ink-pen broke. With a grunt of frustration, she rose to her feet; heading back towards the main courtyard to retrieve a spare.

Flora was kneeling beside the blackthorn, determined to retrieve at least a sprig or two of living chrysanthemum. She had found a shovel leaning against the withered peach tree, and had used it to create a small hole in the midst of the thorns. The baby had gone back to sleep within her belly, nestled with its rear pressed against her spine.

Just then, a flicker of movement caught the tail of her eye. It came from the thicket of trees at the bottom of the garden, and Flora felt a little twinge of alarm. Awkwardly, she clambered to her feet and squinted into the depths of gloomy undergrowth.

 _Surely it can't be a Darkspawn. We haven't seen any so far._

 _Who's that?_

To Flora's initial shock – and then delight – a woman rose to her feet within the tangled bushes. She was facing away from the garden, clad in a tattered blue gown and with her hair hanging in dishevelled wisps. Her arms were little more than skin and bone, and the tendons stood out sharply in her neck.

 _It's a survivor!_ Flora thought to herself, joyfully. _She must have stayed alive by scavenging in the gardens. It's a miracle._

"Hello," she called out earnestly, taking a step towards the woman. "Hellooo?"

" _Flora."_

The woman's head began to rotate, just as Flora heard Zevran say her name. There was a strange tautness to the elf's voice and she frowned, turning to face him.

"What?"

Her companion was standing several yards from her with every muscle in his body tensed; like some feline predator about to pounce. His pupils had constricted to tiny black dots of focused intensity, and a blade glinted in his hand.

"Do not move, _carina,"_ he murmured, his stare unblinkingly fixed beyond her left shoulder. _"Do not move a muscle."_

Flora stared at him in perplexion, her brow furrowing.

"Wha- "

The blade flew through the air with deadly precision, whistling past her ear before burying itself into something fleshy. A thoroughly bewildered Flora turned around on the spot, and then her jaw dropped in disbelief.

The woman was no more than a few feet behind her, a clawed hand stretched outwards. The blue dress clung to a withered, skeletal frame barely covered with mottled flesh, and the woman's papery, black-veined skin clung to her skull. Her eyes were all white pupil, her nose caved in and her mouth a raw wound; there was nothing of the human left about her. As Flora gaped in shock, the creature toppled backwards onto the grass, Zevran's blade having sunk itself with pinpoint accuracy between the eyes.

 _It's a ghoul,_ she realised, suddenly. _Like Ruck and Hespith from the Deep Roads. But in a more advanced stage of corruption._

Zevran was striding towards her with a hand stretched out, his face alight with a fixed intensity.

"Come on, _mi florita,"_ he said measuredly, alert as a Mabari scenting a stranger on the wind. "We are going to return to the main courtyard, get a horse and return to the farmhouse _now."_

From the other side of the stone wall there came a sudden, animalistic scrabbling; as though something was trying to climb the twelve-foot height.

"And… I have changed my mind," Zevran breathed, reaching forwards to anchor Flora's hand in his. "Come, _nena."_

She had enough presence of mind to grab the hoe as he led her to the centre of the garden, positioning her with the trunk of the peach tree at her back and himself at her front. The scrabbling at the stone now came from both the northern and the western walls; followed by a low, bestial snarl from outside the garden's boundary.

"Don't be scared, _mi corazon_ ," Zevran breathed, blades readied at his sides as he stood poised before her. She could see the energy vibrating through his taut limbs like a coiled spring waiting to be released. "You must keep calm, _sí?"_

"I'm not scared," Flora replied immediately, feeling the rough bark of the peach tree against her shoulder blades as she clutched the hoe. "I'm with you."

The first ghoul made its way successfully over the wall, falling in a tumble of skeletal limbs into the bushes. When it rose, Flora saw that it was clad in Leonas Bryland's colours, the tattered remnants of a tabard clinging to its ravaged body.

It stumbled across the grass towards them with a guttural snarl rising in its throat; Zevran dispatched it with a quick and efficient scissoring of his blades. A moment later two more ghouls came over the wall, twisted mockeries of the servants they had once been. They lunged towards the peach tree, hollow-cheeked and dripping at the mouth.

The elf went first for one and then the other, side-stepping with feline agility as he avoided their clumsy lunges. His knife swung in a glittering arc, slicing through rotten flesh and spongy bone; ending both in quick succession. Their bodies fell to the ground, leaking a greyish, watery fluid across the grass.

Flora heard a sound from behind her and thrust the hoe in a blind sweep. It made a cracking sound as it collided with another creature's skull; moments later, Zevran had spun around and leapt forward, finishing the ghoul with a brutal thrust to the heart.

There followed a long silence, save for the elf's rapid, but measured breaths. Apart from the beads of sweat that had broken out on his tan forehead, Zevran appeared utterly unruffled; his expression cool and calm.

"Alright, _mi amor,"_ he said, very quietly. "We are going to return to the courtyard now. We are leaving this castle."

"But, _Alistair!_ Wynne and the others - "

" – Can take care of themselves," her companion finished, steel infusing the words. "Think of the _babe."_

Flora nodded wordlessly, keeping her grip on the hoe.

"Now, I want you to walk three paces ahead of me, _carina._ But no more than three, _hm_?"

* * *

OOC Author: OOooh, some excitement! Ugh, what a creepy image though – the tainted servants of Leonas Bryland roaming around the abandoned castle. It was quite sad to write about the garden getting all overgrown once again, especially after I spent several chapters having Flora weed it out and regrow it, haha.

AAAAH the mental image of Flo just standing there, oblivious to this ravaged skeleton of a woman reaching out behind her! The stuff of nightmares, lol. I'm not a brave person at all and I freak myself out very easily, hehee.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	88. Under Attack!

Chapter 88: Under Attack

Flora and Zevran made their way out of the walled garden unimpeded, following the narrow path between the kitchen allotment and the South Reach fortress. At one point, Flora thought that she heard another ghoulish snarl, sensing the elf tense in preparation. Positioned just behind her, he could see everything ahead and around Flora; while also covering her back.

It turned out to be merely a figment of their imagination – or perhaps the ghoul had changed its mind and slunk off into the shadows. They continued through the allotments without interference, emerging into the lesser courtyard just as the others appeared on its opposite side. The men who had ventured into the castle had their swords drawn, the blades stained with greyish fluid.

Alistair, who wore a face as ghastly as any ghoul, immediately fixed his eyes on Flora. A small, indescribable sound of relief escaped his throat and he dropped the sword onto the cobbles, striding across the courtyard to see his wife.

"There's _ghouls_ up here," Flora complained, outraged. "The poor servants, I think I _recognised_ one of – oh!"

This was in response to Alistair scooping her up into his arms; turning abruptly on his heel and heading back across the cobbles. Flora wound her arms around his neck, mouthing a question to Teagan as they passed. He grimaced at her and shook his head, bending down to retrieve the king's dropped sword.

Flora turned her face towards Alistair, struck into silence by her best friend's grey pallor and clenched jaw. There was a muscle twitching just below his eye and she inhaled in dismay, realising how frightened he was.

Wynne was waiting in the greater courtyard, staff in hand and three charred ghouls strewn across the flagstones, twitching. The horses were whinnying anxiously; save for the king's bay mare, who had once led an Archdemon on a chase atop the city walls without twitching an ear.

Alistair reached out to loosen the mare's reins, and was just about to lift Flora up onto the saddle when the nearest ghoul lurched to its feet nearby; a ghastly spectre of burnt and rotted flesh, clad in a cook's outfit. It flailed in a blind and ineffectual totter towards Alistair; who gripped his wife in one arm and channelled all of his fear and fury into the swing of his responding punch. His fist – which was clad only in a leather riding glove, drove straight into the creature's decomposed face and out the back of its head. The ghoul's skull broke apart like a rotten melon; pulpy brain matter flying in all directions.

Flora blinked, absentmindedly wiping some grey fluid from her cheek.

"I call that: _doing a_ _Howe_ ," she offered eventually, for want of anything else to say. "Remember when I …. Arl Howe…?"

This was not a particularly wise choice of recollection; Alistair had hated Howe as much as he had hatred the Archdemon, and on a far more personal level. He shot Flora a reproachful look, lifting her up onto the saddle and abruptly clambering on behind her. Without waiting for the others – his thoughts solely on removing his wife and child from danger as rapidly as possible – he turned the horse towards the portcullis and prompted it into a brisk walk.

As they passed back into the eerie stillness of South Reach's upper ward, Flora leaned back against Alistair's chest and exhaled. There was a slightly suspect aroma drifting up from her lap; she realised that the source was Alistair's bloodied arm, currently wrapped around her waist. She eyeballed it for a moment, watching the greyish sludge seep into the lambs' wool of her tunic, then gave an inward shrug.

 _Alistair and I were covered in worse at various points during the Blight._

From somewhere behind and above them, Flora heard the others riding across the drawbridge that separated the castle from the town. She wondered if Alistair would slow their pace to wait for the others, but he remained staring fixedly ahead, urging the mare onwards in a brisk walk.

They passed by the abandoned town Chantry, its empty windows staring out like blind, resentful eyes. Flora remembered suddenly the reason that Alistair had gone inside the castle, and swivelled around in the saddle.

"Did you find Arl Leonas' papers?" she asked, curiously. "And his lodger? I mean, _ledger?"_

Alistair did not reply for several moments and when he eventually did, his voice emerged as taut as a bowstring.

"Don't talk to me yet," he snapped, his eyes swivelling side to side in a search for lurking threats. "Just let me focus on getting you both out of this fucking town."

Flora grimaced but fell quiet, almost bringing her fingernails to her mouth before realising that her hand was covered in greyish sludge. The baby woke up within her belly – ironically, it had been asleep for the duration of the ghoul attack – and gave its mother a little nudge. She ignored it, thinking on her best friend's grim-faced anger.

Alistair did not stop the horse until they had ridden down through the neglected middle ward, the obliterated lower ward, and out through what remained of the town gate. As they turned onto the trail through the dry and dusty fields, he slowed the mare to a more gentle walk; exhaling long and unsteadily. In the distance, the Blight scar was visible as a dark smudge on the horizon, casting a menacing shadow over the placid summer's day.

Alistair had still not uttered a word, his fingers bone-white as they clenched the reins. Flora mentally ran through her own actions, wondering if she had somehow been responsible for the afternoon's danger.

 _No, I don't think so. He said not to go inside; I stayed outside. And there were ghouls in the courtyard too, not just in the garden._

 _I haven't even said thank you to Zevran yet._

She twisted as far as she was able on the saddle, just about catching a glimpse of the others emerging beneath the town gate ruins. They were only about a quarter-mile behind and would soon catch up; their horses were free to pursue faster speeds. Just ahead lay the farmhouse where the company had been staying, beneath the sharply sloping end of the bluff. South Reach castle loomed overhead with a particularly gloomy air, now that Flora knew what pitiful inhabitants resided there. To augment the general desolation, thunder clouds were rapidly rolling in from the direction of the Brecilian Forest; casting a strange light over the hills of the bannorn.

Alistair drew the mare to a halt in the yard before the farmhouse, just as the first low roll of thunder echoed overhead. Fat drops of rain began to splash against the dirt as a South Reach local came hurrying from an outbuilding to take the reins. The king, with a face to match the skies overhead, slid off the saddle and immediately reached up to help Flora down, lowering her carefully to the ground. Even when she was safely on the cobbles, he did not let her go for several minutes, his fingers firmly wrapped around his own.

Alistair then launched into a tirade of furious accusations; blaming the South Reach mayor for not searching the castle beforehand; blaming the guards for not accompanying them into the town; blaming himself for letting his wife out of his sight. Flora knew this anger well – it bore the same characteristics as the old bitterness over his birth-right, and was rooted in fear.

The others arrived in the middle of Alistair's stream of invective; the horses immediately flickering their ears in alarm at the raised voice. They dismounted, with eyes swinging between the pacing Alistair and the downcast Flora, who was sitting inelegantly on a barrel. Teagan shot her a glance and she gave a little shrug, knowing better than to interrupt her best friend when he was in full flow.

Zevran looked across at Flora and flashed her a wan smile; she roused herself from her gloom to mouth _thank you_ across the cobbles. The elf shook his head in a quick _don't mention it,_ blowing her a kiss.

The South Reach blacksmith-turned-mayor now received the brunt of the king's outrage, which he bore with remarkable fortitude.

" _My wife,"_ Alistair snarled, in a remarkable and unconscious mirror of Maric. "My wife is expecting a child, and you led us into that _death trap._ The place was swarming with ghouls! Why was it not scouted out? If she'd been _hurt – or worse!_ Maker's Breath. _"_

The king did not give the man a chance to reply, continuing to launch blistering accusations of blame. After several more minutes spent repeating the same points over and over; the mayor was dismissed abruptly. The former blacksmith shuffled off into the farmhouse, head hanging low as he wrung his cap in his hands.

"Alistair," said Teagan measuredly, unfastening his horse's bridle. "There's no point in getting angry after the fact. We'll learn our lesson for next time."

"I know what lesson I've learned," Alistair retorted, his eyes swinging across to Flora. "Flo isn't strong enough to be exposed to a place like this. She's so vulnerable, now. _Helpless."_

To hear the truth spoken so brutally was akin to receiving a slap to the face. Flora flinched as though he had struck her; her pale eyes widening and a hurt flush rising up the length of her neck. Alistair put his hand to his head and let out a humourless laugh, the fear from earlier still smouldering in the depths of his pupils.

"It was selfish of me to want to marry you, my love," he said, bleakly. "I wanted you to be my wife and take the throne as my queen. But I would sleep _so much easier_ if you could shield yourself, Flora. I'd be content to keep you as my mistress, if your spirits were protecting you still. I- I wish more than _anything_ that you still had your magic."

Flora had heard enough. She clambered to her feet - grateful for the cold stoicism of her natural face - and turned her face away from the courtyard, heading blindly away from this unwelcome truth.

" _Alistair!"_

Wynne cut sharply across the king, her duck-egg blue eyes flashing. Alistair stopped abruptly, the mottled flush of anger draining from his face to reveal a pallid undertone of fear.

"Ah, Maker," he croaked, dragging his hand over his face as he sat down on the barrel that Flora had so recently vacated. "I don't think that came out how I intended it to."

"You'd be surprised how often that happens," Zevran murmured from nearby, reproach running through each word. "When you speak in anger."

Alistair ran a despairing hand through his hair until it stood on end, turning his eyes on Teagan.

"What did I say to Flo, uncle? I can't even _remember._ My brain feels like it's been knocked around in my skull. I was so frightened."

He looked down at his glove, which was still coated with the drying contents of the ghoul's skull.

"Well, you wished that Flora was still a mage, instead of your wife" Teagan stated, a quiet but weighty note of reprimand in his tone. "Which – just to remind you – would make your child a bastard."

"And implied that she's somehow _diminished_ by the loss of her spirits," added Zevran, equally un-amused. "I would be more than happy to take your queen off your hands, if you have grown tired of having one."

Alistair groaned, putting both hands over his face.

"Ah, Maker's Breath – that's not what I meant at all! I'm such an _idiot_. Why do my words always come out so different to the way they sound in my head? I have to find her."

Wynne reached out to put a hand on Alistair's arm as he stood, shaking her head swiftly back and forth in a cautionary gesture.

"I would give her some time, Alistair."

The king slumped back down onto the barrel and pressed his fists into his head, gritting his teeth.

Meanwhile, Flora had headed off in the direction of the barn behind the farmhouse; taking deep gulps of afternoon air. This was supposed to both _cool_ and _calm_ her, but it was so humid that it felt like inhaling mouthfuls of watery, luke-warm soup. She rubbed a hand over her eyes, willing herself not to cry.

 _I wish I still had my spirits, too. And I know that I'm weak, you don't need to tell me._

 _I never appreciated how fortunate I was. I took my abilities for granted._

Not entirely certain of where she was going, Flora passed the barn doors and entered a storage-shed that had been converted into a makeshift stables. There were a dozen horses resident in the stalls; mostly Ferelden Forders, but with a few Marcher steeds standing amongst them. They chewed messy mouthfuls of hay, eyeing Flora curiously.

Flora recognised Alistair's tall bay mare at the far end; its dark coat damp with perspiration. On seeing her it gave a little whicker of recognition, and she wandered down the central aisle towards it: avoiding several buckets and a toppled pitch fork.

"Hello, horse," said Flora, tilting her gaze up to its noble brow. "I keep forgetting your name. It's a _long_ name, and I think it's from the Marches. Forgive me, I'm not good with foreign places."

The horse didn't seem to care. It bumped a long, white-striped muzzle against her chest, nostrils quivering. Flora realised that it was searching for the raw, earth-covered carrot that she had surreptitiously tucked between her breasts that morning.

"Oh no! Not my _snack."_

The horse eyed her belligerently, and Flora relented, retrieving the carrot and holding it up, tentatively. Although horses had been a necessary part of her life for the past year; they had barely featured during her time at the Circle, or in Herring. Even _during_ the past year, she had always shared a saddle with Alistair; who, loving horses, naturally took charge.

"I hope you _appreciate- "_ she began, and then froze in terror as the huge horse lunged forward, teeth bared and nostrils flared. It devoured the carrot in two large chomps, flecks of orange falling to the hay-strewn dirt.

"Oh!" Flora said, both impressed and slightly traumatised. "I think I may have competition for the title of _Thedas' Fastest Food-Gobbler."_

She reached up and scratched the horse's nose, feeling the short, bristled coat beneath her bitten nails. The horse let out a low snort, swishing its tail in a gentle, contented arc.

A mouse skittered between the stalls in a streak of soft grey. The sudden, scuttling noise caused several neighbouring horses to shuffle in alarm, their nostrils drawing tight and ears pointed forward. Alistair's horse remained placid and calm, staring down at the queen solemnly with a beautiful, liquid-dark eye. Flora smiled up at it, suddenly struck with a memory that had not surfaced for many months.

"When Duncan took me from the Circle, I had to ride a horse for the first time. You won't know Duncan, he's dead," she added, with the perennial twinge of grief.

"Anyway, I'd only ever seen horses before when the Templars came to capture me from Herring. We never used to get horses in Herring, because nobody ever wanted to visit us, for some reason. I don't know why! Oh, I'm getting off track. Anyway, so I had to ride a horse. And I fell off about sixty times on the road to Ostagar. Then we got attacked by bandits and my horse ran off, so I had to share a saddle with Duncan. He promised to teach me to ride better, but… we ran out of time. There wasn't enough _time._ "

The horse, bored of Flora's monologue, turned away from her and went to take a drink from the water-bucket in the corner. Flora eyed it for a moment and then let out a little sigh, the strange melancholy that always accompanied recollections of Duncan settling upon her like a damp blanket. She remembered his tawny, lined face more clearly than any of her Circle instructors; the sound of his voice – northern, with a faint tinge of somewhere _else –_ as familiar as the waves on the Herring shore.

' _You have a rare and wonderful gift,' he'd said. 'Use it well.'_

 _Duncan would never recruit me as I am now. He chose me because of my spirits, and they're gone._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooh we need to get Flo that weapons training asap, she is a bit useless at the moment. I think Alistair has got a point, but he did express it in a slightly clumsy way! Flora is well aware of how her shield used to withstand an Archdemon's flame- and now she can't even defend herself from a couple of crappy ghouls.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	89. A Litter of Royal Heirs

Chapter 89: A Litter of Royal Heirs

Alone in the stables Flora exhaled, feeling her shoulders slump. She gave the horse a farewell pat, glancing up at the sloping wooden roof as the clouds unleashed the rest of their humid contents. Thunder rolled once more in the distance, ominous as the drums of an approaching army.

Yet Flora had been raised on the Storm Coast, where thunder and lightning were the weather's one constant. Ignoring the distant rumbling, she wandered through the remainder of the stables and into a small paddock that lay to the rear. Several goats were sheltering from the rain beneath a wilted tree; nearby a chicken pecked at a puddle.

Silas, the blacksmith-turned-mayor of South Reach, sat on an empty stone trough at the edge of the paddock. The man was staring down at his careworn hands, either unaware of the rain, or entirely ignoring it. He started as though woken from a dream when Flora sat down on the edge of the trough beside him; eyes widening as he spun his head towards her.

"Your majesty!" he croaked, scrambling so rapidly to his feet that he almost skidded on the damp grass. "Queen Florence!"

Flora, who was stretching out her sore knee, let out a ambivalent grunt.

"Your majesty, I can't say how sorry I am- " the mayor continued desperately, looking as though he were about to fall to his knees in the mud.

"Eh?" she asked, perplexed. "Sorry for _what?"_

"For putting you and the Royal heir in the danger. Your majesty, if anything'd happened to you or the baby, my life wouldn't be worth two coppers. Please, _forgive_ me!"

Flora gazed silently up at him for a moment, then patted the trough in a prompt for him to sit down.

"There's nothing to forgive," she said, with Herring rationale. "You couldn't have known that there were ghouls in the castle grounds."

"I should have sent men to scout it out," Silas declared, a grimace embedded across his weary features. "To clear the keep of enemies. King Alistair was _right_ to blame me for endangering you."

"But you don't _have_ any scouts," Flora retorted, narrowing her eyes. "Arl Leonas has sent builders, and carpenters, and tools for fixing things. He's not sent any guards or weapons. It's not your fault that there are still threats within the castle."

The baby woke up and gave a wriggle on hearing the impassioned voice of it's mother. Flora dropped a hand to her stomach, stroking the curve of a small rump through the skin.

"You need proper soldiers to help you," she said, earnestly. "I'll write to Arl Leonas today. Or – I'll ask Wynne or Bann Teagan to write. Alistair can authorise troops to be sent down, too."

They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the goats huddling beneath the tree. A whip-crack of lightning shot across the sky, illuminating the hills of the Bannorn in a split-second of electric light. A rumble of thunder followed in its quicker cousin's wake as the humid rain continued to fall, turning the dust beneath the trough to mud.

"I don't know why I ever thought I could be mayor," the blacksmith said, suddenly. "Forgive me, your majesty, but I didn't even _want_ to be mayor of South Reach. The others chose me during one of the committee meetings."

"Well," Flora replied, squeezing water from her rain-soaked sleeve. "There must be a reason why they chose you."

"If there is, I don't know it."

Flora gave a little shrug, letting go of the wet material.

"Give yourself a chance," she said, recalling how she had once rejected even the temporary title of _Warden-Commander._ "You can learn on the job, like I did."

 _Like I'm still doing,_ Flora thought, thinking of the crown packed away in a watertight case within Teagan's travel-trunk.

"But the king is in a fearful rage," Silas said suddenly, paling a fraction. "With _me_ , in particular. He'll demand for my resignation."

"No, I won't."

The mayor clambered to his feet in a panic as Alistair emerged from the stables, the rain plastering his golden hair to his head. His eyes shot towards Flora; with great difficulty, he stopped himself from going straight to her side.

"Your majesty!" Silas bleated, looking half-tempted to prostrate himself in the muddy field. "Please forgive me for endangering your queen."

"I shouldn't have blamed you, ser," Alistair replied, frankly. "As Bann Guerrin has explained, you've had no military support from Denerim. I'll write to Arl Leonas and have some troops sent down to assist in the clearing of the castle."

Flora blinked at her best friend, inwardly pleased that their thoughts had run along similar lines. Alistair stared back at her for a moment, his eyes searching her face; desperate to go to her but knowing that this business needed to be resolved first. King and mayor conversed for several minutes, ignoring their incongruous backdrop of a paddock and myriad puddles. Silas grew more at ease with each exchange, shoulders straightening and eyes brightening.

"Well, that's settled, then," Alistair said at last, his gaze returning once more to where Flora was perched on the empty trough. "We'll discuss the particulars before our departure, tomorrow. Now, if you don't mind, I'd… I'd like to speak with my wife."

The mayor nodded and bowed deeply, far more cheered than he had been a half-candle prior. He made his way back towards the stables, his chin elevated and determined in expression.

Once the paddock was empty, save for the goats and the chicken, Alistair strode forwards and dropped to his knees before his queen; careless of the mud and damp grass.

" _Flora."_

Flora blinked, looking down at her husband as he knelt before her, the rain streaming down his brow. Alistair reached out to take her fingers, pressing them hard against his lips in a kiss.

"I'm so sorry for what I said before, my love," he breathed. "Don't pay attention to any of it, I just – sometimes, I just don't _think_ before I speak _._ I thank the Maker every day that you're my wife. I'm the luckiest man on Thedas to be married to you. And being king is so much easier with you as my queen. I wouldn't want it any other way."

She stared down at him as he clutched her fingers tightly; unwilling to release her hand.

"I… I failed to protect you and our child earlier," Alistair continued, a note of despair ringing hollow in the words. "And it terrified me. I was furious with myself, and I took it out on you."

" _And_ the mayor."

"And the mayor," he agreed, feverishly. "Forgive me, Lo. But the thought of you in danger – if you or the baby had been _hurt-_ I wasn't thinking straight. _"_

As his face contorted in sudden distress, she reached out and touched the top of her best friend's head; her fingers brushing over his wet hair.

"But you did protect us," she said, earnestly. "You asked Zevran and Wynne to come on the progress. And Zevran killed five of them in the garden, and Wynne the same amount by the horses. None of the ghouls even got within touching distance of me. I never felt like I was in danger."

 _Poor creatures. I wonder why they didn't flee the castle with the others? Perhaps they thought they'd be safe in Ferelden's most defensible fortress._

Alistair blinked; he had not thought of the situation from this perspective.

"You're right," he said eventually, pushing himself up from the mud and perching on the trough beside her. "I need to thank them. But, I shan't make the same mistake again, Flo. When we go to Lothering – or anywhere else that could be dangerous – I'm not going to stray from your side."

As another rumble of thunder echoed across the hills of the Bannorn, Alistair bowed his head to press a kiss against her damp cheek.

"Anyway, I've thought of a solution," Flora announced as he drew back. "Once this baby is born, I can start taking _ragwort._ Leliana told me about it; it stops your womb from catching."

"Flo- "

"So I won't get with child any more," Flora continued, hastily. "Then I can learn how to fight, and defend myself. With knives, and swords, and axes, and…. garrottes. And then you won't need to worry about me so much. I'll be as deadly as Leliana."

 _And I won't be weak and vulnerable anymore,_ she thought grimly to herself.

"Axes? _Garrottes?"_

Alistair had been shaking his head slowly from side to side, his eyes widening in dismay as he listened. He reached out to cup her face gently within his palm, sliding his fingers into her wet hair.

"My love, if that's what you truly desire, I'll support you," he breathed, probing the depths of her Waking Sea eyes with his stare. "But… is that _really_ what you want? To be like Leliana?"

Flora shrugged, turning over her hands and staring down at her nail-bitten fingers.

"I don't think so," she replied, honestly. "I don't know what I want to do with myself, other than trying to fix what's broken in this country. And help the elves in the alienage. What do _you_ want?"

"Me?"

"Mm."

" _Honestly?"_

"Yes," she said, lifting her eyes curiously to rest on his face. "Honestly."

"I want to have all the children that the Maker blesses us with," Alistair replied, his face open and earnest. "I want to make you a mother many times over, my sweet wife."

"Many? Many times?" Flora asked, alarmed. _"How_ many?"

"Six? Eight? Ten? Maybe not _ten,"_ he said hastily, seeing her eyes bulge. "But I want to have them with _you._ My wonderful queen. _"_

Flora thought about this for several moments, absentmindedly fiddling with a loose thread trailing from Alistair's tunic sleeve.

 _Alistair has never had much in the way of family, even though he calls both Eamon and Teagan uncle._

 _Whereas I doubled my family when I found out that I was a Cousland._

"Well then, maybe I won't take the ragwort after the baby comes," she replied, smiling at him.

The king inhaled unsteadily, sensing that she had forgiven him for his earlier thoughtless comments. Flora did not see the point in holding grudges, and anyway, she understood that Alistair had been shaken to the core by his pregnant wife's brush with danger. She still remembered the pure white bolt of fear-fuelled rage that had shot through her when an assassin's dagger had come within an inch of Alistair's throat before she had intercepted it.

 _I made my shield punch the man through the side of a cart and let it pin him up upside down; his skin turning blue as I shrieked all the northern curses I could think of, crude as a Herring fishwife. Then I couldn't speak afterwards for almost an hour, I was so badly frightened._

 _Fear makes you think quickly, but not with reason._

Flora let her fingers slide gently between Alistair's large, tan knuckles; familiar with the wear that had resulted from years of wielding a blade. She knew intimately the location of every groove and callus, could describe each freckle from memory alone. She had spent the best part of a year clutching this hand as a talisman against both bad dreams and Blight, until it felt almost an extension of her own body.

Alistair turned his hand over to link their fingers more tightly together, nestling his chin affectionately against the top of her head.

"My love," he murmured hoarsely, rubbing his thumb in slow circles across the back of her hand. "I want to keep planting children in you until we have a whole litter running about the palace. My beautiful wife."

Flora smiled at him, feeling the baby fidget within her as though able to hear their plans to create some little brothers and sisters to keep it company. Alistair shot her a quick, sideways glance; the faintest flush rising to his cheeks.

"I've already asked the midwife for advice on how to make your womb catch," he confessed, slightly embarrassed. "In case – in case we wanted to make another baby quickly."

Flora's eyebrows rose; as a former healer, she was still fascinated by the complex inner workings of the body.

"How?"

"I can't spill my seed over my hand," he replied, caught between amusement and self-consciousness. "So I won't be able to watch you bathe in the mornings, ha. And she gave me a special tea to drink to enhance my potency."

"Not one of Zevran's teas! I think they have _bad_ side effects."

"No! Not _that_ kind of potency. And in your fertile period, I'll need to excuse myself from the royal council afternoon session. Just long enough for me to put my seed in you in the middle of the day."

"Making more royal heirs sounds like an activity the council should support," breathed Flora, wide-eyed. "Maybe they could put it as the last item on the day's agenda and bring in a bed. We could use the privacy screen from the wedding night! Eamon would approve."

"You little minx!" Alistair kissed her ear, deciding not to mention a certain _dream_ he'd had recently involving the royal throne and his naked queen. "Stop, or I'll embarrass myself in front of those goats."

Flora smiled up at him and he leaned forward, letting her hook her arms around his neck. She knew full well what had brought on this sudden bout of broodiness in her best friend: the death-tinged Blight scar, the destroyed villages within, the abandoned town of South Reach and its ghoul-infested castle.

 _This is like when we used to lie together all the time during the Blight. During the darkest and most desolate weeks, we slept together three or four times a night, night after night after night. Each climax was like an affirmation of life in the midst of death._

 _Talking about the future and creating new life together – birthing a litter of children – it's the same thing. It's a form of defiance._

"Start drinking the tea now, then," Flora said, impulsively. "As soon as the midwife says it's alright, we can start making some brothers and sisters for this one."

Alistair beamed at her, genuine delight spreading over his face as he drew her into his arms.

"You mean it?"

"Mm," replied Flora, who liked children. "I mean it."

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a four hour meeting of the South Reach restoration committee. This took place in what had once been the farmhands' mess quarters, the only chamber large enough to house several dozen at once. The attendees discussed several pertinent issues, including the summoning of Royal troops from Denerim to clear the castle of ghouls. The mayor had glanced at Alistair with some trepidation as the topic was raised, but the king's earlier anger was passed; soothed by Flora's gentle reassurance in the paddock.

Docile as a well-fed Mabari, Alistair sat beside his wife with a hand on her knee, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on her thigh as he listened to the men speak. Teagan made the occasional comment, scrawling notes on a roll of parchment to send to Eamon. The Guerrins rarely used secretaries to take down their letters; trusting only correspondence writ in the hand of the other.

Just before the meeting was adjourned, Alistair cleared his throat, immediately drawing both the attention and the silence of the chamber. Curious eyes turned to the king; many darting glances to the side where the Hero of Ferelden sat, quiet and solemn-faced.

"I'm going to grant South Reach a ten-year leasehold over the northern isle of Wickway," Alistair said, naming the territory that he had been given as part of Flora's dowry. "There are copper mines on the island that make good coin. Use the profits to help rebuild."

"Your majesty!" breathed the mayor, as an excited murmur broke out around the room. "I – I can't thank you enough. I know you've no _personal_ ties to our town."

"I'm the king," Alistair replied, with a wry smile. "I've ties with every patch of land in Ferelden. Also, the queen and I spent a month here before we travelled to Denerim. We both want to see it restored to its former condition."

Flora impulsively leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek; suddenly very proud of him. Alistair smiled sideways at her, wishing that they were alone.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaaah, this was a nice chapter to write! I always imagined Alistair as wanting a big family. I can forgive Alistair for being so foot-in-mouthy last chapter (which he definitely was – poor Flo, she's well aware that her spirits aren't with her anymore!) because he was terrified. Ten kids though! GOOD LUCK, FLORA.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	90. A Game of Cards

Chapter 90: A Game of Cards

After dinner – a simple, hearty meal of rustic Fereldan fare – they retired to Wynne's quarters for the evening. Teagan and Zevran played a game of dice in one corner, while Flora and the senior enchanter practised her writing in the other. Flora's companions had taken on a joint responsibility for her literacy, and the queen never lacked for somebody to read with.

Alistair was trying to focus on Teagan's notes from earlier; in reality, he was still exulting over Flora's ready agreement to increase the size of their family. The thought of his best friend with several children at her feet and a babe suckling at her breast made the breath catch in his throat from sheer longing.

"What are you beaming at, Alistair?" Wynne asked from across the room, turning the page of her book as Flora hesitantly enunciated the last sentence. "You look like a Mabari left alone with a meat pie."

"Nothing," Alistair replied hastily, putting aside Teagan's letter. "Shall we play a game of Wicked Grace?"

" _Strip_ Grace?" enquired a hopeful Zevran, and received several glowers.

Wynne, Zevran, Teagan and Alistair all sat around the table, bringing their candles across to light the patterned cards as they were dealt across the wood. Flora had elected to finish copying out Wynne's carefully scribed sentences; legs crossed beneath her as she rested the parchment on her plump stomach.

"Shall we play Nevarran rules?" Teagan suggested, shuffling the final few cards remaining in the deck before placing them face-down on the table.

The bann's suggestion was agreed, and soon each player was peering down at their cards. Zevran didn't spare his hand more than a quick glance before leaning back in his chair and curling the corner of his mouth.

Alistair spotted the elf's lip curl upwards, and let out a bellow of laughter.

"That feigned smile won't fool me anymore, Zev. I know that you only grin when you've got a losing hand."

The elf's dark eyes widened innocently, and he put tanned, tattooed fingers to his chest with mock-indignity as Wynne laughed.

" _Alistair!_ I suggest that you stick to the business of _governance_ , rather than facial analysis," he countered, flashing very white teeth in the candlelit shadow. "My face is an Orlesian mask of trickery."

"Well, I think you're bluffing," Alistair started and then gaped, eyes widening. _"Wynne!_ Did you just look at my cards?!"

Wynne gave a little laugh as the elf cackled in delight.

"I take advantage of all opportunities presented to me!" the senior enchanter retorted, eyes sparkling. "You shouldn't hold your cards at such an _overexposed_ angle."

The three other players laughed at Alistair's outrage. The king's handsome, open features were capable of as much duplicity as a new-born babe; whatever emotion he was experiencing was writ plain across his face.

"Sweetheart," Alistair called across the room, still indignant. "Come and help me when you're finished. I'm in need of your _ambiguous_ beauty."

"I'll grant you, her face may be without bias," Zevran murmured in Teagan's ear, surreptitiously glancing at the bann's cards as he leaned across. "But she goes _'hee hee hee!'_ when she has a winning hand, and _'I want to swap my cards'_ when she has a poor one."

Meanwhile Flora, who was sweating with the effort of wrangling the letters into some sort of order, decided that she _was_ finished. When she looked down at the lines she had copied, they appeared more _Ancient Tevinter_ than Wynne's neatly scribed writing.

 _I think there must be something not quite right with my brain,_ she thought, slightly wistfully. _I'm sure I should be improving more quickly than this._

Putting the parchment to one side, Flora unwound her legs and clambered to her feet, wandering across to where the others were gathered around the table. She went to Alistair and sat down on his thigh, leaning back against his chest as he put an arm around her waist.

"I need your help," he whispered in her ear, unable to resist nuzzling his face into her cheek. "I think I'm going to lose."

Flora nodded, then turned her solemn face towards Alistair's rivals.

"We need another hand," she announced to the table, all of whom gaped at her in mild disbelief.

"But you are working with Alistair, _carina!"_ replied Zevran, trying not to laugh. "And he already has his allocated hand."

"Well, the baby is playing too," Flora retorted without batting an eyelid. "It needs some cards."

"How can it _play?"_ continued the elf, voice shaking with the effort of restraining his cackles.

"I'm it's _mother,"_ Flora retorted, placing a hand on her stomach. "I _know_ what it wants."

She turned earnest, entreating eyes towards Teagan, who blinked wordlessly for a moment. Aware that he was being cajoled but unable to deny the queen's limpid and long-lashed stare, the younger Guerrin coughed and doled out another hand of cards.

"Bann Teagan!" reprimanded Wynne, nostrils flaring. "You are too shrewd to fall for the beguilement of a pretty face."

Teagan gave a helpless shrug of defeat, smiling back at Flora as she beamed at him, reaching forwards to take the extra hand.

To the general astonishment of the group, she then proceeded to swap several of the baby's cards with those in Alistair's possession; until the king had ended up with a far more favourable hand.

"What are you _doing?!"_ squealed Zevran, wide-eyed. "You shameless little hussy. This is cheating on a scale that even _I_ would not engage in!"

"The baby wants to help it's father," replied Flora, sweet and brazen.

"It's inherited Flo's generous nature," added Alistair, who was now laughing openly.

Flora beamed, leaning back against her best friend's chest and folding her fingers across her stomach.

Despite Flora's blatant cheating, Alistair still ended up losing badly. His Marician features lacked any artifice or cunning, and his wife could not offer any particularly helpful advice. She had spent most of the game weaving the loosened laces of his tunic into fishing knots; her fingers automatically working the strings into familiar patterns.

 _Clinch knot; palomar knot; turtle knot-_

 _Turtle knot..._

 _How do I tie a turtle knot again?_

Flora felt a cold jolt of fear trickle down her spine. Herring suddenly seemed an ocean further away than it had done a few moments prior; her heartbeat lurching forward erratically.

 _I can't have forgotten how to tie a turtle knot. It's the main knot used to tie a thin line to a small hook. I used to tie it a dozen times a day back in Herring._

 _In the Circle, I tied the different knots into my own hair to make sure I didn't forget them. But I didn't do it during the Blight, because I was so preoccupied with everything else._

 _Have I forgotten how to tie a turtle?_

She closed her eyes, hoping fervently that – with the deprivation of her senses -the memory might return to her.

Zevran, naturally, won all three rounds. Wynne came close to victory on the second game, but the elf's wiles were too convoluted for even the senior enchanter to match. Conceding defeat, Wynne bade them all goodnight; passing her farewell on to the apparently dozing Flora. Teagan took his leave shortly afterwards, reminding Alistair that the committee meeting would start shortly after breakfast the next morning.

Finally, Zevran, Flora and Alistair were left alone in the upper chamber, the candles guttering in a breeze from the open hearth. Zevran was humming an Antivan-tinged melody softly to himself, sorting out the cards with dexterous fingers. The rest of the farmhouse had fallen quiet around them, since the majority of the South Reach restoration committee had also retired to bed. Their room alone still gleamed with candlelight; a single spot of brightness amidst an array of dull windows.

Still Alistair was leaning back in his chair, both arms encircling his best friend as she slumped against his chest, her eyes tightly closed. His hand gripped the back of her neck with careful gentility, one callused thumb rubbing slow circles into her skin.

"Zev?" the king said suddenly, his voice cutting across the smoky room.

The former assassin looked up from the cards, dark eyes coming to rest on Alistair's face.

" _Sí, amor?"_

Alistair opened his mouth to spill forth a rambling and effusive thanks. He was aware that without the elf's consummate skill with a blade, the newly vulnerable Flora would have been easy prey for the ghouls of South Reach. The king's earlier fear and anger had faded, leaving behind a relief so potent that he could almost taste it sharp on his tongue.

"You don't need to say it, Alistair."

Zevran could read faces like Flora's Herring-dad could read the sky; and could see the gratitude writ naked across Alistair's features.

"But- "

"It is unnecessary. You _know_ I would never allow a hair on her head to be harmed. Nor for any ill to befall your little babe."

Alistair nodded, clutching Flora as a sudden wave of dizzy gratitude overcame him. When she opened her eyes and let out a plaintive wail, the king startled – he had thought she was asleep.

" _I've forgotten it!"_ Flora bemoaned, her face contorted with dismay. "I can't believe it, I can't believe it. _How could I have forgotten it?"_

Zevran and Alistair shared a bemused glance.

"Forgotten what, my love?" Alistair asked, tightening his grip on his wife as she fidgeted unhappily on his lap. "Sweetheart, calm down."

"The _turtle knot,"_ Flora replied immediately, a distinct tremor in her words. The north always emerged more strongly when her emotions ran strong; the vowels flattening like expanses of coarse sand. "I can't remember how to tie it. I can't remember!"

"The twirly _what?"_

Flora's lower lip wobbled and she heaved herself up from Alistair's lap, her head spinning as though trying to locate the nearest large body of water.

"I have to find a fisherman!"

"Darling, we're over a hundred miles _inland."_

"But I need to remember the turtle knot."

A stubborn light had fallen on Flora's face; she looked ready to walk the leagues back to the coast that very moment.

"What does the turtle knot look like?" Zevran interjected, softly. "Don't cry; describe it for me, _nena."_

Flora bit anxiously at her thumbnail, shifting from foot to foot on the floorboards as Alistair rose to embrace her.

"It's used to tie a hook to a leader," she replied, in a small voice. "You eye the line, then make a little loop, then carry on the line to make an overhand- "

Flora's fingers moved in the air, illustrating these first few steps of tying the knot. As her mind went blank once again at the crucial stage, she let her hands fall with an unsteady gulp of air.

Although Zevran was not familiar with the specific vernacular of fishermen, he was fluent in the tying of knots. He immediately recognised the knot that Flora was shaping; although he had used it in very different circumstances.

"Here, _carina,"_ he murmured, rising to his feet and approaching her. "In Antiva, we name it _lagartija."_

Coming to a halt just before the agitated Flora, the elf reached out to lift two long strands of dark red hair. Forcing his naturally deft fingers to move at a more sedentary rate, Zevran tied the strands in the knot that he knew as the _lizard,_ but she called the _turtle_.

A tearful Flora watched the twist of his dexterous, tawny fingers and suddenly the memory returned, bright as a sea-softened shard of green sea glass. As the elf let the knotted hair fall, she reached up to replicate the knot with another pair of strands; not even needing to watch her own instinctive movements.

"See, not _lost,"_ Zevran chided, quietly. "Merely temporarily… mislaid. Dry those pretty eyes, _carina."_

Flora beamed at her elven companion, leaning forwards on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

"Thank you!"

She wandered across to the window while idly tying more strands of hair into knots; her body in a South Reach farmhouse but her mind firmly on the northern coast.

"I think I'm going to retire," Zevran murmured, stifling a yawn with his fingers. "Tragically not in the arms of Wynne – that mature bosom has been banned from me – but I find myself somewhat weary from the day's exertions."

He was cut off abruptly by Alistair's rough, self-conscious embrace, the king more used to hugging a wife who stood a foot shorter than his six foot and three inches. The elf blinked in genuine astonishment, thought briefly about making a slyly inappropriate comment; then bit it back and returned the embrace, patting the taller man gently between the shoulder blades.

"I can't thank you enough," Alistair muttered, the words emerging as a mumble but still audible to the elf's sensitive ears. "If you hadn't been there at South Reach earlier, she and the baby might have been – they might have- "

Alistair took a deep and unsteady breath, drawing back and staring earnestly down at the elf.

"Is there anything that I can give you to show my gratitude?" he asked, earnestly. _"Anything_ at all. I swear, Zev. You'll have it."

"What, even the five hundred sheep from the dowry?" Zevran asked with a little laugh, shooting him a wicked, dancing glance. "What if I asked to be a made an arl?"

"I'd see it done," Alistair said, without hesitation. "If that scum _Howe_ could be part of the Landsmeet, I don't see why you shouldn't be. Is… is that what you _want?"_

The elf laughed without humour, shaking his head and suddenly looking every one of his hard-lived approximation of years.

"No, _amor._ I… I am afraid that what I want _most,_ is the one thing that you could never part with."

Both men looked towards the window, where Flora had now tied up half her hair into various knots. She had breathed a mist onto the glass pane, and was trying to remember some of the words that Wynne had taught her. _S-E-R-K-A-L T-O-W-W-A_ did not quite resemble the senior enchanter's elegantly scribed _Circle Tower._ Flora frowned at her own erroneous attempt, breathed out another fresh 'slate', and put a finger to the mist for a third attempt.

"I'm going to run out of air before I get this right," she said to herself, wondering whether perhaps it was _S-I_ rather than _S-E._ "I need bigger lungs for all my unfortunate errors."

Alistair gazed at the elf for a moment, then passed a hand roughly over his head; rumpling up his hair in frustration that he could not offer any solution to the elf's quandary.

"She does love you," he muttered, green-flecked eyes averted to the floor. "I know she does. I'm – well. I'm not _sorry,_ because she was my sister-warden, and now she's my _wife,_ and I value her beyond count or measure. But I'm sorry that you're not… well , you know. I don't know how to say it."

Zevran nodded, half-smiling and inclining his head in acknowledgement.

"You are a kind man, Alistair. And I appreciate the sentiment."

A short time later, Alistair was stoking up the flames within the hearth of their own bedchamber. A bat was flapping against the window, and Flora was gaping at it with mild trepidation as she clutched the blankets to her chest.

"What if it's Morrigan in one of her animal-forms?" she breathed, wide-eyed, from the bed.

Alistair finally lowered the poker, satisfied with the volume of flame now brewing in the hearth. Turning, he strode across the creaking floorboards towards his discarded pack; stooping to rummage through the contents.

"Morrigan wouldn't wait for one of us to open the window," he replied, determinedly hunting through the leather bag. "She'd turn into something _heavy_ and crash straight through the glass."

Flora turned her gaze away from the window, peering at her husband as he crouched over his pack.

"Have you lost something?" she asked, sitting up against the cushions and grimacing as her lower back gave a throb of pain. "Do you need help finding it?"

"I hope I haven't lost it," Alistair replied, then made a small sound of triumph. "Ha! Here it is. I forgot I put it inside a boot to keep it safe."

He drew out an object wrapped in calfskin, grinning. Rising to his feet, the king anchored the object beneath his chin and hastily stripped off shirt and trousers; crossing the room naked to join his wife. Flora inched over on the mattress to make room for her best friend, pulling back the blankets as he clambered into bed.

Transferring the mysterious object back to his palm, Alistair leaned over to blow out the candle on the dresser; the smouldering hearth now the sole source of light in the rustic chamber. Shifting position beneath the blanket, he smiled across at Flora, reaching out to caress the swollen curve of her stomach.

"I love it when you sleep in my shirt," he murmured, attention divided between his pretty wife and the fidgeting child in her belly. "Are you going to take the knots out of your hair, my love?"

"No," retorted Flora, shaking her head to feel the weight of the dozen fishing knots she had tied into the dark red strands. "I like them."

Alistair grinned at her, and then dropped his eyes to the calfskin-wrapped object in his hand.

"I got this for you before we left the city," he said, quietly. "I thought you might appreciate it as we get further inland."

Flora blinked at him curiously, reaching out her hands to receive the object. It felt hard and oddly curved beneath her fingers; she peeled away the calfskin and inhaled suddenly, her eyes widening.

The unwrapped leather had revealed a creamy pink conch shell, speckled with flecks of ochre and tan. Flora ran her thumb wonderingly across its ridged surface, and then held it up to the side of her head. Immediately, the echo of the incoming tide filled her ear, a sound which she would never grow tired of hearing.

She kept the shell against her ear for several minutes, barely breathing; transfixed by the familiar coarse whisper of waves over sand. Alistair beamed at her, feeling his heart throb almost painfully against his ribcage.

Eventually, Flora lowered the shell from her ear and placed it carefully on the dresser on her side of the bed. She put her arms around Alistair's neck and he reached up to grip her elbow, kissing a ragged line over her skin.

"Thank you," she croaked into his ear. "I love it, I love it!"

"You do?"

"Yeeees!"

Alistair reached both arms around his fat-bellied best friend; drawing Flora close against his chest and pressing his lips to the top of her head.

"Well, I love _you,"_ he murmured, nuzzling his face against her tangled hair. "More than anything in the world."

Flora inhaled unsteadily as their fingers tangled; anchoring husband to wife in the night's darkness. The residual nightmares from the past year plagued him - and the strange emptiness of her own sleep bothered her – _much_ less frequently when they slept curled together, joined at the palm. She pressed a kiss to the underside of his chin, feeling the stubble sprouting through the skin.

"I love you too."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I'm not sure that going to sleep with a ton of knots tied into your hair is a good idea, Flo. Lol! I thought that the tying of the fisherman's knots into her hair at the Circle was a good way to remember the habits of Herring. This was a fun chapter to write! Flora is definitely being extremely cheeky with the demanding of extra cards for the baby, hehe. I also liked the moment of genuine affection between Alistair and Zevran- they both have huge respect for each other , and Alistair values Zevran so much that he actually feels bad about the Flo situation, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	91. A Challenge From Finian

Chapter 91: A Challenge From Finian

The next morning, the tradition of the _council of the bedchamber_ was duly continued; albeit in slightly less refined circumstances than within Denerim Castle's Royal quarters. Instead of Guillaume and a bevy of servants bearing a half-dozen platters, Teagan showed himself in after a cursory knock. The bann bore a single tray with ale, apples and hunks of buttered bread; entering the room with one hand over his eyes.

"Morning, Alistair," he announced, letting the door swing shut in his wake. "And you too, Flora. Are you decent, poppet?"

"Mm." Flora let out a distracted, Herring-grunt of assent, sitting amidst the blankets while detangling her hair.

"Not quite," Alistair corrected hastily, reaching across and fastening several more buttons on Flora's shirt. "There we go. Morning, uncle. Thank you for the food."

"I wanted to make sure you were both awake," Teagan replied, lowering the tray to the bed and sitting beside it. "The correspondence is piling up downstairs."

" _Correspondence?"_ Alistair said in surprise, eyebrows rising as he clambered to his feet and knotted a tunic around his waist. "It's managed to find us even here?"

"Don't underestimate Leliana's ravens," confirmed the bann, wryly. "I wager they'd fly into the Black City itself to deliver a missive from their mistress. There's several letters from Eamon, two from Leonas, one from Warden's Vigil. One long scroll from the lay sister herself. Another from the Circle Tower."

"Anything for me?" Flora asked hopefully, the words interspersed with grimaces as she unknotted her hair. "Ouch, ow."

"Aye, lass. Your brothers have both written to you, as well as some fellow named _Oisín."_

"Oh!" the queen replied in delight, her hair wrapped in dark red skeins about her small fingers. "That's the engineer from Orzammar. He said he'd write when they started the work!"

Alistair smiled, pleased as ever to see his best friend happy. He poured a flagon of ale for his uncle and a cup of water for Flora, serving himself last.

The door opened to admit Zevran and Wynne, who had both been listening with an ear to the doors of their respective rooms for the arrival of breakfast. Alistair flailed inwardly for a moment at the senior enchanter's arrival, wondering if he should locate something more substantial than a tunic tied loosely around his waist.

"Don't mind me, dear boy," Wynne reassured him, with a hungry look in her eye that was not _entirely_ caused by catching sight of the breakfast tray. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

Flora contorted a grimacing smile up at her companions, working a particularly furious knot from her hair.

"Good morning," she breathed, watching Zevran polish an apple along his sleeve. "Wynne, you look pretty this morning. You look _radiant."_

Wynne shot herself a quick glance in the mirror, then returned the compliment with a beady stare.

"Whereas _you_ look exhausted, Florence."

"The… the baby kept me up all night," replied Flora, wide-eyed and innocent.

Wynne's nostrils flared as she took a large bite from a piece of bread, perching on the bench beside the window.

"Batting your eyelashes won't work on me, child! My room was adjacent to yours, I know _full-well_ why you look like you've had no sleep. Alistair, you should let your wife rest!"

Teagan coughed as Zevran let out a little giggle; they were only spared a lecherous comment by the elf's mouth being full of apple.

Alistair gaped for a moment, and then nodded his head with martyred resignation.

"You're right, Wynne," he said, nobly. "Sorry, Flo."

Flora, however, was not going to allow her best friend to take unfair blame.

"Oh, no," she countered, earnestly. "It wasn't _Alistair_ waking _me_ up, it was the other way around. I think all my bodily humours are unbalanced, I keep either crying or wanting to…. _you know."_

Bouncing on the bed to make the mattress squeak, Flora made a little illustrative gesture with her hands. The elf let out a cackle of sheer delight, and a bright-red Teagan accidentally spilled half a flagon of ale down the front of his tunic.

"Certain _urges_ do tend to be a side effect of your condition, Florence," Wynne confirmed, taking a much more measured sip of her own ale. "Just make sure you let the poor boy get sufficient sleep! I can see dark shadows beneath his eyes, too."

"I would be _delighted_ to offer my services, Alistair, if you find yourself too weary to _perform,"_ Zevran interjected gleefully, flashing Flora a wink. "I am only a door-knock away."

"I think I'll keep up with the demand, Zev, but thank you for the offer," Alistair replied drily, taking another mouthful of buttered bread.

After breakfast, the company descended to the farmhouse kitchen. This was a large, sunny space with high windows and wooden beams running across the ceiling; with several Mabari lounging before the open hearth and a long, pale wooden table running the entire length of the chamber. The air was fragranced by light green bundles of dried herbs and lavender hanging from the overhead beams.

Zevran, who had a keen memory and an artistic eye, had a map of South Reach spread out at the sunniest end of the table. He was carefully marking out the levels of damage to the different wards with a pencil; shading heaviest in the areas which had been obliterated by the Darkspawn. Leonas' letter, which had included the neatly folded map, requested an accurate depiction of the ruination brought to his family seat.

Alistair and Teagan sat nearby, their heads bowed together over the correspondence from Eamon. Several letters from the Chancellor had been bundled together; each one containing a dozen items of mundane and prosaic news from the capital. Repairs and reinforcements to the city wall had begun, the work was expected to take over six months – longer, if the autumn rains arrived early. The trade routes to the Marches had been fully re-opened after the Blight-enforced embargo, and the first few shiploads of Fereldan wool had been eagerly received. The Denerim port – in a single week – had welcomed spices from Antiva; copper and bronze ore from Rivain; bundles of raw silk from Orlais; and several hundred barrels of vodka from the Anderfels.

"Make sure the stonemasons don't get their hands on that last one," Alistair commented in mild alarm. "I don't want my new walls built crooked!"

Teagan smiled, adding this humorous aside to the bottom of their returning note to Eamon.

"It's not the most interesting read," he replied, dipping his quill in the inkwell and tapping the excess against the rim. "I'm afraid this is what official correspondence tends to be like, Alistair."

"But I _like_ that," the king replied in dry tones. "I'd much rather read about all the goods traded through the Denerim port than about… a horde of Darkspawn swarming the walls, say. Or blood mages invading through the sewers."

Wynne snorted, tilting her letter from the Circle towards the light streaming in through the high windows.

Flora, sat beside the elderly mage with only a few fishing-knots remaining in her hair, was trying to pluck up the courage to tackle her own correspondence. The letter from the engineer had been so hideously intimidating – full of long words and scrawled at an unintelligible angle – that she had hastily placed it to one side.

Instead, Flora picked up the missives from her brothers, deciding to start with the one that bore the navy wax stamp of Highever. Breaking the seal, she unfolded the square of parchment and immediately had to bite back a laugh. Fergus was less familiar with his sister's level of literacy, and had taken her request for _clear, well-spaced_ handwriting rather _too_ literally. Each inked letter was an inch tall, the words spaced so far apart that barely a dozen could fit onto the page.

 _Dear Florence,_ she mouthed to herself, recognising the shapes of these familiar opening words. _Hope... you- you – and…Baby… are wool. Well. Love – Fu- Fungus._

 _Fergus._

Flora beamed, placing the letter to one side.

"Sweetheart," Alistair called down the table, waving a sheet of parchment in her direction. "Eamon wants to know how you and the baby are, my love."

"I'm- "

" _Lusty!"_ Zevran offered helpfully, lifting his eyes from the map.

Alistair shot the elf a stern look, his golden brows drawing together.

"I can't tell Eamon that Flo is _lusty,"_ he chided, ink dripping down his fingers. "Darling, what should I put?"

"Put that I'm well," Flora replied diplomatically; the little creature fidgeting in her belly as it woke up from a nap. "And the baby is… _wriggly."_

She put Fergus' letter to one side and picked up Finian's, feeling a slight twinge of nervousness in her gut. Finian understood well her level of literacy, since he had read with her on dozens of occasions. However – a true scholar at heart – he always tried to nudge Flora beyond the bounds of her own capability; reasoning that she would never improve if she stayed within the realm of comfort. Finian's hand was clear and the letters neatly spaced at intervals, but the content itself was always more of a challenge. Usually, Flora would only tackle his correspondence with the aid of one of her companions.

She glanced discretely around the table, confirming what she already suspected. Alistair and Teagan were murmuring quietly over the contents of the letter from Warden's Vigil; Wynne was scribing a response to Irving at impressively rapid speeds; Zevran was carefully inking in the extent of damage on the South Reach map. Everybody was preoccupied with their own business, and so Flora took a deep breath and prepared to embark upon the letter independently.

 _Dear Floss._

 _Off to a good start!_

 _Dear Floss, –_

Flora felt the first distinct curls of nausea begin to sprout in her belly, yet she was unable to blame this unpleasant curdling on the baby. She stared down at her brother's simple writing, blinking at the third word of the letter as though hoping to bring it into focus. Unhelpfully, the black ink seemed to jump about the page and form itself into a new letter each time that she looked at it.

Taking a deep breath, she skipped the third word and moved onto the fourth. To her relief, this one said _'the',_ and she recognised it immediately. Unfortunately, the fifth and the sixth word were as unintelligible as the third.

Flora felt her cheeks flush pink with shame, a hot rush of embarrassment surging upwards from her stomach. She sat on the bench and swallowed a painful lump that had formed in her throat; suddenly wishing that she had not asked her brothers to write to her. Around her, the others read and wrote with ease, the silence broken by soft scratches of quills against parchment.

 _Zevran can read perfectly well,_ thought Flora miserably, watching the elf annotate the map of South Reach in a fluent hand. _And he was an orphan raised by assassins; he's never had any formal schooling. I was taught in the Circle for four years, and I didn't even pick up the letters of the alphabet._

The sun inched its way up to the apex of the sky, flooding the farmhouse kitchen with mellow, buttery light. Alistair used one of the beeswax candles to melt a pale circle onto his returning letter to Eamon, stamping it with the Theirin seal he wore on the fifth finger of his hand. This great ring had once belonged to Cailan, formerly to Maric, and before even _that_ it had been in the possession of the Rebel Queen's ill-fated father.

"How are you getting on, Zev?" Alistair asked cheerfully, relieved that the correspondence had not taken more than a handful of hours.

"Just finished," the elf replied, lowering his pencil and surveying his work triumphantly. "An exceptionally accurate replication, even if I say so myself. I keep forgetting that I have _quite_ the artistic hand, since it was not a skill particularly valued by the Crows."

Alistair grinned, his eyes moving down the table to where Flora sat quietly beside Wynne. She had been pretending to read Finian's letter for nearly an hour, staring mindlessly at the unintelligible words while trying not to cry.

"How about you, Flo? What did Fergus have to say, I could see the size of those letters through the parchment!"

"He hoped that me and the baby were well," Flora replied, forcing some normality into her voice and hoping that Alistair would not enquire any further.

"What about Finn?"

Flora swallowed, feeling heat prickle in the corners of her eyes. Trying to keep the evenness in her tone, she cleared her throat before replying.

"He… he said…"

She trailed off, and there was an expectant pause. Wynne looked up from her letter to Irving, eyebrows rising.

" _He said..."_ whispered Flora once more, and then tears finally began to drip down her cheeks as the embarrassment and frustration became too potent to hide. "I don't know what he said. I- I can't read it _._ I'm so _stupid!"_

As Flora's voice broke mid-sentence, the startled occupants of the table all stared at her in dismay. Alistair's face contorted with mingled shock and horror, almost falling over the bench in his haste to stand. He rounded the table in a handful of long-legged strides, sinking to the bench beside Flora and drawing her protectively into his side with a strong arm.

"Darling," he breathed, turning her face towards him and inhaling sharply at the volume of tears coursing down her cheeks. "My love. What's all this? Of course you aren't _stupid."_

"But I can't – I can't read it," Flora wept plaintively, crumpling Finian's letter into a ball with a sudden burst of frustration. "All you've taught me over the past year has been for nothing. I still can't do it."

Alistair was now almost in tears himself, horrified at seeing his wife in such distress. He gathered Flora up against his chest and patted her back, murmuring into her ear as she sobbed broken-heartedly into his shoulder.

"There's something _wrong with me!"_

"Darling, there's nothing _wrong_ with you," he assured her, his own voice unsteady. "You're the most _right_ girl in Thedas."

"But, bu-u-t-"

" _Flora,"_ interjected Wynne briskly, from Alistair's other side.

Flora opened her eyes promptly; four years of conditioned response to a senior instructor was hard to ignore.

"Flora, who is the _cleverest_ person you know?"

"You," replied Flora, without hesitation.

"Thank you. Who else, child?"

"Lel- Leliana."

"And?"

"My dad."

Wynne nodded encouragingly, her pale blue eyes searching Flora's tear-stained face.

"And why is he so clever?"

"He… he can catch _any_ fish in the Waking Sea," Flora whispered, wiping her nose surreptitiously on Alistair's tunic as he slid a comforting palm up and down her back. "He can make a dozen different types of hook out of one piece of wire. He knows how to repair a boat that's been broken into pieces by a storm. He can read the weather for a week based on a single sunset."

"And does he know his letters?"

"N-no."

"Exactly, child," retorted Wynne, matter-of-factly. "Cleverness has got nothing to do with whether or not you can read and write _._ So I don't want to hear you calling yourself _stupid_ again, do you understand?"

Flora nodded, her damp grey gaze moving across to Teagan as the bann cleared his throat.

"Petal, there's a good amount of men in the Landsmeet who haven't put pen to paper since they were children," he offered, quietly. "They've forgotten even how to spell their own names; they have secretaries who read and write in their stead. And they rule their lands wisely and effectively."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, the tears drying on her cheeks as the lump of sadness in her throat gradually began to dissolve. The words of her companions, combined with the comforting, familiar warmth of Alistair's physical presence, had managed to calm her down to the point where she was now growing embarrassed at her own melodramatic outburst.

"My love," Alistair murmured, rubbing his thumb soothingly around the curve of her ear in the same way that he had once done in the darkest parts of the Deep Roads. "Let's try it together, hm? Two heads are better than one, after all."

He smoothed Finian's letter out against the wood with his palm as a sniffing Flora shifted back around to face the table. Instead of removing his hand, he let one long, strong finger rest across the page; underlining the top row of words to help her focus.

"Remember, darling, it stops the letters from moving about the parchment when we do this," he murmured, more familiar with the limitations of Flora's literacy than anyone else in the room. "Now, let's have a go at this first bit."

"' _Dear Floss_ ,'" she said, still teary eyed. "I don't know the next word."

"Speak the letters out loud," he instructed, softly. "Remember, sweetheart, all the words we speak are made up of only twenty six of them."

"U-n-f-o-r-t-u-n-a-t-e-l-y," Flora whispered, spelling out the word that now sat placid and unmoving above his broad, tawny finger. "Un- unf- _unfort? Unfortunately!_ Oh! is that right?"

Alistair grinned at her in confirmation, as she blinked in surprise.

"It's right, my love. Keep going!"

"' _Dear Floss'_ ," Flora read, obediently. _"'Unfortunately, the w-e-a-t-_ wet, wheat – _weather!_ b-bod.. _bodes – I'll – ill._ This… this… week _'Unfortunately the weather bodes ill this week'?"_

Her voice rose upwards at the end in a question, her eyes turned anxiously on Alistair. He beamed, nodded and leaned forward to kiss her on the nose.

" _Perfect,_ Lo. See, you _can_ do it."

Flora, temporarily speechless, put her arms about her best friend's neck and clung to him. Alistair spread his palm over the small of her back, rubbing a thumb into the aching parts of her spine.

"You know," Zevran whispered in Teagan's ear, soft and faintly wistful. "As much as my heart _aches_ harbouring this hopeless desire for _mi sirenita;_ I find it also _soothed_ by seeing how well-suited they are for each other. It's terribly confusing."

Teagan coughed, and let out a soft, embarrassed grunt. He wondered in alarm if Zevran had chosen to confess this to _him_ because the elf had recognised a similar yearning. The bann had hoped that his inappropriate ardour would fade, either after the ring was placed on Flora's finger, or when her belly continued to swell with the fruits of another man's loins. Unfortunately, Teagan continued to be tormented by facsimiles of his shameless desire during his night-time ventures into the Fade; frequently enough that he still felt the need to confess them on his next visit to a Chantry.

Meanwhile, Alistair was still embracing his wife, relieved that he had managed to alleviate her sadness.

"I'm so proud of what you've accomplished with your reading this year," he breathed into her hair, brushing his lips against her ear. "My beautiful bookworm."

Flora had no idea what a ' _book' worm_ was, but had a great appreciation for _worms_ in general; after using them as bait on fish-hooks for years. She rested her chin on Alistair's shoulder, feeling the baby give a wriggle in response to their muffled voices.

Alistair also felt the movement beneath the fabric of her tunic, his eyes softening to the green-flecked shade of bruised apples. Drawing back, he lowered his head to kiss the wool-covered curve; blissfully ignorant of anything else other than his wife and his unborn child.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaaah this was a bittersweet chapter to write! I wanted to communicate Flora's frustration with her own limited literacy. She's got what we now call dyslexia – which was only named as a condition in the late 1800s, and was actually called 'word blindness' at first – but naturally, this isn't a known thing in Ferelden. I have a sister who has mild dyslexia (and is now a Cambridge educated engineer, so it clearly didn't stop her!) and I remember her describing how the letters used to wriggle around the page and turn upside-down. Anyway, I think that Flo's struggles with her reading are an important part of her character. Plus, all frustrations are augmented by her unstable emotions due to the baby, hehe. Hope you enjoyed it!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	92. Ill News From Warden's Vigil

Chapter 92: Ill News From Warden's Vigil

The company would be departing South Reach shortly after lunch, bound westward towards Lake Calenhad and the Circle Tower. As preparations were made and carts restocked, Alistair, Teagan, Ser Gilmore and the rest of the South Reach committee left to venture once more into the ruins of the lower town. One of the alchemists had devised a test using elfroot and ground charcoal that tested the purity of a water source. Alistair had taken the map that Zevran had carefully annotated earlier, determined to mark down any sources of clean water. A sample of tainted liquid would also be collected and brought to Kinloch Hold for experimental purposes.

Initially, Alistair had been loath to leave his wife within the farmhouse, and had almost sent Teagan to collect the water samples in his stead. Wynne had delivered a kind – yet stern – reminder to the king that he had brought both herself and the elf precisely to look after Flora's wellbeing.

Alistair had dithered in the doorway of the sunny farmhouse kitchen for several minutes; staring at the delicate protrusion of Flora's collarbone as it pushed up against the creamy flesh of her chest. She was sitting at the table beside Wynne, barefoot on the limestone tiles, her hair tied with a loose navy ribbon at the nape of her pale neck. The curve of the baby – which stood out prominently against the slender frame of its mother – was barely protected by the thin wool of Flora's tunic.

 _She's so vulnerable,_ he thought to himself with a sudden convulsion of fear. _She's a girl who's never worn armour or wielded a weapon a day in her life. She's never been drilled, or trained, or educated in the art of defence. She's always relied on her spirits to protect her, and now they're gone._

"We'll be fine," the senior enchanter said, her tone sharpening. "I assure you that ghouls will not swarm the steading in the hour that you are absent."

"And if they try, they will not get far," Zevran added, canting his head towards the pair of wickedly sharp, curving blades resting incongruously on the pale oak table.

Alistair nodded, then descended the three steps back into the kitchen; boots echoing against the stone tiles. Flora lifted up her arms to embrace him, directing a sly whisper into his ear as he bent to kiss her farewell. Alistair let out a slightly throaty laugh, his eyes darkening as he returned her desirous stare.

"Really, my love? You are?"

She nodded, biting at her lip as she gazed plaintively up at him.

Alistair coughed, then glanced over his shoulder to where Teagan and the rest of the South Reach committee were waiting.

"Ah – I'll just be ten minutes or so- "

"Ten minutes? Are you going to do it _twice?!"_ enquired Zevran _,_ sweet and malicious.

Alistair shot the elf an equally evil stare, eyes narrowing.

"My stamina has _much_ improved in that regard, thank you very much!"

"Oh, it has?"

" _Yes."_

"Really? And your _proof…?"_

"My proof - _Flo_ , come upstairs, sweetheart!"

But Flora had risen to her feet and wandered off towards the pantry, stomach rumbling.

"Actually, I'm not lusty anymore," she replied, oblivious. "Now I'm _hungry._ I want a snack."

" _Go, Alistair!"_ snarled Wynne, finally losing her patience. "Or it'll be _Satinalia_ and we'll still be sat in a South Reach farmhouse."

Reluctantly, the king departed in the company of Ser Gilmore, Teagan and the South Reach blacksmith-turned-mayor. Ferelden's queen returned to the pale oak table clutching an overripe pear and stepping over a yawning Mabari.

As the sun inched its way leisurely through the sky, Wynne helped Flora to scribe her responses to both Fergus and Finian. Flora copied out the senior enchanter's sentences, her brow furrowed in concentration. Recalling Alistair's broad finger resting across the page, she used the edge of a spare sheet of parchment to act as a steadying rule. This measure helped to keep the inked letters from turning upside down, back to front, or generally misbehaving.

Once she had written her replies to her brothers, Flora sat back on the bench to accommodate the baby's fidgeting, watching Wynne continue to add more lines to her letter to Irving. This had now turned into a scroll nearly two foot long; privately, Flora was unsure whether the raven would even be able to carry it.

On the other side of the table, Zevran appeared to be having similar thoughts. He eyed the senior enchanter's busily scratching quill, one white-blond eyebrow raised to his hairline.

"Are you writing a novel, my dear Wynne? A sequel to Leliana's great epic, ' _The Lion and the Light'?"_

Wynne snorted, ending a sentence with a flourish before peering across at the elf.

"There's a lot to talk about. Irving will be eagerly awaiting my missive, let me assure you. He's been rushed off his feet for the past two months, overseeing the cleansing of the Circle."

"Is it mostly fixed now?" asked Flora, tapping her fingers absentmindedly over her stomach. "Bann Teagan said that Connor had been moved down there, with the other apprentices."

Wynne nodded, pressing the cork back into the ink-pot with one black splattered thumb.

"The lower floors have been wholly purged of corruption. Only the very uppermost room – the Harrowing chamber – still requires cleansing. The Templars, instructors and apprentices have all moved back in."

Flora blinked for a moment; she had only been on this particular floor twice, and neither time was for a good reason. She could not remember the details of her own Harrowing – her spirits had slain the demon sent to test her in the Fade – but she could remember all too well those who had succumbed to Uldred's lure. Abominations had roamed freely on the top floor of Kinloch Hold; terrible, mangled effigies of their former selves.

"I'm looking forward to seeing Connor," Flora said, forcing the image determinedly from her mind. "I hope he doesn't ask me to make a golden _Peraquialus_ again. I'd have to disappoint him."

"He can make one for you instead, _mi sirenita."_

Flora smiled at Zevran, brightening at the prospect.

"Oh! Yes. I'd like that a lot."

Wynne finished her letter with a small sigh, tapping the excess ink from her quill and letting it lean against the pot. With deft, navy splattered fingers, she rolled up the long skein of parchment into a tight roll. Out of consideration to Flora – who still winced whenever magic was used in her proximity – the senior enchanter used a more prosaic means of melting wax to seal the letter.

Flora yawned, suddenly weary from the afternoon's exertions. She rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands, feeling the baby settle down for a nap within her belly.

"Ah, Flora. Speaking of the Circle, I've some news that might interest you."

Zevran, eternally nosy, looked up in synchrony with the sleepy-eyed Flora. They both peered across the pale oak table towards Wynne, who was taking a measured gulp of elderflower wine.

"Is it about the rebuilding?" Flora asked, stifling another yawn.

"No," replied the senior enchanter, setting the glass back down on the wood. "It's about your former Warden-Commander, Duncan Rivaini."

Flora blinked and sat up a little straighter; all tiredness swept away with the utterance of her old mentor's name. She inhaled, leaning forward eagerly on the table.

" _Duncan,"_ she breathed, grateful that his richly tanned, fine-lined face still rose to the forefront of her mind without effort. "What about him?"

"Apparently, he and a scholar of the Marches exchanged a series of letters between August and Harvestmere of last year. After Ostagar, the Warden-Commander of the Marches sent Duncan's letters on to the Circle for safekeeping."

"And they survived what befell the Tower afterwards?" Zevran enquired, light and curious.

Wynne gave a nod, her soft blue gaze gently probing Flora's own wide-eyed stare.

"Irving thought it fitting that they be bequeathed to you and Alistair," she said, quietly. "I don't know what the contents are, but they're waiting for you once we get to Kinloch Hold."

The men returned from South Reach an hour or so later, with the samples of water in hand. Alistair, who had fretted without cessation from the moment that his horse departed the farmhouse, dismounted the mare before it had even come to a stop in the stable yard; striding across the cobbles and pushing through the door leading to the steps that descended to the sunny farmhouse kitchen.

He found Zevran and Wynne playing a game of dice at the long table, with their bags already packed and sitting beside them. Flora - who had eaten too much pickled beetroot - was slumped in a nearby threadbare armchair, caught up in the pangs of indigestion and sulking.

The party prepared to depart South Reach shortly after lunch, with the carts restocked and supplies replenished. The horses were also eager to be off; they were purebred, highly intelligent Fereldan Forders who could detect unease in the air like a foul miasma. The great bluff of South Reach – with its castle filled with restless dead – rose up like a great headstone from the plains.

The company would briefly re-join the Imperial Highway, colloquially known as the West Road, as it meandered towards Lake Calenhad. Before they reached Ferelden's largest inland lake, they would arrive at the most sombre waypoint of their entire journey – the Darkspawn-swarmed village of Lothering.

The Lothering restoration committee – also overseen by Leonas Bryland, since it fell within the demesne of South Reach – had not yet left Denerim. They were waiting for reports back as to the condition of the land and buildings; unsure if they would ever be able to return to their original hometown. If the land had been tainted beyond revival, there were plans to relocate the town several miles to the north. This theoretical settlement would be named New Lothering, in honour of its Blighted predecessor.

Still, Alistair had hopes that the original town would have survived the onslaught by the Darkspawn. The majority of South Reach was still intact, despite the ghouls resident in the castle. When the king broached this possibility to Teagan, the bann gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

The company rode north along the same trail they had followed several days prior. The flat plains gradually began to mould themselves into the rolling hills of the Bannorn, the grassy undulation broken by copses of trees and the occasional crumbling shepherd's hut. There were no livestock visible in any of the abandoned, overgrown fields; the only signs of life other than their own company were the birds wheeling on summery breezes overhead. In the distance they could see the white spine of the Imperial Highway running over the hilltops.

Ser Gilmore, riding alongside Wynne at the head of the column, had grown bold enough to offer a song to the placid air. He had a high, clear tenor that was pleasing to the ear, though the senior enchanter privately worried that it might inspire their atonal queen to join in the chorus.

Wynne need not have worried: Flora was entirely preoccupied with her own aching belly. She had eaten far too much beetroot and was suffering from deeply uncomfortable indigestion. Slumped backwards on the saddle with her face against Alistair's chest, she was letting out a low, incoherent and continuous groan.

"Is this _normal?"_ Alistair muttered to Teagan, who was riding at their side. "Poor Flo's had bellyache for hours."

Teagan gave a helpless shrug, lacking experience in such matters.

"It's _perfectly normal,"_ Wynne called from the front of the party; tiring of Alistair fretting over every one of his wife's aches and pains. "The greedy creature stuffed herself so full of beets that I'm surprised she hasn't turned _purple."_

Flora let out a soft moan against Alistair's shoulder, and he pressed an anxious kiss to the top of her head.

"She _is_ eating for two," he retorted, coming to his whimpering wife's defence.

"More like _two hundred,"_ whispered Zevran with a giggle. "I appreciate a girl with an appetite."

A short time later they stopped near a small spring to water the horses. They were a mile's distance from the Blight scar but the scout still tested the pool with elfroot tincture to check that it was safe to drink. Once the purity of the spring was established, the company paused to take a short rest; the horses lowering white-striped muzzles to the water while their riders sat beneath the shade of several weeping willows. Wrapped hunks of bread were passed around, along with golden Denerim apples and plump crimson tomatoes.

"These are almost – _almost_ – as good as those grown on the coast of Antiva," Zevran admitted, reluctant as ever to praise any Fereldan foodstuff. "They'd be better mashed into a purée with white wine and spices, of course."

Alistair grinned, absentmindedly brushing breadcrumbs from Flora's cheek as she lay dozing with her head in his lap.

"They're from Guillaume's garden. He's got some herbal concoction that he adds to the soil. I don't know what's in it, but Flo was eating the earth in handfuls when we visited there last."

"Have you told her the contents of Loghain's letter yet?"

Wynne fixed Alistair with a pointed stare across the grass; one silver eyebrow rising to her hairline. Alistair grimaced, lowering his voice.

"No," he said, reluctantly. "I don't want to worry her."

"What was in Loghain's letter, exactly?" Zevran chimed in, immediately curious. "I saw you frown when reading it earlier. You ought not pull such faces, it'll put dents in that smooth, noble brow of yours."

Alistair glanced down at his wife to confirm that she was still asleep; her cheek resting against his thigh. Even so, he lowered his voice further to ensure that his words did not somehow penetrate her sleeping mind.

"There's been a Darkspawn attack on Vigil's Keep," he said, quietly. "And it's not the first – the keep has been attacked twice this month. It almost seems like an _organised_ assault."

For all his playful chiding about not creasing one's forehead, Zevran's own brow furrowed as he registered Alistair's words.

"But that makes no sense," he said, after a few moments. "The Archdemon is dead. Who is commanding them?"

"That's the question," Alistair retorted grimly, his fingers smoothing a stray lock of hair behind Flora's ear. "And what the Wardens will need to investigate. I have greater things to worry about than isolated Darkspawn attacks – I've got the welfare of the entire country to consider."

"And your former sister-warden?"

Alistair grimaced, reflexively glancing down at his oblivious wife as she lay curled on the damp grass at his side.

"There's nothing that Flora can do to aid the situation," he said, softly. "And everything she _can't_ do will just upset her, especially since Vigil's Keep is in her brother's arling. I won't have her worrying, Zev. She's already fretting enough about Lothering."

"Well, that is understandable," Zevran replied with equal quietness. "Although she will not be happy if she finds out that you have been hiding such news from her."

"Lo can get as angry as she wishes," the king said, with a rueful smile creeping over her features. " _After_ the baby is born."

Alistair reached down to stroke his wife's cheek with a thumb, the smile rapidly dissipating from his handsome features.

"I really thought our troubles would be over once the Blight was ended. I think the Maker must have some sort of grudge against Ferelden. What's next, an invasion of giants from the Waking Sea? Angry bees from Antiva?"

He let out a humourless bark of laughter, bowing his head with the weight of the invisible crown.

"Let the Wardens deal with it, lad," Teagan advised, quietly. "It sounds like a localised problem, and – as much as I hate to admit it – Mac Tir is a capable leader. And that Orlesian woman Leonie Caron seems reasonably competent."

Alistair nodded, taking a thoughtlessly large bite of a particularly juicy tomato. It burst between his teeth, sending pink droplets splattering down the front of his tunic.

"Ah, Maker's Breath!" he muttered, easing Flora's head gently down onto the grass and clambering upright. "I had to pick the ripest one from the bunch."

Pulling the tomato-stained tunic over his head, he strode bare-chested to the cart and began to rummage through the leather packs in search of spare clothing. Wynne lifted her glass appraising lens to one eye with a soft _hm_ of appreciation, as Zevran leaned back on his elbows and unashamedly ogled the king's broad, bronzed shoulders.

"I wouldn't bother with the shirt, _amor_ ," the elf called lightly over the grass, his eyes moving over the corded muscle of Alistair's back. "Why don't you spend the afternoon developing that _tan_ instead? You're going as brown as a nut."

Flora, who had started to stir at the mention of _giants from the Waking Sea,_ now yawned and hunched upright, rubbing her bleary eyes with a hand.

"Ooh," she said in mild dismay, realising that she had missed out on an opportunity for a snack. "Have you all been _eating_ without me?"

This irritation was quickly soothed as her gaze settled on her shirtless husband, as he rooted through his pack. Flora's mouth fell open and she sat up straight in the grass; eyes widening with naked appreciation.

"Aah, isn't he _muscly?"_ she breathed to the person sat closest to her, which happened to be Teagan. "Look how _strong and manly_ he is."

"Uh," said the bann, not entirely sure how to respond. "I… won't disagree with you, petal."

Flora nodded, practically salivating as Alistair turned towards them with a clean tunic in his hands. His face brightened on seeing her smile – it was the first time in several hours that she had not been contorted with indigestion.

"My love," he breathed, pushing his arms through the tunic. "How do you feel?"

"A lot better," Flora replied, resisting the urge to bellow _LUSTY!_ across the clearing. "You're so handsome."

Alistair grinned, secretly delighted at his wife's blatant admiration.

"Stop, you're going to make me blush," he chided, striding across the damp grass towards her while fastening the lower buttons. "I'm glad you're feeling better, darling."

As he crouched before her, she let out a small sound of protest and began to ineffectually tug at his tunic; pulling it back up over the taut abdominal muscle.

"I don't want you to put your shirt back on," she breathed. "Can't you keep it off?"

"What, and ride around Ferelden half-naked?" Alistair replied, breaking into a laugh. _"Behold, freemen – your topless majesty!"_

"Mmm," said his wife distractedly, reaching forward to spread her palms greedily over his bronzed stomach. "ALL MINE."

"Leave the poor boy alone!" chided Wynne from across the clearing, nostrils flaring. "You must try and _control_ these inappropriate urges!"

 _Well, I don't want to control them,_ Flora thought to herself, slightly sulkily. _I want to ride my husband behind a bush._

 _Oh dear, this is a bit ridiculous. I need a bucket of Waking Sea tide-water tipped over my head._

* * *

OOC Author Note: OK I wanted to end this chapter on a lighter note, considering the grim news that the Darkspawn have been assaulting Vigil's Keep! Although this sequel focuses on the rebuilding on Ferelden and Alistair/Flo as the new monarchs, it's important for me to remember that the events of Awakening are occurring too.

So strange how all the Dragon Age months have fantasy-type names, and then you randomly have 'August', lol. It sounds almost as wrong as the names of weekdays being Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc…

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	93. A Deluge Under Canvas

Chapter 93: A Deluge Under Canvas

By mid-afternoon, the company had re-joined the Imperial Highway. The elevated road carved an elegant line through the hills of the bannorn; and was in remarkably good condition considering that maintenance had been halted during the Blight. A noncommittal sun drifted lazily in and out of the clouds, and there was a humidity in the air that suggested that inclement weather was rolling in.

As evening neared, so did the anticipated storm. The ears of the horses flickered; like most animals, they were sensitive to subtle changes in the barometric pressure of the atmosphere. The Mabari trotting at their hooves were also on edge, snapping their jaws at the electricity-charged air and whimpering.

The humidity increased in exponential increments, and soon the company found themselves loosening buttons and rolling up the sleeves of their tunic. The men of the party found themselves removing as much of their clothing as they felt comfortable doing – only a fear of saddle-sores prevented Zevran from going fully nude. Flora, who was already sweating due to the fluctuations of her body, was miserable in the sticky heat. She was fiercely jealous of the men, who could freely strip off their shirts without censure. In compromise, Alistair had borrowed one of Zevran's sharp blades and cut off her breeches above the knee.

They stopped their horses at a crumbling guard tower just as an ominous roll of thunder echoed over the nearby hills. The scout offered the map to Alistair, gesturing with a finger to their planned campsite for the night. It was another hour's ride further west, but the summer evening's light would prove sufficient for them to ride with. As they conferred in low tones, the first plump drops of rain began to fall on the unfolded parchment. The scout hastily tucked the map back into his tunic, and Alistair swung himself up onto the saddle behind Flora.

The rain only worsened as the sky grew darker; great, heavy drops splattering against their heads and the coarse-haired flanks of the horses. The thunder rolled once more, louder and longer; preceded by a flash of lightning that illuminated the Bannorn bright as day. Fortunately, the palace horses and hounds were intelligent enough not to startle at such unexpected noise.

As a native northerner Flora did not usually mind the rain, but this felt more like a torrent of watery, tepid stew falling from the sky. She was unsure whether her damp shirt was clinging to her collarbone with rain or sweat, not that she particularly cared about the answer. Alistair's arm was wrapped tight and protective about her waist; it was making her even hotter, but she knew that he would not readily loosen it.

They rode on for another hour, the rain increasing in volume and ferocity. Large, luke-warm drops were being blown sideways into their faces by a vicious, storm-funnelled breeze, and the wind itself was howling discontentedly through the shallow valleys of the Bannorn.

Finally, Alistair decided that enough was enough. The light level had dropped so rapidly that even lanterns made little headway against the encroaching gloom, and it was increasingly difficult to see the roadway beneath the horses' hooves. Raising his voice, he called for the company to descend from the elevated highway; they would not attempt to reach their planned destination in the circumstances. Instead, they would make camp beside the ruins of a guard tower, where the crumbling stone walls might provide some protection from the elements.

The horses huddled together beneath a sparsely-branched tree, while the others constructed their tents in quickly worsening conditions. There was a strange cast to the night sky, a sickly pallor illuminated at intervals by lightning tearing across the horizon. The jagged contortions of electricity ripped through the atmosphere, striking the grassy peaks of the Bannorn in ever-closer proximity. The accompanying rolls of thunder sounded like an invading Orlesian army, echoing about the hills like the drums of war.

The wind had died down but the rain continued in what could now only be described as a _torrent._ The members of the company were soaked to the skin – even Zevran's oiled leathers could not withstand the sheer volume of water. The elf, cursing the Fereldan so-called _summer_ in fluent Antivan, had built his tent in record time and then retreated to the meagre shelter of the guard tower wall.

There was no hope of building any sort of fire, the rain's only redeeming feature was that it was tepid in temperature. They ate huddled and separate inside their tents, sitting on sodden bedrolls; each one praying that their waxed canvas roofs would not collapse under the deluge. Since there was no fire for cooking, they ate chunks of bread and cheese, with salted strips of meat and raw vegetables for the queen.

Alistair had ventured into Teagan's tent to clarify tomorrow's route. The map had nearly disintegrated into wet scraps of parchment by the time he had ducked beneath the canvas entrance flap; fortunately, they had several spare rolled up in leather tubes.

"Alistair, stop fidgeting," Teagan reprimanded him gently after a few moments. "It's only a- "

The last part of his sentence was drowned out by a loud roll of thunder. Alistair grimaced, running his fingers through his wet hair until it stood on end.

"I don't want to leave Flo for too long," he said, piecing together the map where it had come apart. "She's on her own in the tent. Have you ridden either of these roads before?"

"Aye," replied Teagan, letting his fingertip skate gently over the inked line. "The road across the marshes is sound, or at least it was when I last rode it. The high track over the hill is faster, but it'll be waterlogged after tonight's rain."

"We'll take the marshes road," decided Alistair, grimacing as a drop of rain rolled down the back of his neck. "Uncle, do you think there'll be anything left of Lothering?"

The bann paused for a moment, his brow creasing. He reached beneath his sodden bedroll and pulled out a small flask of whiskey, taking several long gulps before offering it to Alistair. The rain was hammering down on the oiled canvas above their heads in a constant, percussive rhythm.

"Here, take it back to your tent. It'll be cold once the storm passes and the ground cools. You don't want Flora catching a chill."

"I'll keep her warm," the earnest Alistair replied, but took the flask anyway. "Lothering?"

Teagan sighed, knowing that, _for some reason,_ both former Wardens were fixated on this one small village within the arling of South Reach. Privately, he believed that Lothering had been destroyed – the refugees who had flooded into Denerim told bloodcurdling stories that raised the hairs on the back of one's neck when listened to. However, Teagan was determined to keep a positive mind-set for both Alistair and Flora's benefit; there was nothing to be gained in prophesying doom.

"I don't know, Alistair," he replied, softly. "I would hope that some part of it might remain, and that more still could be salvaged. The horde didn't linger in the village, did they?"

Droplets of water ran in rivulets down the interior of the tent, pooling at the bottom of the damp canvas. Teagan shifted his bedroll several inches away from the increasing puddle, as Alistair spoke up in eventual reply.

"They didn't stay there long, no. The Darkspawn horde turned around and went south to Gwaren."

"Then perhaps the village hasn't been obliterated. We have no way of knowing until we arrive."

"The day after tomorrow?"

"Aye, lad."

Alistair gave a pensive sigh, momentarily lost in his own thoughts. Eventually he roused himself and bade his uncle goodnight, taking a deep breath in preparation to venture out into the deluge.

A fresh crack of lightning tore across the sky as he ducked out through the canvas, and for a split-second, the Bannorn was lit up as bright as day. The thunder followed almost immediately on its electric cousin's tail, crashing through the clouds like the wrath of some ancient, vengeful god.

There was no light or movement from any of the other tents in their party. Not even the soft glow of Wynne's staff was radiating out from the canvas. Usually, the senior enchanter maintained a record of the day's travels in her journal; tonight, she had clearly decided to cut her losses and retire early.

Before returning to his own tent, Alistair went to check on the horses. They appeared wet but contented enough, lying in the shelter of the crumbling tower with blankets piled across their hindquarters. They were Royal steeds and trained not to frighten at the sound of a storm; he still spent time with each in turn, murmuring in their ears and scratching their noses gently.

Brushing the rain-dampened straggles of hair from his eyes, the king made his way back to the ragged ring of tents, heading back to the accommodation that he shared with his wife. Pulling back the canvas, he ducked inside, careful not to tread on their tangled packs.

"It's really _chucking_ it down out there," he whispered, letting the entrance flap drop shut in his wake. "The Maker is tipping out His bathwater."

He knew better than to ask Flora if she was frightened – she was a native of the northern coast, where far more violent storms tore apart the sky on a recurring basis. Flora smiled up at him, idly weaving together strands of crimson hair as she lay on the saturated bedroll.

"Mm," she whispered, yawning. "It's not much better in here."

Alistair was about to smile back down at her, when he noticed that she was lying nonchalantly in a puddle of water; the bedroll oversaturated and unable to absorb any more liquid. His eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, pulling off his boots and kneeling down with a soft _squelch_ at her side.

"My love," he breathed, reaching out to touch her cheek. "You're _cold!_ and _wet!_ Maker's Breath. Come on, let's sort ourselves out. I won't have this!"

Five minutes later and they were both sharing body heat beneath a reasonably dry embroidered blanket; her curled up on top of his bare chest and his broad arm circling her shoulders. Alistair had gallantly elected to lie in the puddle, determined that not a single inch of his fat-bellied wife was going to touch the soggy bedroll.

Flora, who had been at the mercy of raging hormones all day, gave a little happy squirm; gratified at the responding twitch of flesh against her thigh.

"You minx," Alistair chided, sternly. "We're only naked to share the warmth better between us."

"Oh," breathed Flora, a memory from many months prior breaking the surface of her mind. "Remember when we used to cuddle together in our smallclothes to stay warm during the winter? When we were travelling to the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

Alistair let out a little grunt, sliding his palm up and down her bare back. He remembered all too clearly; they had lain entwined like lovers on the bedroll even before they had shared a kiss.

"Of course I remember, darling," he admitted, cheerfully. "Having a beautiful, half-naked girl pressed up against me for hours at night? It was bloody _torture._ "

"But we did keep each other warm," Flora recalled, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders. "Ow, what's that?"

Her most recent fidgeting motion had shifted her weight onto something hard and angular. Alistair reached an arm down to pull out the silver flask that Teagan had given him, awkwardly removing the lid between clenched teeth.

"It's whiskey. Have some, my love. It'll warm you up."

" _You're_ warming me up well enough," Flora retorted with a little grimace, but took the flask anyway. From her awkward angle sprawled on his bare chest, she managed to splash a mouthful approximately between her lips. Her body was no longer able to distil the liquor into yeast and water; the alcohol burned on her tongue and irritated the back of her throat.

"Ugh," she croaked, suppressing a cough. "I don't like it."

Alistair took the flask and gulped a mouthful for himself, eyes creasing as he squinted at the alcohol's potency.

"Who did my uncle _get_ this stuff from – dwarves? You couldn't drink too much of it at a time, that's for sure."

He reached out to deposit the flask onto the bedroll; hearing a small splash as it landed in the puddle. Returning his arm about his best friend's shoulders, he kissed the top of her head.

"Are you warm enough, my sweet wife?"

Flora nodded, dropping a hand to her stomach as the baby shifted position.

"Are _you_ warm enough?" she breathed, anxiously. "I don't want you to catch a cold."

"Don't worry about me, darling. I have the constitution of an ox!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Just a quick chapter today, I've got an evening work thing! I love to listen to the rain but only if I'm inside, lol. I hate being outside in it, but I hate being outside UNDER CANVAS even more, hehe. I can't think of anything worse than being in a tent when it's absolutely pissing it down. So naturally I wanted to put them in the soggiest, gloomiest situation possible, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	94. A Prince or a Princess?

Nobody - save for the queen, nestled on her husband's chest - passed a particularly comfortable night. The storm blew itself southwards in the early hours of the morning, the rain easing off shortly after. When a soft, peachy dawn arrived several hours later, it smiled down upon a thoroughly waterlogged camp. Zevran's tent had fallen down in the middle of the night – hissing, the elf had retreated to sleep nestled amongst the warm flanks of the horses – and several other tents had come perilously close. All of their packs and possessions were soaked; fortunately the map had been sealed in a watertight container. Wynne had managed to save her journal by keeping it tucked close to her bosom.

There was no chance of building a fire, since all the wood in the surrounding area was soaked to the root. Instead, they spread out as much of their belongings as possible over carts and convenient rocks, taking advantage of a welcome sunny interval to dry them out. Modesty had been abandoned in the prospect of cold, wet attire – the men had all stripped down to their smallclothes. Initially, they had been reluctant to disrobe in front of the queen (which naturally the elf had no qualms about); but Flora had reassured them that she was – _had been -_ a healer who was used to seeing men in all states of undress. Moments later, she also peeled off her soggy clothing down to her smallclothes, perching on a low, flat boulder and relying on her loose, heavy mass of hair to cover her breasts.

"Here you go, my love."

Alistair handed Flora a small oiled leather box, which he had just spent the last twenty minutes rummaging through the sodden baggage to retrieve. Flora was unable to stop herself from letting out a squeak of delight as she set eyes on the contents of the container – a half-dozen pickled and dried sardines.

"Ooooh! Thank you!" she breathed in near-ecstasy, devouring one in three whole bites. "Our son is craving oily fish."

Alistair stared at her, suddenly feeling tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Flora, oblivious, kept inserting pickled sardines into her mouth.

"Mmm! Mmmm!"

"' _Our son'?"_ the king repeated, throatily. "You think it's a boy, my love?"

Flora, focused on her food, gave a little confident grunt.

"Oily fish," she mumbled, swallowing. "Oily fish means a boy."

"It's just a Herring old wives' tale," Wynne warned Alistair from where she was squeezing water from the sleeves of her robes. "Don't put too much stock in superstition."

Flora waited until the senior enchanter had turned her attention back to her wet clothing, then leaned across to whisper in Alistair's ear as he sat beside her.

"It's a boy, I'm _sure_ of it!"

The next moment, she blinked in mild confusion; putting a hand to her stomach.

"Oh, except… now I don't want oily fish anymore. Now I want _pickled onions._ But… but – that doesn't make any sense. Pickled onions is for a _girl!"_

The king inhaled unsteadily, putting an arm around his wife's bare shoulders and pressing his lips to her cheek.

"I'd love a son," he murmured, kissing along the high angle of Flora's jaw. "But I'd also adore a daughter. I don't care what it is. I'm just happier than I could ever hope to put into words."

Wynne finished wringing out her sleeve and eyed the couple, her gaze dropping to the queen's full stomach. Undisguised by tunic or shirt, the creamy swell of Flora's belly rested prominent in her lap.

 _Hm,_ the senior enchanter thought, one brow rising into her hairline. _I wonder._

They packed up the tents onto the carts and resumed their journey on the Imperial Highway. Lothering still lay a day's ride to the south, and soon they would be leaving the elevated Tevinter roadway to pick up a more humble Fereldan trail. As though wanting to compensate for the recent drizzle and downpours, the sun smiled benevolently upon the travellers; lodged amidst a pallid, duck-egg blue sky that was unblemished by cloud.

Flora – who found herself needing to nap more frequently as both the journeying and the contents of her womb drained her energy – spent much of the morning slumped against Alistair on the saddle. Teagan had suggested that she be transferred into the wagon, but Alistair refused after a few moments of contemplation. Still unnerved by the ghoul attack at South Reach, he wanted to have his wife within arm's reach at all times.

The hills of the bannorn gradually began to flatten themselves out into a low, marshy succession of flood plains; streams and tributaries extending in a spider-web tangle across the swampy land. There were only a few sparse trees scattered at rare intervals; several shallow pools gave off a strange, slightly rotten smell.

"Do you think that stink is the result of the Darkspawn?" Alistair asked, wrinkling his nose as they passed a particularly malodorous puddle. He knew that the Blight-scar lay only a mile or so eastwards, hidden by the lay of the land.

Wynne shook her head, more used to such mineral odours.

"That's sulphur, not the taint," she replied briskly, grimacing as her horse stepped into a pungent bog. "There's a great swathe of sulphurous land in the southern part of the Bannorn. The Circle gets much of its alchemic supplies from around here."

"I don't want to imagine _what_ use you'd have for such a foul stench," Alistair replied, wide-eyed. "Let me guess – stink bombs?"

The senior enchanter shot him a stern look, shaking her head.

"Believe it or not, Alistair, but the Circle has better things to do with its time and resources than engage in juvenile pranks!"

"Do you know, I don't mind the smell?"

Both king and mage turned in the saddle to peer at Zevran, who had offered this wistful remark. The elf was gazing ahead, his eyes focused somewhere other than the swampy plains of the bannorn.

"Back in Antiva City, I spent many years living in an alleyway behind a tannery," Zevran continued, his voice soft and pensive. "They used lime to strip the coarse hairs from the freshly-skinned leather. I grew so accustomed to the odour that I did not realise that others considered it foul."

They stopped for lunch on a slightly less marshy patch of ground. The sun had continued to show them good favour, its light dappling across the surface of a more pleasantly-scented pool. The long grasses and ferns clustered at the water's edge also gave off a sharp, herbal scent; Wynne identified the plants as elfroot and spindleweed. Recognising their antiseptic properties, she collected several bundles and stored them in her pack.

While the senior enchanter busied herself with botanical pursuits, the others sat down to share out their lunch rations. Flora had uncanny timing when it came to waking up just before a meal, and was assisting Ser Gilmore with the unwrapping of several hefty slabs of cheese.

"Fereldan cheddar," she said, clutching one yellow wheel to her chest. "And that's Marcher mature rind. What's _that?"_

"This?" Ser Gilmore gazed down at the leather-wrapped portion. "I'm not sure. Let's have a look."

Flora lowered herself down to the sundried grass beside Alistair, while the Cousland knight knelt down and placed the cheese on the embroidered blanket beside the rest of the food.

Ser Gilmore took out a knife and slit open the leather covering, peeling it back to reveal a white, solid cheese flecked with specks of green and red. Flora gazed at it in fascination, her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline.

"What's _that?_ Mould?"

The knight shook his head as Alistair leaned forward, inhaling a deep noseful of the cheese's spiced scent.

"No, your majesty. It's white cheddar, with flecks of Antivan pepper. This was a favourite of the teyrn's. He used to import this stuff by the crate."

Flora blinked, her hand pausing mid-reach. As always, whenever Flora's Cousland heritage was mentioned, the others fell quiet; ears pricked with curiosity.

"The teyrn – as in Fergus?" Flora ventured after a moment, her voice a fraction quieter.

Ser Gilmore shook his head once again, cutting several pieces from the block of peppered cheese.

"The old teyrn, my lady. Lord Bryce. Your father."

Flora fell silent, gazing down at the innocuous block of cheese. There was a part of her which – even now – still wanted to retort that her father was a fisherman from the northern coast, for whom cheese was a rare luxury and not a daily staple.

"I don't remember much about the… the old teyrn," she replied after a moment, her voice even smaller. "I was five when he sent me away."

Alistair, who understood well the hurt caused by a parent's rejection, put his non-cheese holding palm on her strapped knee, squeezing it gently.

Ser Gilmore blinked for a moment, not quite sure how to respond. Instead of speaking, he held out a strip of cheese as a peace offering; Flora stretched out a hand and took it.

"It's… strange," she said after a moment, swallowing a mouthful. "But I think I like it."

The knight nodded, and for several minutes they ate in silence; the reeds and long grasses shifting in the breeze.

"What was the old teyrn like?" Flora asked eventually, her voice carefully measured. "I only remember a few things."

Ser Gilmore lowered a hunk of bread to his lap, a faint shadow of reminiscence falling over his scarred face as he recalled his ill-fated liege lord.

"He was hard-working," he said eventually, narrowing his eyes in recollection. "I can't remember a day when he wasn't riding out in the teyrnir, visiting the freeholds or touring the mines. He was well-liked by the people. Some say he ought to have been king instead of Cailan."

Flora pulled a small face, thinking grimly that she would rather be raised in poverty than raised as a _princess._ She already had a vague sense – corroborated by offhand comments from her brothers - that she would have grown up a brat if she had remained at Highever; so she could not imagine the little monstrosity that would have emerged from the royal palace.

 _You might be born a prince or a princess,_ she thought to her stomach, tapping her fingers against the firm mound of flesh. _But you won't be spoilt. I'll make sure of it._

"Were you at Highever when I was there as a child?" she asked, changing tack. "I don't know if you would have been old enough."

Ser Gilmore nodded, idly breaking the bread into pieces with his fingers.

"I was only a squire at the time," he replied, quietly. "I remember you well enough, my lady. The old teyrn used to take you out with him on his journeys around the teyrnir, perched on the saddle. He called you his little strawberry, on account of your hair."

A faint flicker of memory ignited in the back of Flora's mind and she put a hand to her head as though physically trying to pull the thread of recollection loose.

"I think I remember," she breathed, her brow furrowing. "The old teyrn had a northern accent too, didn't he?"

"Aye, my lady. You and your father pronounce certain words in a like manner."

"He's _not_ my father," Flora retorted back with sudden, instinctive vehemence, her Cousland temper raising its head.

"My lady?" Ser Gilmore's hand rose halfway to his mouth, eyes widening.

"He's _not_ my father," Flora repeated, fiercely. "He didn't want me as a daughter once he realised I had magic. He sent me _away_ and never even came to see me."

She pushed herself to her feet, wincing both at the twinge in her knee and the heaviness of her belly. Alistair stretched up a hand but Flora had already stridden out of reach; weaving her way around the sprouting rushes and reeds. There was nowhere for her to go, so she stopped at the edge of the shallow pool and glowered out at the sun-dappled water.

Alistair looked across at Wynne, unsure whether or not to follow her. The senior enchanter shook her head softly, taking a gulp from her water pouch.

"I know how she feels," the king said in an undertone, after a moment. "I felt the same way for my whole childhood. Poor Flo, I didn't realise that she was still so sensitive about it."

"She's going to be a mother in seven weeks," Wynne replied, pushing the cork back into the neck of her water-pouch with her thumb. "It's harder for her to understand how a parent could reject a child."

A dozen yards away, Flora stared down unseeingly at the pale, breeze-rippled surface of the shallow pond. The baby shifted within her stomach and she lowered a hand, feeling the curve of its rump as it pushed against the confines of her belly.

 _I would never send you away, little creature,_ she thought to herself, fiercely. _Not for anything._

 _I feel like a Cousland because of my brothers, not because of Bryce and Eleanor._

A flicker of movement caught Flora's eye from beneath the surface of the pond. She peered down, her attention caught by a long, copper-scaled fish gliding through the shallows. It was unfamiliar to her – she was not as well-versed in freshwater variants – and so she lowered herself awkwardly to her knees, leaning forwards to bring her face close to the water.

"What _are_ you?" Flora breathed, ignoring the more prosaic, finger-length silver dartfish swimming near the bank. "I'm going to find out."

Reaching down, she lowered her left hand into the pool, twisting her wrist so that the sunlight reflected off the plump pearl and gleaming gold of her rings. The jewellery glinted in the water, flashing like the scales of a smaller fish.

Beside the wagons, the rest of the party watched in slight perplexion; the remains of their lunch scattered on the grass before them. Their queen was kneeling down on the shore, with her face almost pressed into the mud. Alistair glanced at Zevran, who gave a little shrug of bemusement.

"I have no idea."

Alistair had just scrambled to his feet, determined to check on the welfare of his hormonal wife when Flora let out a squeal of triumph, heaving forth something long, brownish and writhing from the water. It was over a half-yard in length, with a thick and tubular body.

"Ha! Haha. _Got you."_

" _Maker's Breath!"_

A gaping Alistair strode forward to her assistance, reaching Flora just as she had put the fish out of any prolonged misery with a rock.

"Darling, let me take that," he exclaimed, lifting the heavy fish from her arms. "Andraste, what a hideous face its got. What _is_ it?"

"I don't know," Flora replied, slightly breathlessly. "But it looks _tasty."_

Privately, Alistair thought that it looked like the least appetising creature on the surface of Thedas. Under Flora's direction, he placed the fish on the grass with a little grimace as he looked into its glassy eye.

Flora, thoroughly distracted from her earlier brooding, borrowed one of Zevran's sharp blades. The elf watched her skin and gut the fish in a matter of minutes, the process swift and instinctual. An idea began to brew in the back of his mind as he took a gulp of ale, eyes narrowed.

"I'm going to pickle this in vinegar," Flora declared, packing salt from their supplies into the fish's gutted interior. "This is _my_ kind of meat!"

Alistair smiled at her, relieved that his wife had roused herself from her melancholy.

"Sounds good, baby."

Flora beamed back at him, and then grimaced, dropping a hand to her stomach with a bemused expression.

"Ah!"

He reached for her, eyes widening in alarm. "Darling? Is something wrong?"

Flora shook her head, her brow gradually furrowing itself into ridges as she smoothed a hand around her stomach.

"I think the baby just did the splits," she breathed, bemused. "It just kicked me on both sides _at once._ It must be… flexible! _"_

Alistair peered at her for a moment, then gave a cheerful shrug.

"Perhaps it's an acrobat?"

Back where the others were sitting around the remains of lunch, the senior enchanter cleared her throat to catch Ser Gilmore's attention. The knight was gazing gloomily at the speckled pepper cheese, wondering if the queen was somehow angry with him.

"Ser Gilmore, you ought to bring up the old teyrn and his wife with more frequency," Wynne said softly, catching the retainer's gaze. "Our queen must accept her parentage before we reach Highever."

"But her majesty isn't… comfortable talking about it," the knight protested, lamely. "I don't want to cause her undue stress."

"Florence will be fine," Wynne replied, a fraction more sternly. "She needs to come to terms with it."

* * *

OOC Author: Lol. Hint hint! There's been clues pointing to this ever since the first comments about Flo being unusually large for this stage in her pregnancy, haha. Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	95. Beware the Bear!

Chapter 95: Beware the Bear!

The company continued to ride south, the sun's favour extending into the afternoon. Their route did not take them directly past the Blight-scar, but every so often the landscape was broken into a froth of rotted soil and shattered rocks – suggesting that some part of the horde had emerged from subterranean tunnels for scavenging purposes. Whenever they set eyes on the ruined shell of a farmhouse, or a pile of rubble that had originally been a small cluster of homes; Alistair would inhale unsteadily and his grip on his wife would tighten. His hand would spread over her belly, fingers seeking out the twitch of life from within that served almost as a talisman of hope. The twin lodged closest to the surface of Flora's belly never disappointed it's father, responding vigorously to every tap and prod.

As the sun neared the western horizon, a strange half-light flooded over the plains. One of the scouts predicted confidently that another storm was coming in. There was an acrid electrical discharge in the air that rose the hairs on the back of one's neck, but the storm itself had not yet manifested. The peculiar atmospheric conditions disconcerted the horses, although they were well-trained enough not to let it show beyond a flicker of the ears.

An odd shape on the trail ahead clarified into a covered wagon as the company drew near. One of the wheels was broken, wedged at an awkward angle within a dip in the road. A man clad in patched travel garb was sitting disconsolately at the side of the road, a broken hammer cradled his hands.

"Let us go ahead, your majesty," one of the guards warned, nudging his horse ahead.

The half-dozen guards rode forwards, the sergeant leaning down from the saddle to confer with the man. A moment later, the wagon's owner visibly startled, turning his shocked face towards the royal party before scrambling to his feet.

"King – _King Alistair!?"_

He continued to stare as Alistair rode forwards, eyes set wide and astonished in a wrinkled, leathery face. His stare moved from Alistair to Flora, continuing to widen.

As it turned out, the man was a travelling merchant who had ridden out the Blight by staying constantly on the move. While passing through Redcliffe, he had heard of the Darkspawn's defeat and the death of the Archdemon; and had decided to return to Denerim.

"Until my wagon threw itself into this pothole," the man, who was named Gregory, explained with a doleful expression. "Broke my last wheel."

Alistair, glancing back at their cartload of supplies, instructed that their own equipment be used to repair the merchant's wagon. A disbelieving Gregory stammered in gratitude, offering a tangled and profuse thanks.

As Ser Gilmore and one of the guards set about repairing the broken wheel, the trembling Gregory began to chatter; clearly the sort to express his nerves through an abundance of speech rather than the opposite. Much of it was directed at no one in particular, the man's fingers twitching in his lap.

"I was ridin' through Redcliffe, and the lady Isolde was down in the town lookin' at the broken mill-wheel. She's in charge, y'know, while the arl is in Denerim…"

Standing in the middle of the road, Alistair cast another glance in the direction of his wife. One of the infants had contorted itself against Flora's bladder and she had made a hasty retreat into the bushes; he could see her dark red head amongst the foliage.

"Argh, _nettles!"_ he heard her say a moment later, and bit down on a grin.

The next moment, the king's attention was drawn by Zevran, the elf breathing into his ear as he strolled past.

"This traveller is _too_ nervous, _amor."_

Alistair, immediately alert, glanced towards Teagan. The bann had overheard Zevran's comment, and had also been harbouring suspicions of his own.

"What goods have you got in your wagon, ser?" Teagan asked, his voice steady and measured.

The man's pupils constricted suddenly, and he went a fraction paler beneath the leathery tan. Teagan shot a brief, confirmatory glance towards Alistair; both men thinking along the lines of _smuggler, looter, bandit…_

"It's – it's my wife," the merchant said, hesitantly. "She's… she's not well."

"Not well in what way?" Teagan enquired sharply, taking a step forward. "Diseased?"

"No," Gregory replied, a distinct tremor running through his words. "She – she accidentally inhaled Blight-miasma. A full lungful. It's done… _strange_ things to her head."

Alistair gritted his teeth, grateful that the repair job on the wheel was almost finished.

"Strange things, like what?" he asked bluntly, with another darting glance towards Flora. She was just starting to make her way back through the bushes towards the road, grumbling quietly to herself.

"She… _sees things._ Has visions. But she's not dangerous, I promise," the merchant hastened to reassure them, stepping up onto the back of the wagon and pulling back the canvas covering. "Martha, it's the King of Ferelden."

A woman, clad in a ragged blue gown, was hunched between the crates stacked within the wagon. Her head hung low, bowed by the weight of her miasma-filled brain, and much of her hair had been wrenched from her reddened scalp. A few greying strands were still caught beneath her own broken nails, identifying her as the architect of her own misfortune.

When she lifted her head to stare at them, her irises were clouded by the taint; the pupils misshapen and smeared across the iris.

"Maker's Breath," said Alistair, astonished. "The poor woman."

"It would be better to put her out of her misery," Zevran murmured, but soft enough that the man could not hear.

"Martha, it's King Alistair," the merchant tried again, hopefully.

His wife stared up at him with blank, unseeing eyes, her gaze focused somewhere in the middle distance. A thin line of saliva ran down her chin, wending its way gradually towards her neck. A constant, unintelligible stream of muttering emerged from between her cracked lips; no separate words discernible.

"We're going to the Circle Tower in a week or so," Alistair offered hopefully, his compassion rising to the fore. "They might have developed some sort of… of _neutralisation_ to the Blight-sickness. I know they've been collecting samples."

Wynne inclined her head in a nod of confirmation. Nobody spoke the collective thought that was on their mind: _the only person who could have cured the sick woman was Flora, whose remarkable abilities were now only a distant memory._

"Has she… displayed any other signs of the taint?" Teagan enquired softly, voicing the next thought in the natural progression. "You know that sometimes people can… _change…_ after being afflicted."

The merchant shook his head dolefully, casting his eyes to the dusty track.

"She inhaled the lungful months ago. Ain't no other changes than the… the _visions."_

"I _love_ prophecies _,"_ offered Zevran, sidling closer to eye the Blighted woman. "I knew a fortune teller once back in Rialto who told me that I would die from being mauled by a tiger. I am always _deeply_ careful to avoid jungles."

The elf grinned, showing that he did not put too much stock in such doom-laden portents.

Just then, Alistair felt a gentle nudging on his elbow. He looked down to see Flora at his side; his best friend had wandered across from the bushes to see what they were all gazing at.

Immediately, the king realised that he did _not_ want his expectant wife in the proximity of a Blight-tainted creature; out of both concern for her safety and concern for her general emotional wellbeing. The loss of her magic was still a raw wound for Flora, and seeing somebody suffer - when before she could have assisted so effortlessly - was sure to cause pain.

"Darling, stand with Teagan for a moment," Alistair urged, seeing the same thought writ across the bann's face. The younger Guerrin stepped forwards, offering his arm to the queen.

"Come with me, poppet."

Flora shot her husband a look which stated plainly that she _knew_ she was being cajoled, and would not fall for it. Planting one booted foot on the wooden backboard, she heaved herself up high enough to see the wagon's contents.

The woman raised her head as Flora appeared at the foot of the wagon, her smeared and hazy pupils suddenly constricting into sharp focus. When she spoke, the words emerged with a clarion clearness from the babble; each one harsh-edged and blunt.

" _Beware the bear!"_

Flora blinked, too distracted by her own sympathy to understand what the woman was referring to. The merchant's wife repeated the same three words of warning over and over, the sounds running together with exponential speed until they emerged as an indecipherable babble.

Beside her, Alistair suddenly inhaled in shock; his eyes widening as though he had been slapped.

"The Howe badge is a bear," he breathed, suddenly. "It's a bear on a mustard field. _Maker's Breath."_

The rest of the company shot quick, darting glances at each other, while Flora looked bemused. Alistair reached up to lift his wife down from the wagon, drawing her close to his chest as though the eldest Howe son might leap out from behind the sparse hedgerow.

"Alistair, I wouldn't put too much stock in the ravings of a mad woman," Zevran said, in an attempt to assuage Alistair's naked fright. "It is probably a coincidence."

Alistair did not loosen his grip, nor did he look particularly reassured.

Once the merchant's cartwheel had been repaired, they set off once more; each one inwardly glad to put some distance between themselves and the taint-maddened woman. Alistair barely spoke a word for the rest of the afternoon's journey; replaying the hoarsely croaked words over and over feverishly in his mind.

 _Beware the bear._

 _Beware Nathaniel Howe._

He kept his arm wrapped tightly around Flora, reassured by her proximity against her chest. Flora did not know what to make of the sick woman's prophecy – Herring folk did not put much stock in fortune-telling – but she _was_ disconcerted by the reference to the bear. She could still recall the grizzly symbol embroidered on the canopy of Howe's bed; where she had spent a night lying in fear that the treacherous arl might come and join her beneath the covers.

 _But he didn't, because Loghain kept him occupied for hours under false pretences._

Biting anxiously at her fingernails, Flora leaned back against Alistair's chest. She could feel his heartbeat thudding at rapid pace behind his ribs; far faster than its usual steady, leisurely pulse.

The company made good progress along the trail, despite the lack of paving. As the afternoon light began to wane, they reached the base of a shallow valley, each gently-sloped side covered with pine trees. A long, narrow loch stretched for almost the length of the valley; one of the main water sources for the still-distant Lake Calenhad.

They made camp just as the sun began to sink below the horizon. It had taken them some time to find a suitable spot to pitch the tents, since much of the grassland around the lake's shore was marshy and covered with reeds. Eventually, they managed to find a raised mound of grass marked by the toppled remains of several standing stones.

Alistair had barely spoken a word for the entire afternoon, the madwoman's words still echoing about his skull. He had assisted in the construction of the camp, guided by familiarity rather than conscious effort, but had not responded to any questions. Even the smell of roasting meat and the squeaking of the makeshift spit over the campfire did not distract him from his brooding.

Flora had assisted as much as she was permitted with the construction of the camp. At over seven months heavy with child, she found herself growing tired far more quickly, her energy stolen by the plump little infants within her stomach. She had helped Wynne to assemble her tent before needing to sit down; suddenly light-headed and overheated. The senior enchanter had helped Flora to change from her woollen tunic and breeches into one of Alistair's long, linen shirts that she customarily slept in.

While waiting for the meat, they ate strips of herby bread and roasted vegetables drizzled with oil; grateful for what was turning out to be a dry and mild evening. The storm that had been brewing earlier had clearly blown itself out, much to everyone's relief. Teagan and Ser Gilmore conversed quietly about tomorrow's route, while Zevran sharpened his blade between bites.

"We know that the eldest Howe son is in Ferelden," Alistair said suddenly, lowering a forkful of salted beef. "He was spotted at the port in Amaranthine several weeks ago. Eamon has spies in Delilah Howe's household; he'd find out if they tried to plot together. I don't know who else within Ferelden would help Howe with anything _untoward_ against Flo. Who would want to _hurt_ her?"

"Alistair, there's nothing you can do about it save for staying vigilant and trusting in us to keep her safe," Wynne said, sternly. "You'll drive yourself as mad as that poor merchant's wife if you carry on thinking like this."

Flora swallowed a mouthful of roasted tomato before putting aside her plate. Shuffling her rear across the damp grass, she heaved herself into Alistair's lap, winding her arms around his neck.

"Well, I'm not afraid," she breathed in his ear, the words shaped by her soft, slightly hoarse northern tones. "I know I'm safe when I'm with you."

The king twisted his head to kiss her ear, reaching down to grip her small ankle and massaging the sore, swollen flesh between finger and thumb. Flora closed her eyes, letting her head settle on his shoulder as the ache in her foot gradually began to drain away. By the time that he had begun to rub her toes, she had fallen asleep against his chest.

The rest of the company were quiet for several minutes; Teagan shooting surreptitious glances through the flames to where the dozing Flora was slumped in Alistair's lap. No king of Ferelden had ever been shy about showing affection to their wives in public, and Maric's younger son was no different. He cradled his snoring wife as she straddled his thighs, pressing the occasional kiss to her neck and shoulder.

"When will we reach Lothering tomorrow?"

"Late afternoon," replied Teagan, after a cursory glance at the map lying to one side. "If we make good time tomorrow. I'm not sure what condition the road is in, we might not get there until nightfall."

"If it's dark, we'll wait until the morning to enter the town," Alistair decided, reaching down to Flora's other foot and massaging the aching flesh with strong fingers. "And I want the place scouted beforehand. I won't have Flo going anywhere that hasn't been checked."

"I'll cast an initial eye around," offered Zevran measuredly, tucking his whetstone away. "I recognise the signs of the Darkspawn well enough."

Alistair nodded his thanks, massaging his wife's stiff toes between finger and thumb.

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOooh so the jig is up! Flora is pregnant with twins, which isn't too much of a surprise considering that she was overflowing with creation energy when they were conceived; it was probably an egg-palooza party in there, lol. Of course, nobody realises yet – they've been under the impression that it's a large baby, haha.

And it's time to pick up the Howe subplot again! We've got rid of sneaky Thomas, but Nathaniel Howe is still somewhere out there.

I made up the Blight-madness thing, but I think it's quite logical – I bet taking a big gulpful of tainted air doesn't do good things to your psyche!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	96. The Sowing of Wild Oats

Chapter 96: The Sowing of Wild Oats

To distract Alistair from thoughts of Howe, the company spoke of other things for the next hour around the campfire. Wynne told him of the letters from Duncan kept safe at the Circle Tower, at which the king brightened in curiosity. Teagan told several amusing stories from his travels through the Marches as a youth; when he and several other young lords had been determined to taste each local ale in the region. They had barely waited to sober up before moving on to the next tavern, which ultimately ended up in them trying to climb a statue of Andraste in Ostwick. They had been arrested by a city guard, too incoherent to explain who they were; and spent the night in an underground cell with a dwarven male prostitute even drunker then themselves.

"We deserved it," Teagan admitted with a laugh, amused at Alistair's wide-eyed surprise. "We were little hellions. This was before I knew of Eamon's plans to make me a bann back in Ferelden."

"I've heard a fair few stories about you in your younger days," Wynne chimed in, wryly. "If even half of them are part-true, you've had quite the youth."

Teagan laughed, choosing to take a long draw of whiskey instead of elaborating. Zevran gazed at him with new interest, dark eyes sparkling. The sun had now fully immersed itself beneath the horizon; the inky veil of twilight settling gently across the valley like a muffling blanket.

"I should like to hear some of these stories, Bann Guerrin," the elf murmured, tapping his fork rhythmically against his tin plate. "We could compare escapades. Alistair, do you ever wish that _you_ had had a carefree youth? An opportunity to sow your wild oats? You are but one-and-twenty, and you are married, and will be a father by Satinalia."

Alistair blinked for a moment and Zevran gave a small laugh, leaning back on his elbows in the sundried grass.

"My sweet boy, you do not know what _'sow your wild oats'_ means, do you?"

The king shook his head, cupping his snoring wife's neck with his hand and rubbing his thumb in slow circles across her skin.

"No idea, Zev."

"It means to entertain the company of women," Zevran explained, helpfully. "In a carefree and non-committal manner."

The corner of Alistair's mouth turned upwards wryly, and he pressed a kiss to the top of Flora's head as she huddled in his lap.

" _This_ one has spoilt me on desiring any other woman," he said, quietly so not to wake her. "I still remember the first time I ever set eyes on her in the Circle Tower. A maleficar was casting blood magic all over the place, a Tranquil was bleeding to death on the tiles; and all I could look at was this – this _gorgeous_ girl who had just fallen through the doorway with a sandwich in her hand. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, even with crumbs around her mouth and a confused look on her face. I still can't believe that Flo's my _wife_ now _._ And that she's carrying our child. I'm the luckiest man in Thedas."

As though on cue, Flora woke up with a start, looking around in mild perplexion.

"I think I snore louder now that I don't dream," she said out loud, yawning mid-sentence. "Do I snore violently? Do I snort like a _pig_ in my sleep? Be honest."

Alistair smiled at her, the green flecks in his eyes standing out bright with adoration. Tilting her chin, Flora gazed back at him; reaching up to rest her palm flat against his stubble-covered cheek.

Knowing that they would be staring transfixed at each other for the next few minutes, Teagan cleared his throat and struck up a conversation with Ser Gilmore about various types of horse-shoe.

The full moon was soon wreathed by stars, casting a surprising amount of silvery light over the shallow valley. The campsite remained relatively well-lit despite the surrounding velvety darkness, the fire burning heartily away within the ragged circle of tents. Wynne retired to her bedroll early, as did both scouts and a yawning guard. Eventually, only Zevran, Flora, Alistair and Teagan remained sitting around the crackling pile of logs. Zevran never went early to bed; Flora was energised from her nap; Alistair wanted to put off the moment when the inevitable nightmares of Howe would begin; Teagan stayed awake to keep a watchful eye on their surroundings.

" _Mi sirenita."_

Flora peered across at the elf, her pale eyes granted borrowed warmth from the flames. Zevran was holding one of his favourite blades, a slender knife with a curving edge. As she watched, he tilted the blade back and forth so that the metal caught the firelight.

"This knife and I have a long history," he murmured, eyes caught in a tangled net of memories. "It has been with me for over a decade. In shape and length, it is not dissimilar to the blades used by tanners to strip the meat away from the flesh."

"You grew up near a tannery," Flora remembered, gazing at him. "Back in Antiva City."

Zevran nodded, running his fingers across the strips of leather wound around the knife's hilt. _"Sí._ Even as a child, I was familiar with this type of blade."

There followed silence for several moments, during which the only sound came from the crackling heart of the flames. Alistair took a gulp of ale, correcting the now-empty flagon as it tipped sideways on the grass.

"You _must_ learn how to defend yourself, _mi florita,"_ the elf continued, a raw note of pleading in his tone. "Even Leonas Bryland's spoiled brat of a daughter knows how to use a bow and arrow."

When Flora opened her mouth to protest, Zevran used the counter-argument that he had prepared to contravene her defence.

"Think of the babe, then," he murmured, softly. "Imagine if someone managed to get into the royal nursery. If a guard was bribed. Somebody turned traitor. Wouldn't you wish to be able to defend your child?"

The Antivan felt a faint twinge of guilt as Flora turned huge, alarmed eyes on him; yet he was determined to press on. Alistair also winced at the elf's bluntness, yet this entire conversation had been pre-planned between them.

"I believe that the _reason_ why you have not excelled yourself at any training with weapons in the past is because you are not familiar with the _types_ of weapon offered to you," Zevran continued. "I firmly believe that the reason why this curved blade works so well for me is because I spent so many hours of my childhood watching the men at work in the tannery. How did you feel when Isabela, Leliana placed their daggers into your hand, _nena?"_

"Odd," replied Flora, after giving it a moment's thought. "Unnatural."

Zevran nodded, angling his gaze upwards towards the star-crowned moon for several long seconds. Then he reached into the leather pack at his side and drew out something that Flora recognised in a single heartbeat. He held it out to her and she let out a soft breath of familiarity, wrapping her fingers around the hilt. It was a slender, angular blade no more than three inches in length; honed to a razor sharpness.

"But this is a descaling knife," she said out loud moments later, turning the tool over with an expert hand. "For scraping the scales off fish."

"It is a _blade_ ," Zevran replied, softly. "And an exceedingly sharp one. Do you feel comfortable with it in your hand, _nena?"_

"Of course," she retorted, slightly indignant. "I used one of these for ten years. Where did you get it?"

"When we were at South Reach. But – anyway. If you are familiar with how the blade feels, comfortable with the weight of it in your hand… that is half the battle. Here, _carina._ Let me show you the second thing I have got for you."

Flora dutifully handed the elf back the descaling blade, her eyes now wide and curious. Zevran smiled at her, rummaging in his pack once more before drawing out an object that made the queen squeak in recognition.

"Oh!"

"Maker's Breath," commented Alistair, his eyebrows rising into his gilded hairline. "What a vicious looking thing."

"It's for catching marlin," Flora said, taking the fishhook by the neck and eyeing the palm-sized curved iron point with incongruous fondness. "They're the biggest fish in the Waking Sea. My dad was the best in Herring at catching them. Why's this got a wooden thing on it?"

"It's a _handle, mi sirenita,"_ replied Zevran, watching her closely. "A fisherman's tool can double quite efficiently as a weapon, it seems."

Flora blinked, turning the large, cruelly barbed hook over in her palm with the ease of familiarity.

"I suppose," she breathed, running her finger along the back of the curved metal. "I never thought of them in that way before."

Zevran smiled at her, slightly ruefully. Reaching forwards, he took the fishhook from her; tucking it back into the safety of his leather pack.

"I would prefer that it were not necessary, as I'm sure your beloved _brother-warden_ would agree," he murmured, fastening the buckle with deft fingers. "There is one final thing that I have not been able to procure yet – a quarter-staff, of the same length and weight as your Circle staff."

Flora gazed at him, her dark red eyebrows raised.

"A staff?"

" _Sí, mi reina._ You wielded that garden hoe with such ferocity against the ghouls in South Reach castle, I was _inspired._ Although I think I will wait until you are lighter on your feet to train you with the staff."

They were silent for several moments, sat in the grass beneath the vast and star-flecked darkness; bathed in the light of a benevolent, opalescent moon. The narrow stream wended at their side, gleaming like a trickle of spilled lantern oil. Around them, gentle snores and sighs emerged from the ragged circle of tents; the campfire beginning to gutter as it ran low on fuel. The royal Mabari were sprawled in the residual warmth of the flames, yawning and wagging their tails in idle contentment. Despite their apparent lethargy, if any traveller or malign beast appeared within fifty yards of the camp, the dogs would set up a barking loud enough to rouse the citizens of distant Denerim. The Theirin-loyal hounds were intelligent enough to realise that the petite human female was carrying the next heir of the bloodline, and had been trained to go for the throat of anything that threatened her.

Alistair had let his saddle-sore body slump backwards until his head and shoulders were resting in Flora's crossed legs, nestled against the swell of her stomach. She was stroking the sides of his face affectionately, feeling the two days' worth of stubble that had sprouted along his chin. The king had decided to shave only once they had reached the Circle Tower; when a formal appearance would be required.

Zevran bade them both goodnight, rising elegantly to his feet and sauntering around the waning flames towards his tent. Flora stretched out a hand as the elf passed, scrabbling her bitten fingernails insistently against his leather-clad knee. He bent down and she reached her arm around his neck, pressing her lips just east of his mouth.

"Thank you," she breathed, earnestly. "I think I'll learn a lot from you."

The former Crow almost made a salacious comment, then bit it back; smiling at her with a faint edge of wistfulness.

"I will teach you well, _nena._ Goodnight to you and your handsome prince, _hm?"_

As the canvas entrance flap dropped shut behind their companion, Flora returned her attention to Alistair; stroking her thumbs in parallel down the sides of his handsome, angular jaw. His eyes were closed and she wondered if he were asleep. Long strands of sun-dried grass were brushing against his neck, yet he made no responding twitch or movement. A gentle snore emerged from his part-open mouth a moment later, his golden eyelashes resting flush against his cheeks.

Flora let her gaze return upwards, trying to recall the name of the constellation that hung over the southern bannorn. Although she and Alistair had spent much time in the region the previous year, their eyes had been so firmly fixed on the road – and their minds on the mammoth task ahead of them – that they had barely spared a glance for the heavens above.

Just then, the surface of Flora's stomach rippled as a little foot gave a hard kick. Alistair let out a grunt, roused by both the movement against his head and his wife's sudden wince. Yawning, he used one strong arm to propel himself upright, twisting his head to peer at her.

"Alright, my love?"

"Mm," she replied, patting the rounded curve of her belly. "Fine. I keep getting kicked on _both_ sides, I don't know how it's physically possible."

Alistair bowed his neck to press his lips against Flora's linen-covered stomach, trying not to look proud of his child's vigorous strength.

"Be _gentle_ with your mother," he chided, sternly. "She's the most precious thing in the whole of Thedas."

Flora went a shade pinker, still exceptionally susceptible to her husband's compliments. Returning to a sitting position Alistair smiled at her; backlit by the guttering flames of the campfire. Neither light nor movement came from the tents gathered around them, though loud snoring filtered through a fair number of canvas doorways.

The king patted his lap and his queen obediently shuffled forwards. With some assistance from his strong hands, Flora was soon straddling his lap with her arms reaching around his neck. Alistair embraced his wife readily, drawing her close against his chest. For several minutes they held onto each other tightly; just like they had done during the darkest months of the Blight.

The moon gazed down benevolently from its star-wreathed seat, casting a silvery light over the shallow valley. The narrow stream at the valley's bottom was illuminated like a fine rivulet of molten metal. The occasional brave hare darted alongside the water; zig-zagging through the long, dried grasses with a soft whisper.

Bathed in the gossamer-fine lunar light, Ferelden's young king helped his best friend out of her smallclothes, one leg at a time. A pink-cheeked Flora shifted from side to side on his lap, letting him peel off her linen smalls and discard them on the grass. Even as Alistair inched her knickers down over her thighs, she was fumbling impatiently at the buttons of his breeches. When - _finally_ \- they were joined together as one, both let out a soft, mutual sigh of contentment. Flora smiled shyly up at him and Alistair gazed back down at her, his eyes bruised soft and raw with desire. There was a wordless question in his stare and she acquiesced in similar manner; lifting her arms so that her husband could remove her last remaining item of clothing.

Once she was naked in his lap, Alistair took a moment to admire the firelight playing over her full, creamy breasts; wishing that they were in a more private location where he could take his time. Telling himself that the tent entrance flap belonging to the elf was just twitching in the night breeze, Alistair gripped his wife's hips with strong hands, gently beginning to move her up and down the length of his shaft.

"Do you like how it feels, my love?" he murmured in her ear, and Flora let out a helpless moan of assent, muffling the sound as best she could against his shoulder.

At such an unsubtle sign of pleasure Alistair grinned, feeling a sudden surge of pride. With exceptional care, he resumed the gentle, rhythmic motion; the muscles in his arms working as he rocked his lover in his lap.

One of the scouts, returning from a wide, looping patrol of the area, caught sight of the two figures moving with increasing urgency in the long grass near the campfire. The Mabari pricked their ears at the man's approach, but the royal couple were far too preoccupied with each other to notice anything in the vicinity. The scout hastily decided to patrol the loop once more; hoping that this would give the newlyweds time to satiate themselves.

Sure enough, by the time that the scout returned, the royal couple had retired to the relative privacy of their tent, and were conversing in muffled tones. The king's voice – clear and finely articulated, with a south-western inflection – contrasted with the soft, throaty tones of a northern commoner that emerged from his queen.

Their exchange carried on for several minutes and then the king ducked out from beneath the canvas flap, peering around to locate the clothing that Flora had discarded so enthusiastically earlier. The carefully straight-faced scout helped him to locate both the missing shirt and a pair of linen smallclothes. Alistair, trying not to laugh, had some difficulty maintaining a neutral expression as he gravely reclaimed his wife's joyfully abandoned garments.

Back within the tent, Flora wriggled into the shirt, squirming on the tangle of embroidered blankets and furs. Alistair leaned back on the thick rugs and reached out an arm; against which she nestled herself and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders.

"You know tomorrow, darling, when we reach Lothering?"

"Mm."

"I'm going to have it thoroughly scouted before you even set _foot_ in the place, Lo. Teagan, the Cousland knight, and several of the guards are going to check every building. I swear, my love, what happened at South Reach will _never_ happen again."

Flora twisted her head against Alistair's chest, her eyes silvered by a shaft of moonlight filtering through the gap in the canvas.

"You're not going to scout, are you?"

He shook his head, tightening his grip on her shoulders. "I'm not leaving your side from the moment we set eyes on the damned place."

She stared up at him wordlessly for several long moments; the bell from that distant Chantry echoing in her skull in a funeral peal.

 _I remember when I glimpsed Lothering burning in my dreams, during our first stay at Redcliffe Castle. I felt the Archdemon's pleasure at the town's destruction._

Alistair's thumb traced the line of her jaw, and Flora realised that he was recalling the same night.

 _I summoned my shield in a panic when I woke and you put your hand against it; determined to fish-rope me through my bad dreams. You took me up to the balcony high over Lake Calenhad, and it was so cold we could see our breath hanging in the air._

Her best friend leaned forward and pressed his lips against each of her ears in turn, the kisses light and tender.

 _No more hearing it._

She closed her eyes as he repeated the gesture, lips brushing gently against her lashes.

 _No more seeing it._

Finally, Alistair leaned forward and kissed her forehead with infinite affection; lingering with his mouth touched to her skin.

 _Gone from your head._

Flora reached out for him, simultaneously pulling up the blanket over their heads to cocoon them both within its warmth.

"You are the _love of my life_ ," she informed him solemnly beneath the embroidered wool. "I'd fish up the great golden whale of Elibrar if you wanted it."

Alistair smiled at her, reaching out to touch her cheek with a gentle, callused thumb.

"I want your health and happiness, my darling," he replied, softly. "More than anything."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooooh! This was a cute chapter to write. I wanted to have some nice affectionate scenes to counteract the grimness of the upcoming escapade in Lothering. Lothering was a recurring theme in the original story – Flora kept hearing the bells ringing desperately for aid within her skull; she heard them ringing in the distance when she slew the Archdemon. For her, Lothering came to represent all of the destruction wreaked by the Blight.

Also, Teagan was DEFINITELY a lad when he was younger, I can just see it!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	97. Return to Lothering

Chapter 97: Return to Lothering

There was little conversation as the company broke their fast the next morning; the camp was packed up swiftly and silently. Lothering, despite being a relatively small settlement, had once been known as the _crossroads of Ferelden_ due to its central location. Everybody had passed through the prosaic little town at some point in their lives, usually on their way to some other more vibrant and interesting destination. Teagan had once stayed at the inn there _en route_ to a horse fair in South Reach; Wynne had also rested within the small town on an official Circle journey to Denerim. Ser Gilmore had an aunt and uncle from Lothering; as was the case with so many families scattered by the Blight, he had no idea if they had survived or not. One of the guards once had a lover who hailed from a farmstead to the town's north. Zevran had never been to Lothering, but felt as though he knew it from the sheer amount of times that it had been mentioned during the Blight.

Lothering bore mixed sentiment for both Alistair and Flora. On the one hand, they had met two of their companions within the small, nondescript town, and Leliana especially had become invaluable to their cause over the past year. For Alistair, Lothering held a special significance; it being the first place that he had held his sister-warden in his arms. They had first embraced spontaneously within the town Chantry during the day, and later that evening he had put an impulsive arm around Flora's narrow shoulders and drawn her to his side as she snored. They had awoken the next morning in an intimate tangle of tightly-wound limbs, subconsciously having sought warmth and comfort from each other in sleep. A month before they had even shared a kiss, a precedent of sleeping curled up together had been set.

On the other, the desperate faces of refugees gathered in their dozens on the south side of the town rose equally prominent in their recollections. Terrified, homeless and penniless; they had gathered in sad little clumps on the muddy grass beyond the bridge, barred from the Chantry and the inns unless they had sufficient coin for donation or bribe. There had been soldiers from Ostagar there too, many of them suffering with Blighted wounds. The Wardens had departed Lothering after a night spent crowded into a servant's room, with two new companions in tow and a sinking feeling that they had not been able to convince enough of the townsfolk to escape. Flora had spent three hours healing the refugees and wounded soldiers the previous evening; she had pleaded with everyone she had come into contact with to _flee._ Most had not listened to her – a _mage –_ and were determined to wait for official instruction from the Templars or the Chantry.

The bells of Lothering pealing in a desperate, hopeless cry for aid had once been a recurrent theme in Flora's dreams - when she'd still been able to have them. They had echoed in the crevasses of her skull during pivotal moments in their campaign; when the Landsmeet had voted in the Wardens' favour, when the armies had unveiled themselves on the Alamarri plains. They had rung loudest of all when she had raised the blade to slay the Archdemon and end the Blight.

Nobody had any idea what condition Lothering would have been left in by the horde. Inwardly, the majority of the party had prepared themselves for the worst. They envisioned the town as little more than a smoking crater, burnt out and ravaged, perhaps with a few lone Darkspawn roaming the skeletal remnants of dwellings. Naturally, in this macabre vision, the fields were poisoned beyond redemption; the soil churned into a fetid mass of Blight-tainted froth.

They rode for two hours in near-silence, the horses following each other on a narrow path that wound gradually upwards and out of the shallow valley. Even the Mabari were relatively quiet, picking up on the sombre mood of the company. Ser Gilmore and Teagan exchanged brief conversation about the upcoming scouting of Lothering; murmuring the logistics in soft undertones.

Flora, who had been leaning back against Alistair's chest, was comforted by the strong, steady throb of his heartbeat between her shoulder-blades. She let her gaze drop to her husband's hands, which were set on the reins and the curve of her stomach respectively. Reaching down, she placed her palm over the hand resting atop her belly, wondering at the contrast between his large, callused fingers and her own slender, nail-bitten ones. Despite his royal blood and kingly title, Alistair had the strong hands of a labourer; worn and capable.

Flora gazed down at the back of her own smaller hand, the pale skin emblazoned with the milk-white scar left by the Archdemon's soul as it frantically tried to seek purchase in her body. The marks were replicated on her palm, as though the dragon's spirit had passed clean through the flesh and bone.

 _It's strange to have marks on my body that I can't heal,_ she thought to herself wistfully, recalling the similar scars left on her thigh, her hip and her shoulder-blades. _I used to smooth over any blemish without thinking twice._

Alistair followed her gaze, and turned his hand over to clasp her palm. Twining their fingers together, he brought their conjoined hands to his mouth; lips pressing rhythmically against the pale, arcing mark.

"My – beautiful – wife," he murmured between kisses. "How are you feeling, my love?"

"Eh?"

"About – you know. Where we're going."

Flora gave a very Herring- _esque_ shrug and a grunt, feeling spidery veins of tension creeping through her body.

"Lothering," she said after a moment, softly. "I don't know how I feel yet. How do _you_ feel?"

The king gave a similar response, grimacing.

"I don't know, either," he replied with a rueful shrug. "I just wish we'd had some information about what to expect, you know? So we could prepare ourselves. So it's not such a… such a _surprise."_

Flora nodded in complete agreement; surprises were _not_ something that she generally appreciated. Alistair pressed his lips once more to her fingers, then lowered their conjoined hands, returning his arm to its protective position across her waist.

"Before we left Denerim, Arl Leonas told me about Lothering's restoration committee," she said, letting her head rest against his shoulder. "He went to their meeting. He said that their village elder, Miriam, seems determined to restore the town, or to rebuild it on the nearest patch of untainted land."

"Mm," Alistair replied, his attention caught by a kite circling over the fields to the side. " _'New Lothering'._ I don't know which would be better – to rebuild a new town from the ashes of the old, or to start afresh several miles away."

Flora bit her lip, trying to imagine which option she would prefer if it had been _Herring_ ravaged by the Darkspawn horde. This was such a traumatic prospect that she found herself flinching, envisioning her beloved hometown in smouldering ruins.

"I think it might be better to start anew somewhere else," she said, after a few moments. "Less bad memories. Less _ghosts._ Oh, do you think there might be _ghosts_ there?!"

No _tangible_ enemy had frightened Flora when she had possessed her inviolable shield, but she had always maintained a fear of any foe capable of slipping through the summoned barrier. Rather ironically for one so comfortable with spirits, she had been terrified of the ghosts that wandered the snow-covered halls of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Her only qualm about returning to the desolate fortress of Ostagar had been the prospect of running into the ethereal remnants of the soldiers that had once resided there.

"There won't be ghosts," Alistair hastened to reassure her, impressed at the certainty in his own tone. "Anyway, I'll ask Teagan to check for them when he's scouting the place. He's got a special affinity for it."

"A special affinity for what?" Teagan called over his shoulder, ears pricking at the mention of his name.

"Ghost spotting," Alistair replied, eyebrows contorting pointedly in his uncle's direction. "Flo is scared of them."

"Not _scared!_ Justifiably cautious!"

Teagan almost laughed out loud, and then caught sight of Flora's wide, anxious eyes, set grey and appalled in her fine-boned face.

"Oh, aye," he assured her, with equal gravity. "I can detect ghosts from a mile off. Don't you worry about that, poppet."

By midday, they had once again re-joined the elevated white-stone road of the Imperial Highway. The ancient construction was in poorer condition in the west of the country than it was to the north, but it was still intact enough to allow the company to follow it south towards Lothering. The only downside was that now they were raised high enough to see where the Blight-scar carved through the land; a fetid trail a half-mile wide that cut through the fields and woods like a poisoned blade.

"Do you know much about the history of Lothering?" Wynne said eventually mid-afternoon, breaking several hours of silence.

Her companions, riding close by the old mage's side, looked towards her.

"I know it's in an important strategic location," Alistair offered, eventually. "Since it's so central. And it's a trade thoroughfare, Eamon used to get a lot of deliveries to Redcliffe from Lothering."

Wynne nodded, gripping the horse's reins as it stepped around a chunk of limestone broken from an overhead arch.

"There was once a great battle near Lothering, during the second Orlesian invasion of the Blessed Age. King Vanedrin Theirin was killed there, after Teyrn Ardal Cousland was slain in an attempt to defend him."

Flora lifted her head from Alistair's shoulder, her attention snared.

"Oh!" she breathed, still finding it difficult to reconcile her own connection to the rich tapestry of Fereldan lore.

"Vanedrin would have been Maric's great-grandfather," the king said slowly, working out the genealogy in his head.

"Aye, and your great-great-grandfather," Teagan confirmed, nudging his own horse a fraction closer. "Apparently, after they were slain, the Orlesians cut off their heads and took them back to Val Royeaux pickled in vinegar. They were on display for quite a few years. Their bodies were paraded naked on horseback and then thrown into unmarked graves."

Both Alistair and Flora looked similarly outraged. Zevran had to hide a smirk with long, tanned fingers; amused by their indignation at events that had transpired over a century earlier.

"How dare they!" breathed Flora, sitting up straight in the saddle. "That's very _disrespectful."_

"If we ever go on a diplomatic visit to Val Royeaux, I'm going to find the heads and steal them back," added Alistair, his brow furrowed. "The bloody cheek of it! Typical _Orlesians._ "

Both Theirin and Cousland progeny fell into a brooding silence, huddled together in mutual affront.

It was another half-hour before Flora piped up again, her attention caught by one of Alistair's comments. Assuming that Teagan was in the best position to give an informed response, she directed her question to him.

"Do you think we'll go on an official visit to Val- Vally- _Val-reurgh_ , then?"

Zevran snickered at _Val-reurgh,_ while Alistair glanced up curiously.

"Aye, lass. The Empress of Orlais has already extended a formal invitation," replied Teagan, stifling a laugh at Alistair's grimace. "We won't be accepting it right away. I think that Eamon will suggest that you wait until after the babe is born, nursed and weaned. It's a valid excuse for delay, and then it won't seem as though Ferelden is leaping to respond to an Orlesian summons."

"How long does it take to wean a baby?" Alistair asked, possessing no experience in the field. Flora had little knowledge herself, and gave an ambiguous shrug.

"Dunno."

"Some babes lose interest in the breast after six months or so," Wynne offered, from her mysteriously enlightened viewpoint. "But most take about a year."

"Good," Alistair said, fervently. "The baby will be a year old next autumn. We can put off the visit until the spring, when the weather is better for travel. Keep our child as interested in your breast as long as possible, darling!"

"I'll try," replied Flora solemnly, eyeing her own swollen cleavage.

It was the sharp-eyed scout that first spotted the jagged silhouette of a windmill against the pallid sky. Even the sun seemed wan and bleached-out in this tainted corner of Ferelden; the light hanging insipid amidst stagnant air.

" _There!"_

The scout lifted his arm and pointed a finger towards the first sign of what had once been civilisation. One of the windmill's great sails had broken, leaving only a skeletal fin in its wake. The town of Lothering lay hidden by the curvature of the land; nestled within a dip in the hills beyond.

"Hold."

Alistair's voice rung out in a tone of command that came far easier now than it had done three months earlier. The company obediently drew to a halt, horses gathering in a cluster on the road as the riders listened for their leader's instructions.

"I'm not bringing the queen any nearer until we know that it's safe," he said flatly, eyes moving between the guards and the scouts. "And I'm not leaving her side until Lothering is a day's ride behind us. Ser Gilmore, will you lead the _recce_ party?"

The Cousland knight nodded, he had been planning on it. The scouts and the guards would accompany him into the abandoned town, alongside Bann Teagan. Zevran also volunteered to join the party; he was the fleetest of foot and could hear a blade of grass twist in the wind from a dozen yards away.

Those who would remain behind situated themselves beside the ruins of an old barn on the side of the road. The horses were turned out into a nearby clover-filled meadow to graze; a stream provided a source of untainted water. The scouting party would advance into the town on foot, since it rested only a half-mile away. In case there _were_ still enemies located within Lothering, they would not risk leaving their horses tied up and vulnerable.

Perched on an upended barrel, Flora watched the men retrieving their weapons from their packs, checking the sharpness of daggers and strapping on leather breastplates. Zevran, who was never parted from his own blades, had no need to prepare since he prided himself on maintaining a state of _constant readiness._

Pushing herself off the barrel, Flora swallowed the nervousness in her throat and wandered over to the elf.

"Are your daggers sharpened?" she asked, anxiously. "And you've got the plate on, haven't you?"

Zevran pulled up the leather tunic to reveal taut abdominal muscles, and then the foil-thin sheet of silverite designed to deflect a fatal blow.

" _Sí, mi sirenita,"_ he replied, amused at her fussing. "I am _exquisitely_ prepared, as always."

Flora nodded, biting at her lip as she searched his face in an attempt to gain reassurance.

"Be careful," she instructed eventually, hoping that her voice sounded relatively steady. "Look out for ghosts. If you see a decapitated one, it might be my great-great-grandfather. Or Alistair's. They both got executed in Lothering."

Zevran gave a nod of equal solemnity, his rich, liquidous dark eyes boring into hers.

"If I _do_ see them, I will be sure to greet them with the proper respect," he replied, a wry flicker of amusement embedded within the words. "And I appreciate the _heads-up,_ my Rialto lily."

As usual, the pun eluded Flora entirely. She gave a grave nod and then went impulsively to embrace him; pressing her lips against his tattooed cheek.

"Just be _careful_ ," she repeated, feeling another sudden twinge of anxiety. "Promise?"

" _Lo prometo, nena."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: I wanted to impress some of the significance of Lothering within this chapter. It was a bit of a recurring theme in the original story – for Flora, its ruination came to represent all the destruction and death caused by the Blight. She heard the 'bells of poor, lost Lothering' at all sorts of significant moments; a haunting echo that kept her fixed on her duty. So returning to it is going to be pretty momentous.

I think 'recce' is a British term – it's short for reconnaissance, so basically a scouting party!

Went to see the new Blade Runner with my husband - it's not my kind of film, but he really loved it! And I like doing stuff that makes him happy, obviously… BUT IT WAS TWO HOURS FORTY MINUTES LONG. Even though it was two hours and forty minutes of Ryan Gosling…. Not quite enough to make up for it, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	98. The Bells of Lothering

Chapter 98: The Bells of Lothering

While Teagan, Zevran, the scouts and a handful of the guards went to investigate the remains of the town, Alistair, Flora and Wynne sat down on a low stone wall overlooking a narrow stream. Weeds had crept into the slender watercourse, tangling with the flow and snarling up various twigs and branches. Alistair, in an effort to distract himself, was dropping stems of grass into the water and watching them drift beneath the distant bridge.

Flora was sitting beside her husband, absentmindedly tracing the letters of the alphabet on the top of his thigh. She was reasonably certain that half of them had emerged upside-down or back-to-front, but she was determined to continue regardless. She was still self-conscious about her emotional upset in the kitchen at the South Reach farmhouse several days prior; where she had dissolved into tears of despair simply because Finian's hand had crafted words too complex for her to understand. Even then, once Alistair had calmed her and let his long finger rest along the lines of letters, the words had miraculously become more comprehensible.

Wynne was listening to the birdsong, tilting her head to one side in an effort to identify its source. Despite her venerable years, she had spent so many of them indoors that the calls of different birds were still hard to distinguish.

"Alistair, do you think that's a chaffinch or a ptarmigan?" she said suddenly, canting her head towards a chirping cry emerging from a bush.

Alistair, who had never been taught any bird calls, gave a cheerful shrug.

"No idea," he admitted, cheerfully. "Flo, do you know the differences between them?"

Flora, who could identify any northern sea-bird based on its ululating cry, was far less familiar with their inland cousins. She shook her head, giving up on recalling the last tricky letter of the alphabet.

"I don't know, either."

Alistair reached out a finger and slowly traced the strokes of the final letter on her thigh; having realised what she was attempting to do. He repeated it several times, making sure that she had studied it well before removing his hand.

Thus assisted, Flora finished her tracing of the alphabet on his thigh and beamed at him, bright-eyed. He returned a warm, intimate smile; one that was slow and knowing. She reached up to nestle his bristled cheek against her palm, her thumb sliding over the ascetic angle of his prominent jawbone.

"Don't disappear off into the bushes together," Wynne warned, sensing the air heighten between the king and his new bride. "There's other ways to keep yourselves distracted from Lothering."

The name of the doomed town served well enough to stifle the heightening sexual tension. Flora dropped her hand and hunched her shoulders, the corners of her mouth dropping.

 _What if it's like a graveyard down there? Just… bones everywhere._

 _No, the Darkspawn would have taken the dead for meat. They'd have cleaned the place out._

 _We should have tried harder to persuade the refugees to leave._

With a burst of bitter frustration, Flora kicked her heels against the stone. One of her boots dropped neatly to the rocky bank of the stream below; she had loosened the lacing when they had perched themselves on the wall. Alistair, seeing his wife's eyes widen in alarm – she had been wearing these particular boots since she had first left the Circle tower – let himself drop down into the stream with a splash. The water was only several inches deep, and he was easily able to retrieve her boot from where it had landed between two rocks.

Turning towards Flora's dangling legs, the king reached out for her bare foot; clasping his palm against the pink sole. She smiled shyly down at him, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as he pressed his lips tenderly against her toes.

"I love you," Alistair mouthed up at her, and Flora's smile widened into a beam; a blush blossoming on her cheeks as he slid the boot carefully back onto her foot.

With one hand gripping the stone ledge, her former brother-warden propelled his bulky frame back up onto the wall beside her. As Alistair settled himself, Flora put her arm around his neck and directed her words into his ear; her breath tickling his neck.

"I _love_ you too, 'brother-warden' _."_

Now it was his turn to grin, clasping their ringed fingers together and bringing them to his mouth for a kiss.

"Well, all this is very sweet," interjected Wynne briskly, as one of the Mabari gave a low rumble to indicate the approach of a familiar face. "But the scouting party are back."

They left the horses tied near the wall, Wynne had volunteered to stay and keep an eye on them. The senior enchanter confessed that she had seen enough Blight-tainted land to last her the rest of her years, and since there was no sign of any Darkspawn – or ghouls – left behind, there was no need for her magical prowess.

Even after the assurance of Teagan that no Darkspawn remained within the ruins of the town, Alistair was reluctant to allow his wife to accompany them. Yet Flora's Herring obstinacy prevailed; she was permitted to come along, as long as she stayed within touching distance of both Zevran and Alistair at all times. Zevran almost made a sly comment, but restrained himself at the last minute.

The main road leading into Lothering was overgrown on both sides, the hedgerows growing wild and rampant across the dirt. The farms that bordered Lothering were quite obviously abandoned; the fields left in abundant disarray. The weeds and tangled grasses had a strange, pallid and unnatural look about them, the product of tainted soil and little nourishment. The farmhouses had fared somewhat better, still seeming relatively intact.

As they walked in a tight clump with the Mabari trotting watchfully at the front of the party, Flora realised that she had walked this road before – albeit in the other direction.

 _This is the road we took out of Lothering. Leliana was talking nonstop about how she had always wanted to go on a pilgrimage. She kept asking Alistair what his favourite verse of the Chant was._

The memory brought a smile to Flora's face, one that was quickly erased when she spotted the windmill that marked the edge of Lothering. The entire structure had a strange, lopsided appearance; one of the sheets had fallen loose and was lying at its base, another hung bent and broken.

 _Poor, lost Lothering._

Flora swallowed, reaching out blindly into the air at her side. Alistair's strong fingers wrapped around her own, tight and reassuring.

"Say the word," he murmured softly as they approached the derelict town. "Say the word and we'll leave, my love."

"I'm fine," Flora replied immediately, grateful for the natural, cool solemnity of her features. Her face's ambiguous stoicism had carried her through a dozen perils over the past year - it had allowed her to stare down Loghain in the Landsmeet chamber, to pose as a Tranquil in the clutches of Howe, to stand before ten thousand troops and bellow fearless defiance in the face of the incoming horde.

Unfortunately, Flora was speaking to the one person in Thedas who knew the angles and planes of her features better than she did. Alistair had spent the past ten months studying the grave beauty of his sister-warden's face; first in surreptitious, shy little glances, and then in longer, lingering gazes.

"I'm not fooled by that lovely poker-face anymore, darling," Alistair murmured now, as though reading her mind. "You can't hide yourself from me."

Lothering had not been a particularly large settlement; important more for its geographical location within central Ferelden than for any other quality. It had been a town of transient merchants, of travellers, and had once housed more than a half-dozen taverns to cater for this bustling market. In the wake of Ostagar, it had become the reluctant refuge of those fleeing from the south. Some of the towns' residents had taken advantage of the chaos to charge high prices for their wares and rooms, but others had done their best to provide charity for the terrified refugees. The leader of the town, Elder Miriam, had pleaded with the Chantry's Revered Mother to offer more aid. The priestess had protested that they were already stretched beyond breaking point. Their arl, Leonas Bryland, had been summoned to assist Loghain Mac Tir at Ostagar and was thus unable to take charge; though rumours had spread that the arl and the teyrn had fallen out badly over the general's subsequent actions.

When Flora and Alistair arrived within Lothering in the wake of the disaster at Ostagar, they had found that the Grey Wardens had been damned as traitors. Keeping quiet about their affiliation, they had only stayed for a night within the beleaguered town. In the evening, Flora had gone to offer her healing services to the refugees, and she had tried to tell as many as possible to leave. Few had listened; dismissive of a young, grubby and poorly dressed girl – especially one with such a commoner's northern accent.

Now, spread before them, lay the consequences of Ostagar. The buildings lay in ruins that had long ago ceased to smoulder; the black ash of fire washed away by countless rains. The majority of structures stood with only their walls remaining, roofless and exposed to the elements; no lamp-post or fence remained intact. The stone bridge that spanned the stream running through the town had been ravaged to its foundations. There was a stagnant smell to the air, rather than a Blighted one; as though no breeze had disturbed the abandoned ruins for many months. The Chantry roof – the only one that seemed to have remained intact – looked as though it had been struck by lightning.

The Mabari accompanying the party seemed wary but not agitated – they did not sense the presence of either ghoul or Darkspawn. Still, the company proceeded with caution; Teagan and Ser Gilmore taking the lead with their hands on the hilts of their blades.

Flora was deliberately kept in the middle of the party, and from here - since she stood at only three inches over five feet - she found it hard for her to see anything. She suspected that this was Alistair's intention; his fingers roped tightly through hers while Zevran followed so close on her heels that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

The men scrambled over the boulders in the stream to cross it in the wake of the bridge's destruction. Flora was about to happily follow suit, when Alistair hoisted her up into his arms and bodily handed her to a reaching Teagan. Flora put her arm around the bann's neck with a little inward sigh; looking forward to the day when she would no longer be a physical burden to those around her.

 _I'll get good with my weapons, I'm determined to do so._

"Sorry, I'm heavy now," she told Teagan as he lowered her gently to the muddied bank. "Alistair used to hold me with one arm; now he has to use two."

"Only because I don't want to risk _dropping_ you, my love!" Alistair called gallantly, clambering easily up the bank with powerful thighs.

Flora smiled at him, then whispered drily in Teagan's ear. "He's _definitely lying._ Last time he carried me, he was _sweating."_

They passed through to the main square of Lothering;, where not a single building stood intact. The roofs had collapsed into the standing walls, not a window remained whole. The remains of market stalls and the Chanter's board lay splintered across the ground. The fetid smell continued to hang in the air like a foul miasma, although it was still stagnant rather than the sweet-rotten scent of the Blight.

The scouts took soil samples from various locations in glass phials, using gloved hands to lift the earth. These would be sent back to Denerim via Leliana's raven, where the Lothering restoration committee eagerly awaited any news.

"The air doesn't smell _too_ foul," ventured Alistair, hopefully. "I know the buildings are destroyed, but if they were cleared and their foundations built upon…"

Letting go of Flora's hand, he reached down to nudge his leather-clad finger into the soil. A pincer beetle scuttled forth, but it had a strange, almost lopsided appearance, as though it had not formed correctly in the tainted earth. Alistair frowned, raising his palm and watching the mutated creature limp over it. He called for a glass phial, deciding that this was as good a sample as any.

Flora, her hand temporarily released from Alistair's fingers, spotted something white and rounded from the tail of her eye. It was half-buried in the earth, and she had just taken a single step towards it when a chiding, familiar arm slid around her waist.

"No wandering off, _mi florita,"_ murmured Zevran, light and stern. "Did you not hear your husband's edict?"

Flora had no idea what an _edict_ was, and so gave a vague shrug; taking another defiant step towards the object. This closer proximity allowed her to discern its nature, and she inhaled a sudden gulp of air. Zevran tightened his grip on her, his head shaking from side to side.

" _Carina,_ we both know full-well what it is. Why upset yourself further? Let's go back to the others."

"No, no," Flora whispered back, a sudden impulse striking her. "I'm not upset. I'm not leaving it here."

She made to kneel – awkward as that was – and Zevran went to stop her, ducking elegantly and scooping up the skull from the earth. It was large, rounded and surprisingly intact, though missing its jawbone. Flora gazed at its sad, hollow-eyed face and felt a twinge of sadness, her gut constricting. As though able to sense it's mother's sadness; a baby gave a little comforting wriggle against her stomach.

The elf brushed off the earth, then retrieved a small bottle of dwarven liquor from his pocket. Zevran usually used the potent alcohol to clean his blades; now, he poured the liquid carefully over the skull, making sure that it had been thoroughly cleansed before handing it to Flora.

Flora smiled at her companion, appreciative of his concern. Carefully, she tucked the skull into her leather pouch. The remains took up the majority of the space within the container; she had been banned from carrying her old leather pack due to its size.

"I'm surprised that there aren't more remains," Ser Gilmore commented in an undertone to Teagan as the two men stood to one side. "From what I've heard from the refugees, half the population of Lothering were killed by the horde. That's several hundred people."

"The Darkspawn don't leave the dead," the bann replied, equally soft. "They take them for meat."

Overhearing, Alistair felt a twinge of sadness in his gut; the tawny, intense face of his mentor rising to the forefront of his memory. Determined to begin the construction of Duncan's memorial the moment that they arrived back in Denerim, he took a deep breath and glanced around for Flora. His heart – which leapt forward in panic at realising that she was not at his side – eased back into normal rhythm when he saw her several yards away with a hovering Zevran.

"Sweetheart?" the king called, his voice disturbing the stagnant air. "Are you alright, my love?"

"I'm fine, darling," replied the elf, blithely. "Thank you for your concern!"

Flora beamed as Alistair blinked, grateful for the interjection of a little light-heartedness into a gloomy morning.

They spent an hour more within the body of the village, collecting more samples of soil and wilted vegetation. Zevran, whose latent artistic skills were proving useful, had made a basic pencil sketch on parchment to illustrate the extent of the damage. Finally, there was just one place left within the village which required a visit.

The outer frame of the Lothering Chantry remained surprisingly intact; only one half of its pointed roof had collapsed. The stained glass windows had been thoroughly destroyed, leaving behind colourful, jagged shards of crystal clinging to the stone. There was something obscene about the wanton destruction of such innocuous beauty; it was an act of sheer, spiteful malevolence. The broken glass would not have served the horde any useful purpose; it had been done solely for the purpose of liquidation.

The company stood in the shadow of the half-sunken spire for several moments, gazing at the rotted wooden doors. Dead leaves lay scattered across the steps, yards from a crushed Templar helmet. Melancholy seemed to radiate from the broken spire and sightless windows of the hollowed building; the door stood ajar to reveal only gloom within.

Teagan drew his sword as a precaution, glancing over his shoulder towards Alistair.

"There were a few items that the restoration committee wanted from here. The archives and property records, mainly. They should be stored in the Chantry Mother's quarters."

Alistair nodded, drawing his own sword with one hand while gripping Flora's fingers tightly with the other.

"Let's go cautiously," he warned, with a final glance back at the ruined town. "I don't have a good feeling about this place. Have the Mabari guard the entrance."

The last time that Flora and Alistair had ventured inside the Lothering Chantry, it had been packed full of frightened refugees. Every pew had become temporary accommodation; the benches acting as bed, seat and table for those relocated there. Entire families had crammed themselves into a few square feet, convinced that the stone walls and Maker's benevolence would protect them from the encroaching darkness.

Now, the only evidence of the Chantry's former residents lay strewn across the tiles. The wooden pews and metal goods had been taken for spoils; the belongings of the refugees deemed worthless had been scattered. This callous detritus included a woman's comb, a pair of child's shoes, a much-patched woollen jumper, a series of wooden utensils and several toys broken into pieces. Books – which were also not valued by the horde – lay torn to shreds across the mess; their marked pages strewn like the moulting of some vast, pale-feathered bird. No earthly sign of the occupants remained, yet the forlorn presence of their possessions suggested that they had not been fortunate enough to escape. The remnants of an ineffective barricade still lay broken near the splintered doors. Only the sharp-eyed elf noticed the maroon stains sunken between the tiles; the only physical evidence of the massacre that had taken place within the Chantry's house.

"Maker's Breath," murmured one of the scouts, as Zevran swore in his own tongue beneath his breath. "Poor sods wouldn't have stood a chance."

Alistair felt his heavy-bellied wife flinch beside him, her fingers cold against his palm. Flora was staring at the possessions of children whose mothers had not been able to shield them; whose short lives must have ended in terror and bloodshed as the Darkspawn broke through the barricaded doors.

"Darling," he murmured, seeing her pale, appalled face swivel to take in the wreckage. "My love, I'll take you back to the horses. It's not healthy for you to see this."

"No, no," Flora insisted, taking several gulps of stagnant air. "I'll be alright. We saw worse in the Deep Roads."

"Let's find these records, and be away," suggested Zevran, carefully avoiding a broken doll as he headed towards the altar. "The Mother's dwellings are customarily up here, _sí?"_

The company made their way gingerly up the aisle, passing the great iron brazier of Andraste's eternal flame. To their surprise, a shallow puddle of oil was still burning with a small, defiant flicker in the base of the cauldron. One of the more religious of the guards made a gesture of faith, murmuring something about a _miracle._

The Chantry Mother's office had been devastated, the bookshelves toppled and the desk overturned. All the silverware had been looted, none of the chapel's paltry wealth remained. It was unclear whether this was the fault of the Darkspawn; or an act of desperation by refugees who had passed through after the ransacking.

While Teagan, Zevran and several of the guards began to search through the strewn, soggy papers for anything resembling official documents, Flora looked around for something to sit down on. They had not eaten since breaking their fast and she had been on her feet for nearly two hours; the edges of her vision were beginning to blur.

"Here, sweet girl. Rest while we look."

Alistair was aware of the physical demands of the progress, and thus had a constant eye on his wife's wellbeing. He had found a low, three-legged stool that had escaped the horde's attention, and turned it upright for her; procuring a ripe pear from inside his tunic.

Flora lowered herself to the stool and took the pear gratefully, appreciative as ever of her best friend's concern. She felt the baby fidgeting inside her stomach and swallowed a lump of sadness, recalling the broken doll split into pieces on the tiles.

The men searched for the next half-hour, as the light gradually diminished by inches outside the broken window. The queen shifted on the stool and wished that she could be of more help. Deciding that her dizziness had passed enough to allow her to sit on the floor and sort through papers, she made to rise to her feet.

Just then, from directly overhead, came a sudden, cacophonous pealing of discordant bells. The sound shattered the stagnant air, hollow and atonal; shaking the foundations of the battered building. The men swore in alarm, drawing their swords reflexively.

"By Andraste – what's _that?!"_

" _Where is it coming from?"_

Flora was frozen in fright on the stool – she recognised the sound only too well. The bells of poor, lost Lothering had rung as a dismal accompaniment to her dreams for months during the Blight. One of the few benefits of her new inability to cross the Veil was that she no longer had to hear their desperate calling, pleading for aid that would never come. Yet now, like some waking nightmare, the bells of Lothering were pealing once more.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Eurghhh! I kept imagining what it would be like to go back to Lothering. I've been to a lot of horrible places in real-life where massacres have taken place (the not so fun part of my day-job as a historian), and I've always been struck by the stillness of the air.

WHO IS RINGING THE BELLS? Poor old Flo, I'm not sure how well she'd cope if it turned out to be ghosts!

I'm going to take a few days off updating because I am SO SICK lol! I haven't been able to write in days because I feel completely blleeaughhhhhhh. So fingers crossed I feel better soon, haha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	99. The Mad Priestess

Chapter 99: The Mad Priestess

A handful of months prior, clad in a more reckless spirit, Flora would have launched herself to her feet and barrelled her way up the rickety steps leading into the high cloisters. Her shield would have been itching at her fingertips, her spirits crowding against the Veil to whisper advice in her ear. Now - with less than seven weeks to go until the arrival of her baby, and with her spirits scattered to the far corners of the Fade – Flora was more cautious. She rose inelegantly to her feet with her head swivelling towards Alistair.

Her former brother-warden, who had offered comfort after many Lothering-themed nightmares, knew full well the dread significance of the bells pealing above them. Alistair had crossed the Chantry Mother's study in three steps, his hand reaching out for hers. She took it gratefully, rising to her feet as he drew her protectively into his side.

"Stay with me, my love," he said in a voice both strained and measured. "We'll let the others go first."

With Zevran at their rear, Teagan and Ser Gilmore led the way towards the stairs leading up into the Chantry loft, where the bell-ropes hung. The wooden steps creaked but seemed sturdy enough, guiding the company up into the rafters of the building. At the far end of the loft, the bell-ropes hung down against the wall. The noise of the pealing was almost deafening at this proximity, echoing between the floorboards and the lightning-singed rooftop.

A figure was hunched at the end of the loft, swathed in a white, foul-stained cloak. Their head seemed unnaturally elongated and their movements drunkenly uncoordinated; fingers wrapped tight around the bell-ropes as they pulled at them.

Assuming that it was a ghoul, Zevran drew out his throwing blades in preparation to strike. The figure made no acknowledgement of their presence, merely continued to tug incessantly at the bells without skill or design. As they came closer, they realised that it was a woman – clad in the mouldering garb of a Chantry priestess, complete with the tall, ragged hat.

"Stop!" called the Cousland knight, his voice drowned out by the atonal din. "Stop this racket!"

The priestess continued to yank at the ropes, her eyes fixed upwards towards the bells.

Alistair took a deep breath and summoned up a bellow that was part-inherited from Maric and part-inspired by Duncan; a bark infused with royal authority that managed to punctuate even the clamour of the rusting bells.

" _Enough!"_

The woman stopped abruptly, letting the ropes fall from her hands. She turned a haggard, lattice-wrinkled face towards the small company; wisps of greying hair tumbling down from the edges of her stained hat. In an instant, Flora recognised her as the Revered Mother that had given the Wardens two silver candlesticks to aid them on their journey, enabling them to purchase lodgings, and supplies to get to Redcliffe. The elderly woman had been reluctant to offer any further assistance, informing Flora and Alistair that the Grey Wardens had been denounced as a traitorous organisation, held responsible for the death of King Cailan.

"Maker's Breath," said Alistair softly from beside Flora, also recognising the woman in the bloodied robe before them. "Revered Mother? You _survived_ the Darkspawn attack?"

" _You've come too late!"_ the woman retorted, her voice edging into the hysterical. "Your aid is worthless now! We are lost, lost, lost…"

Muttering feverishly to herself, the priestess scuttled into a corner of the loft where a lumpen bedroll and several meagre possessions had been carefully stashed. She began to sort through them, moving a broken ewer, a bundle of parchment and a stained slipper compulsively from one spot to another.

"She's lost her mind," Teagan murmured in an undertone, lowering but not sheathing his blade. "Let's proceed with caution."

Alistair nodded, keeping a steely grip on his wife's hand as they advanced forwards.

"Do you remember us, Revered Mother?" he asked, softly. "The Grey Wardens that came to Lothering after the fall of Ostagar."

The elderly woman continued to stare up at them, one eye clouded over with a milky cataract.

"Whoever you are," she said, her voice thin and reedy. "You're too late. Lothering is gone. _Bones and teeth, bones and teeth. Howling like demons, they came."_

Flora clutched Alistair's hand in a death-grip, a wave of nausea rolling upwards from her stomach. Despite the fact that Lothering had been destroyed before they had even recruited the first of their three armies; she still felt the guilt like a traitor's sly blade between the ribs.

"Lothering can be rebuilt, Revered Mother," Alistair tried, valiantly. "The Blight is over, and the Archdemon dead."

The woman turned her sightless eye on them, her thin lip curling. In the light of a sickly sunset, they could see several faded maroon stains spread across the fabric of her robe.

"They ate them where they fell," she said, enunciating each word clearly. "The parents watched their children being consumed by the horde. _Little bones, splintering like twigs."_

Flora, in her past life as a Warden, might have been able to maintain her stoicism in the face of this dreadful revelation. Flora of the present, with her belly swollen and her body in hormonal disarray, was unable to maintain her composure. She let out a little choked sound, and Alistair instinctively swivelled at the sound of his distressed wife.

Flora could see the conflict in her best friend's eyes, he clearly wanted to comfort her on the spot, but the others in the company were looking to him for instruction. Torn between duty and personal desire; the king reluctantly chose the former.

"Zev, uncle? Could you take Flo out of this charnel-house?" Alistair said, in measured tones. "I'll be down as soon as I've dealt with… with _this."_

Flora did not remember descending the steps into the main body of the Chantry, nor weaving her way around the broken possessions of the refugees who had been eaten alive within its stone walls. Ultimately, the Maker had offered them neither protection nor deliverance from the bloodthirsty horde.

The Mabari hounds let out a welcoming rumble as the three made their way outside into the insipid flesh-coloured tones of a sickly sunset. The jagged edges of Lothering's ruins were softened somewhat by the desaturated light; though the melancholy mounds of rubble were barely recognisable as once-inhabited structures.

"They killed everyone! They ate the children – aah – _in front of their parents!"_

Flora, who had picked up the headless doll from the Chantry floor, now had tears coursing freely down her cheeks; inhaling in ragged and shallow gasps. The bann was inwardly flailing, not used to administering comfort and unsure where the bounds of propriety lay. Zevran, conversely, had observed brother- and sister-warden together frequently over the past year, and had learnt much from them.

" _Carina,_ sit," he instructed, guiding her down gently against the wall. "Come, now. Let's take a deep breath, hm?"

" _Aaah, ah- ah- "_

" _Breathe, mi reina._ Just like we did in the mountains, remember? Come on, breathe with me."

Just as he had once done in the Frostback mountains nearly a year prior, the elf gradually cajoled Flora out of her hyperventilation. When she was once again breathing in a somewhat normal rhythm, he put an arm around her. She let her head loll against Zevran's shoulder; sniffing and wiping her nose on her sleeve. The Mabari came snuffling about her anxiously, concerned for the mother of the Theirin heir's wellbeing. One of them rested a paw on her knee and she patted it with clumsy fingers.

Zevran let his head rest against hers, humming fragments of a half-forgotten Antivan melody under his breath. The rich sweetness of the tune - even in pieces - was comforting, and Flora closed her eyes with an unsteady gulp of air.

A short while later, the sound of hasty footsteps came hurrying across the tiled floor; the door was shoved open without ceremony.

"My love," a familiar voice breathed, wrought with concern. "My own sweet wife."

Flora raised her head and reached up her arms even before she had opened her eyes. The next moment, she felt herself being hoisted into the air as Alistair lifted her up onto his waist with a soft grunt; wrapping a firm, protective grasp about her.

"We're going," the king said shortly, addressing the rest of the company as he held his wife in his arms. "There's nothing more that can be done here, since the Chantry Mother refuses to leave. We've got our samples and as much of the town records as we can salvage."

Flora put her face against his shoulder, the words of the maddened priestess echoing between her ears.

 _Little bones, splintering like twigs._

 _The parents watched their children consumed by the horde._

She felt Alistair's hand at her back, stroking up and down over the wool-covered skin.

"I'm taking you away from this damned village, my love," he murmured, his face set in iron-clad determination. "It's a terrible place. I don't think they should try and rebuild here, even if the soil is redeemable. I think you're right, it is haunted."

Alistair continued to talk in a low, continuous murmur as they left the doomed ruins of Lothering; leaving the jagged silhouettes of buildings and stagnant, death-tinged air in their wake. Flora was no easy burden to bear in her swollen-bellied state; but the king's strength and stamina were fuelled by a determination to remove his queen from the source of her distress as quickly as possible.

Flora had stopped crying, her fingers wrapped in a death-grip around the broken doll. Alistair's murmured words were like a series of small, leaded bait-hooks; pulling her up through the depths of her despair until she was merely sad. She rested her chin on his shoulder, listening to him talk about the stew he was going to make for dinner tonight.

"I think I'm actually quite good at cooking, Flo," he confessed to her earnestly as they travelled between two wilting hedgerows. "Especially once Zevran showed me how to use _pepper_. Anyway, I'm going to make us a stew from that hideous-looking fish you pulled out of the water the other day."

"Fish- fish stew?"

"Sure, baby. The men are all dubious – they think it sounds a bit _Orlesian –_ but I'm going to convince them otherwise. The Orlesians have a fancy name for fish stew, don't they? Leliana told it to us, once."

"Bool – bowl- _bolly-bass,"_ confirmed Flora, sniffling. "I don't remember."

"' _Bouillabaisse',"_ corrected Zevran, who had been eavesdropping. "Although in Antiva, we call it _gazpachuelo."_

Flora wiped her nose on the back of her hand and lifted her head, roused from her melancholy.

"The fish reminded me of _Grand-Duc Gaspard,"_ she said, cheering a fraction. "With the whiskers."

"We'll call it Grand-Duke stew, then," Alistair replied, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "In his dubious honour."

Suddenly intensely grateful for her husband's presence, Flora hooked her arm around his neck and nuzzled her face against the strong muscle and sinew.

"Thank you," she whispered fervently into his ear. "I love you. _I love you."_

Alistair inhaled unsteadily, clutching her a fraction tighter.

"You don't need to thank me," he murmured, equally earnest. "I swore an oath before the Maker- and _all_ Thedas - that I would spend my life making you happy. I intend to fulfil my promise."

As much as Alistair had wanted to leave Lothering behind that evening, the night had drawn in too quickly and they were forced to make camp near the bridge where they had left the horses. True to his word, the king made the entire company a stew from Flora's ugly fish, and a mixture of root vegetables. He and Zevran put on a deliberate show while cooking, arguing loudly over which – _and what quantity of_ \- spices to add; their purpose to distract Flora from the ruined village that lay just beyond the rise of the hill.

Flora knew that her attention was deliberately being diverted from the wasted remains, and she was filled with affection for both of her companions and their valiant efforts. She offered slightly damp-eyed advice on the cooking time for the fish, tasted spoonfuls when offered them and praised her husband's efforts when the time to eat arrived. The other members of their company – initially somewhat wary of a stew made from _fish –_ soon came round after inhaling the smoky, rich aroma emanating from the cooking-pot.

As the fire hissed and crackled, Zevran told several amusing anecdotes relating to dishes from his native Antiva. Unfortunately, many of these related to adding some sort of poison or toxic substance to food items, and the tales merely made the company twitchy. Wynne's recollection of First Enchanter Irving's unpleasant reaction to shellfish was far more popular with the party; Ser Gilmore almost choked on a chunk of turnip as he laughed.

"I have a story too," Alistair chimed in, slightly self-conscious. "Not about fish, but about stew. I don't know if there's any truth in the tale; I remember the cook at Redcliffe Castle telling it to me when I was younger."

He reached out and tapped his fingers gently on Flora's swollen stomach, immediately feeling a small responding nudge.

"This is your bedtime story, little one. Listen well, then you can go to sleep and not keep your mother up all night with your squirming."

Flora smiled at him, hoping that his words would drown out the melancholy echo of Lothering's bells between her ears. Her best friend grinned back at her, taking a gulp of ale before continuing on.

"Some hungry travellers once arrived at a village, and asked for food to sustain them. When the villagers claimed that they barely had enough to feed themselves, the travellers filled a pot with water and stones, and began to boil it over a fire. When one of the villagers asked what they were doing, the travellers replied that they were making a delicious _Stone Soup,_ and needed only a few vegetables to thicken the broth. The villager found that he could spare a few carrots to add to the soup. Next, his neighbour came along, and realised that he could add a little seasoning to the water to make the soup taste _even better_. One by one, the villagers added a small part of what they could spare to the soup, to help it reach its full potential. And at the end of it, the travellers removed the stones and there was enough delicious, nourishing stew to feed everybody."

"Ooh," breathed Flora, suddenly wishing that she had a second bowl of stew. "I'm hungry again, now."

"Well, I'm _disappointed !"_ retorted Zevran, leaning back on his elbows in the damp grass and letting out a petulant huff. "What is a folk-story without a little sex or death, _hm?_ "

Nobody was much in the mood for late-night entertainment; unable to escape the long shadow of Lothering beyond the rise. The Wicked Grace cards remained tucked away in various pockets, and no one suggested a drinking contest or exchange of jokes. The company retired to their tents in a sombre silence, eager for dawn to arrive so that they could put the ransacked village at their backs and turn their faces to the future.

Inside the tent, Flora lay on the bedroll and listened to Alistair conversing quietly with Teagan several yards away through the canvas. The king and the bann were clearly trying to keep their voices down, yet she was still able to make out their muffled exchange.

"I still feel bad about leaving the old priestess," Alistair was saying fretfully, his words shot through with indecision and guilt. "It doesn't seem right."

"Alistair, there was nothing we could have done save for dragging her bodily from the Chantry," came Teagan's even voice in response. "The woman was half-mad. When we arrive at the next village, we'll let them know that she's still alive. Perhaps someone might know her; they might be able to persuade her to leave."

The king grunted in response, clearly still unhappy but unable to come up with any alternative. Moments later, firelight spilled inside the tent as he pulled back the entrance flap, ducking inside and letting it drop behind him.

Flora reached up for him wordlessly, suddenly wanting nothing more than to feel her strong, sturdy husband's body alongside her own. She had already wriggled out of her smallclothes, her nightshirt unbuttoned down to her swollen stomach.

"Alistair," she whispered, her voice faint and husky in her throat. "Alistair, _please."_

His wife's need was so raw that Alistair did not even spare the time to remove his boots. Pulling open Flora's shirt for a better view of her full, rounded breasts, he was erect by the time he had finished unbuttoning his breeches. Within moments, the king was inside his queen, the damp blankets tangled around their legs as he thrust in a carefully regulated rhythm. His breath emerged in heated pants against the back of Flora's neck; she unashamedly spurred him on with wanton little moans.

To make up for his reluctance to take her too forcefully, Alistair murmured a hoarse litany of perverse things that he was going to do to her once they were able to resume their normal bedroom repertoire. The lewdness of his whisper in her ear contrasted with the gentle rocking of his hips; husband made love to his wife with tender caution while simultaneously describing how he was intending to debauch her in all manner of unspeakable ways.

Beneath the bright light of day, Alistair would vehemently deny using such crudeness of language, insisting that he barely knew what those sort of words even _meant._ Yet Maric's youngest son had inherited the Theirin instinct to dominate in the bedroom as well as in the council chamber; and under cover of darkness, he expressed desires that would make even a dwarf blush.

As usual, the king fell asleep shortly after finishing within her. Alistair kissed his wife goodnight with sleepy affection, before settling back on the bedroll with her nestled in his arms. Flora lay against him, taking deep gulps of air to calm her racing heart; gazing unseeingly into the gloomy interior of the tent.

The distant bells of Lothering rang once more within the confines of her skull. Flora did not know whether the sound had emerged from her memory, or if the sad, maddened priestess was yanking at the Chantry bell-ropes in a frenzied, futile plea for aid. Suddenly, warm within Alistair's arms, the former Warden and new queen of Ferelden realised what she had to do.

* * *

OOC Author Note: OMG FLORA WHAT NOW? You're literally seven months pregnant, this is no time for nocturnal adventures, haha!

The Stone Soup is actually a common folk-story, found in a variety of different cultures. I think it's a bit of a parable, something to do with sharing and caring, I'd imagine.

I couldn't actually find the name of the Lothering Chantry priestess anywhere – if anyone knows her name, please let me know and I'll edit it in!

ARRGHH I've literally been so ill this week! I actually hate being ill, I get so bored being in the house all day with nothing to do. I went to work and got sent home one day haha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	100. A Consecration For the Dead

Chapter 100: A Consecration For the Dead

Very carefully, Flora squirmed herself free from her husband's embrace. Alistair's warm, lengthy limbs were like tentacles, they curled everywhere and were almost impossible to escape from. Knowing that it would be hard to leave the tent undetected from the front entrance – one of the guards had a bedroll directly in front of the canvas flap – Flora instead reached out a tentative arm towards the _side_ of the tent. As she had hoped, the heavy canvas wall was only pegged into the earth; her probing fingers could reach out and touch the damp grass.

Flora inched herself gingerly across the bedroll – thinking gloomily on _quite how much_ she must resemble a beached whale – and wriggled several pegs free from the earth. Soon, she had worked open a large enough gap in the canvas for her to squirm through. She did so while holding her breath and hoping that Alistair would not wake.

Fortunately, her husband was still immersed in a deep, post-coital slumber. Now on the grass outside the tent, Flora clambered awkwardly to her feet; grateful that she had remembered to grab her boots and a woollen jumper before slithering out.

The campfire had dwindled to muted embers, yet the tents were bathed in silvery light by a full and gregarious moon. A constellation hung low overhead, like a series of small suspended lamps. The night sky was indeed so beautiful that Flora wished that she had a measure of artistic talent, through which to replicate the lustrous assembly on parchment. Grateful that it was a moonlit night, she pulled on boots and jumper while holding her breath; grateful that the normal rustles of nocturnal creatures disguised the sounds that she was making. Even Zevran, who slept with one ear constantly pricked for danger, had not been roused.

However, there were several residents of the camp whom Flora had no hope of sneaking past. As she sidled towards the narrow road that led towards Lothering, two Mabari trotted forwards with soft, chiding rumbles of caution. Flora could have sworn that they were gazing reproachfully at her belly, inside which- unbeknownst to her – _two_ Theirin heirs were snugly nestled.

"I'm not going far," she whispered, grateful for her voice's naturally soft, hoarse timbre. "Or anywhere dangerous. There's something I want to do before we leave."

The intelligent hounds gazed up at her with identically dubious expressions. One of them – a bay bitch who had just birthed a litter last spring – cocked it's head towards Alistair's tent; as though prepared to wake the king with a bark.

"Noooo," pleaded Flora, wide-eyed. "Nooo! Come with me, instead. You can keep us safe."

She patted her stomach and smiled winningly at the Mabari. The dogs relented, trotting forward to escort her on both sides.

The moon hung low in the sky overhead, as though curious as to what the Queen of Ferelden was doing sneaking through the shadows at such a late hour. Flora had located the trail that led back to Lothering and was heading resolutely down it; her chin up and her face wreathed in determination. The ravaged town lay only a quarter-mile away, hidden from sight by the lay of the landscape. Only the spire of the Chantry was visible from a distance, presiding over the ruins with hollow authority.

Flora heard the bells of Lothering ring once more, faint enough that she knew them to be a manifestation from her own memory. One of the Mabari hounds licked her hand, sensing her discomfort; she patted it on its velvety head, suddenly grateful for the company.

 _I was frightened of ghosts when we came here yesterday. I was sure that if I saw a ghost, I'd faint on the spot. Or go into labour._

As she neared the town, the tall hedgerows began to subside; affording a view of the sad, derelict remnants of buildings. The Chantry – where so many residents had made a desperate last stand, only to be slaughtered in their dozens – loomed above the ruins like a headstone.

 _Now, if I saw a ghost, I'd feel only sympathy for its plight. How can any soul pass peacefully through the Veil when their life was ended so brutally? They had no prayer-service, or funeral. There's no memorial for the people who died here._

 _It's not right._

One of the infants in her stomach woke up and shifted, waking its sibling. Flora – who naturally could not discern the movements of one from the other – assumed that the baby was being particularly fidgety.

"Go back to sleep, shrimp," she told it, sternly. "This doesn't involve you."

The Mabari pricked up their ears as they entered the abandoned village, heads swivelling as they sniffed for any potential threat. Flora, who was still gamely trying to persuade herself that a ghost-sighting would prompt _sympathy_ rather than sheer terror, headed for the broken bridge that led to the Chantry-dominated side of town.

Negotiating the dried-up stream was more difficult without assistance. Flora was grateful for the moonlight, making her way laboriously down the bank and scrambling around the boulders. One of the Mabari hovered at Flora's side, offering its own haunches for the queen to stabilise herself.

Shivering slightly in the chilly night breeze, Flora came to a halt before Lothering's Chantry. The broken doors now held a new, dreadful significance; it did not take a great leap of the imagination to picture the Darkspawn ploughing their way inside.

 _The parents watched their children consumed by the horde._

Flora swallowed, forcing the priestess' words from her mind.

 _Come on, Flora. If there_ are _ghosts here, they'll approve of what you intend to do._

"Come on, dogs," she said to the Mabari, taking a deep breath and lifting her chin with Herring fortitude. "This is what we came to do."

Summoning her courage – missing the comforting presence of _Valour_ – Flora made her way inside the ruined Chantry. Shafts of moonlight penetrated through the broken roof, illuminating the hollow space below with shifting, silvered light. Now that she had learnt of the massacre that had taken place within these stone walls, Flora could see remnants of conflict all around. The gaps between the floor tiles were caked with coagulated maroon; there were claw-marks marring each thick stone pillar. The broken pews had been arranged in a makeshift barricade, which had only delayed the inevitable by mere seconds.

As though aware of her presence, the bells began to ring overhead; a hollow, funereal pealing. Although Flora had been bracing herself for their resonating clamour, the sheer volume still came as a shock. She grimaced, tilting her face upwards towards the rafters. The Mabari growled softly in the back of their throats, sensing the presence of another being.

"It's alright, I know who it is," Flora reassured them, her words drowned out by the metallic clanging. "Let's go upstairs."

She made her way across the bloodied tiles, avoiding the tangled debris and scattered possessions. The small flame in Andraste's brazier still burned away defiantly; assiduously maintained by Lothering's sole survivor.

The moment that the queen put her foot on the wooden stair that led up into the roof, the ringing of the bells stopped. The stillness was now broken only by the creak of the steps, and by Flora's quiet puffing as she clambered up into the Chantry loft. The Mabari followed close on her heels, every muscle in their finely-honed bodies taut and coiled ready to spring.

"Revered Mother?"

Flora looked around the loft, which appeared much the same as it had done that afternoon. The mouldering bedroll still lay in one corner, surrounded by tattered books and a meagre collection of possessions; the bell ropes swung gently in the draught from the broken window. Yet there was no elderly priestess silhouetted against the moonlit backdrop, the loft appeared devoid of human life.

Then the bay Mabari let out a low growl of warning, turning on the spot with its hackles rising. The priestess was behind them, close enough that Flora could see the whites of her staring eyes; one clouded by the cataract.

" _No peace for the murdered dead,"_ the Revered Mother whispered, looking straight through the startled queen. _"No restful sleep for those who were forgotten. Their souls cling to this building like flies on rotten flesh."_

Flora took a deep, steadying breath, thinking _I'm not afraid of death, I've fought it for years._

 _I was a spirit healer; I defied death with each breath I took._

"I'm Flora," she said, forsaking any title, and returning to the simple and lowly girl she had been when they had first arrived within Lothering, nine months prior. "I just wanted to say… thank you for the candlesticks."

This was such a strange comment that the old priestess closed her mouth; biting off the next maddened diatribe before it could emerge. She eyed Flora through her good eye, skeins of greying hair hanging loose beneath a hat that sat slumped and mildewed atop her skull.

"The… candlesticks?"

Her voice broke slightly, and there was the faintest tinge of sanity embedded within the query. Flora seized upon this thread of clarity and pulled gently on it; silently berating herself for being too emotional to do so that afternoon.

"Yes," she replied, patiently. "I was a member of the Wardens. I came here with my brother-warden Alistair after Ostagar. You gave us a pair of silver candlesticks, and we bought two packhorses and enough supplies to reach Redcliffe."

Flora's voice sounded odd, echoing within the Chantry that had become an inadvertent tomb for many of its worshippers. Her words were met with a heavy silence: a rich, intangible void that seemed to contain more pricked ears than simply those belonging to the Chantry priestess. Flora wondered how many unmourned spirits were clinging to the blood-stained walls, embedding ethereal fingers into the cracks and hanging from the ceiling like spiders; dusting themselves off and focusing their attention on the waking world.

The priestess said nothing, but continued to stare at her with a vaguely malevolent suspicion. Flora felt comforted by the presence of the Mabari, but soon realised that she was not scared of this sad old woman, who had lived nine months with only the dead for company.

"And once we got to Redcliffe, Bann Teagan Guerrin aided us," she continued, recalling the snow-covered stone edifice of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. "And we built our cause until we had three armies and the support of the Landsmeet. We defended Denerim from the Darkspawn, and we defeated the Archdemon. But it all started from two candlesticks. _Thank you."_

Flora took another gulp of stagnant air, feeling a squirm from within her stomach. Ignoring the baby, she fixed her pale, entreating gaze on the woman's sunken-cheeked face; hoping that her words still sounded steady and assured.

"The bells of Lothering never left me," she breathed, wide-eyed and earnest. "I could hear them ringing in my head when I slew the Archdemon. I lit candles for the people who died here. I promise, I _never_ forgot."

The priestess made a small, choked sound; lifting her once-wise, bloodshot eyes towards the bell-tower that rose in skeletal framework overhead.

One of the plump little creatures within Flora's stomach gave another vigorous squirm, waking up it's sibling once again. Both infants pressed down on their mother's bladder and Flora pulled an involuntary face.

 _This is a dramatic moment,_ she thought, sulkily. _I can't go and find a bush right in the middle of it._

 _I don't even think there are any bushes left within Lothering._

She pressed a hand to her stomach, hoping to coax the baby into a more comfortable position. The priestess followed the motion of her hand; her eyes widening imperceptibly.

"You're… you're with child?"

It was the first vaguely sane question that the Revered Mother had asked. Flora nodded solemnly, a small flicker of hope flaring within her. Instead of giving a verbal response, she lifted the hem of her woollen jumper to show the swell of her stomach against the linen nightshirt. As if on cue, a faint ripple of movement passed beneath the material; evident of burgeoning life.

"You look nearly full-term," the priestess observed at last, her eyes focused on the size of Flora's belly. "When… when is it due?"

"Not until Harvestmere," Flora replied, gloomily. "Everyone keeps telling me how _big_ I am. I'm going to end up birthing a _donkey."_

One of the Mabari pressed a cold nose against her fingers reassuringly, and Flora scratched the top of its velvety head. For several minutes, they stood in silence – the pyjama-clad queen, the sad, half-mad priestess and the eternally vigilant Theirin hounds – within the funereal silence of the abandoned Chantry; the resting place for so many of Lothering's most vulnerable citizens. Unmourned and unburied, all that remained of them were the few faded stains smeared across the tiles, and a plethora of broken belongings.

"Come with us," Flora whispered, feeling a whisper of cool breath across the back of her neck. "We're travelling to Eldham village tomorrow, and then to Pendle. There must be someone there who knows you."

A flicker of recognition passed across the Revered Mother's face. As the priestess of the largest Chantry in the area, she had often travelled between the smaller villages on church business.

" _But the unmarked dead,"_ Mother Dorothea croaked after a moment, her eyes hollow with regret and a vein of mania shot through her words. _"The unmarked dead._ They crowd within these walls; trapped! Trapped, trapped, trapped…"

"I've got an idea," said Flora, and then impulsively reached out her hand, compassion rising to the fore. "Come with me?"

The air high above Lothering was clear and crisp, a deep night sky remained unclouded. A myriad of stars wreathed a moon that hung like the Maker's own lantern; bathing the village in a metallic lustre. Below this heavenly array, the Revered Mother stood on the dirt-packed ground before the Chantry, her slight, sunken frame wrapped in a stained blanket. As the elderly woman gazed up at the jagged gaps in the walls where stained glass windows had once proudly stood; she fancied that she saw the faces of the Darkspawn's victims, crowded together within the tomb-like walls.

Within the Chantry itself, Flora was gingerly picking her way around the tangled debris, avoiding the broken remains of pews and trying not to look at the maroon stains caked between the tiles. Cradled in the crook of her arm were a half-dozen waxed leather pouches, each one stopped with a plug and making a liquidous sound with each step.

Letting one empty oil-pouch drop to the tiles, Flora awkwardly retrieved another one and pulled the stopper out with her teeth, grimacing as the fragranced oil leaked across her tongue. Tipping the pouch upside-down, she shuffled backwards down the aisle, pouring a trail of liquid in her wake. The elderly priestess had shown her where the oil reserves used to fuel Andraste's flame were kept; Flora had taken every pouch and was in the process of thoroughly dousing the lower floor.

"Oops," she mumbled, as one pouch slithered free and dropped to the tiles. "Oh, dear."

The bay Mabari hound retrieved it carefully within delicately-clamped jaws; lifting the flask back up to the queen's stretching fingers.

"Thank you. Yes, I'm _being_ careful," she added, noticing the Mabari hound's reproachful look. "Don't scowl at me, you'll get wrinkles _."_

Ten minutes later, and Flora had spilled the contents of the final flask across the tiles near the cracked stone altar. Taking a deep breath – for a moment, she was convinced that there was someone standing behind her – she climbed the low steps leading to the small brazier housing Andraste's flame.

Sending up a quick, apologetic prayer – there was no way for her to do this in a graceful or respectful manner – Flora placed both hands on the brazier and gave it a little shove. The bronze tripod toppled, the burning oil spilling across the stone platform. Moments later, the flame caught the base of the wooden lectern.

As the first tendrils of smoke began to wend their way upwards, Flora made a hasty retreat down the central aisle; nudged onwards by the increasingly agitated Mabari hounds. Even before she had reached the broken doors at the entrance, she heard the distinctive hiss of oil catching alight; the smell of smoke mingling with heated incense. The flame spread to a toppled bench, the wood crackling as it splintered in the heat.

Pushing at the rotted door, Flora emerged out into the crisp, star-studded night. To her relief, the priestess was still standing there huddled in her blanket, barefoot on the dusty earth.

"Is it done?" the Revered Mother asked, tremulously.

Flora nodded, then felt one of the Mabari hounds tugging insistently at the hem of her jumper with its teeth.

"Let's move back," she whispered, glancing at the tendrils of smoke creeping out from beneath the door. "I think it's going to go up quickly."

Together, queen, priestess and Mabari retreated, past the remnants of the Chanter's board and the broken tangle of market stalls. By the time that they turned to face the Chantry once again, the hollow windows were filled with an orange glow, slender wisps of smoke emerging from the bell-tower. The fire had taken hold within the building now; chewing through wood and splitting apart tile, igniting Flora's haphazard trails of oil.

 _It's a pyre, of sorts,_ Flora thought to herself as she watched the flames crawling up the outside of the building. It was so hot that she could feel the heat prickling against her skin even from a distance; the smoke acrid in her nostrils.

 _If there were any ghosts trapped within the walls where they died, I hope that this frees them._

 _I remember watching Cailan's ashes spiralling towards the heavens when we burnt him at Ostagar._

Before long, the bell-tower was ablaze, a great flaming column that extended like a pointing finger towards the heavens. The bells of Lothering - which had haunted Flora since first hearing them in the depths of a nightmare – were finally silenced by the crackle and hiss of purifying flame.

 _I'm sorry that nobody came to help you,_ she thought, feeling tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. _And I'm sorry for the way that you died. I hope you've found peace._

 _I'll keep lighting a candle for poor, lost Lothering, for the rest of my life._

Beside her, the priestess dropped to her knees in silent prayer. Flora was so absorbed in staring at the burning Chantry that she did not hear the Mabari hounds give a soft whine of welcome.

A strong arm suddenly encompassed her from behind, and she heard her husband let out a shaky, wordless sigh of relief. Flora swivelled as much as she could within Alistair's grip, seeing the rest of the company gathered beside the remains of the broken bridge. Their expressions ranged from relief to reprimand; although all eyes soon focused on the spectacle of the burning Chantry. There was something oddly spiritual about the building's cremation; the site of the slaughter purged by flame and perfumed smoke.

Alistair, his heart still racing from the trauma of finding the bedroll empty and his fat-bellied wife vanished into the night, prepared to launch into a stream of reproach. Moments later, gazing at Flora's tear-stained face, he changed his mind; putting aside his own fear-fuelled admonition in favour of offering comfort. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he reached down to wipe a smudge of ash from her cheek.

"Are you alright, my love?" he murmured, and there was such tender concern in his voice that Flora felt a second surge of emotion. She did not reply but reached out needful arms, and Alistair drew her into a tight, affectionate embrace. Pressing his face against the top of her head, he inhaled the scent of smoke and smouldering perfume from her tangled hair.

Together, the company stood and watched the site of Lothering's massacre burn to the ground; a beacon of flame visible for miles in the surrounding bannorn. Teagan – aware that the village's fate could so easily have befallen Redcliffe if the horde had travelled in a slightly different direction – murmured a quiet prayer of remembrance beneath his breath. Wynne, overhearing and recognising the familiar words, added her own voice midway through.

Zevran kept one eye on the flames and the other eye on the trembling priestess, who was still prostrate on the ground with her hat nearly slipping from her head. Still not prepared to take any chances, his fingers crept compulsively over the hilt of his blade.

The king of Ferelden's heart was still racing at rapid pace within his ribcage; his mind unhelpfully barraging him with inferences about what his heavily pregnant wife had been doing for the past two hours.

 _Wandering down a trail alone at night._

 _Entering Lothering's half-ruined Chantry to speak with a woman driven mad by grief and horror._

 _Burning down a building!_

Biting back a subsequent groan, Alistair drew Flora's warm, sturdy frame closer to his chest; ducking his head to rest his chin atop her smoke-infused hair.

"Darling," he whispered somewhere east of her ear, fingers dropping to caress the swell of her stomach. "My heart, I think there's a small part of you that still believes you're invincible."

A guilty Flora flinched; his words striking a familiar chord.

"I took the dogs," she whispered, knowing that this was no substitute for her husband's company.

"Take _me_ next time," Alistair countered, a none-too-subtle plea within the request. " _Please,_ sweetheart. I swore an oath before all Thedas to protect you, and I swore another to Pel – your dad. If you'd been hurt – _or worse_ – I don't know what I would have done."

"I'm sorry," Flora said, and she was. "I just… I didn't want to disturb your sleep."

He shot her a stern glance, even as one hand dropped to caress her stomach.

"My love, we're going to have _a lot_ of interrupted sleep in the immediate future. Might as well get into the habit now!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooooh this is a long chapter but I wanted it to be all in one, especially for the 100th chapter. Lothering has always been a recurrent theme in my story – Flora sees it as the embodiment of all the damage wrought on Ferelden by the Darkspawn – and so I wanted to give it a good send-off, as it were. Plus I like visual things, and the mental image of the Chantry burning to the ground was pleasing to me (in a non-arsonist sort of way, lol). It was meant to be a bit like a pyre, considering so many of the villagers died within the church itself.

Poor Alistair, though! I think he's got a point when he says that Flora acts like she's still got her shield and healing ability. He's right – logically, Flora knows that she's weak and vulnerable now, but her instincts were honed by a lifetime of assistance from her spirits.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	101. Lake Grab-A-Bag

Chapter 101: Lake Grab-A-Bag

Nobody was sorry to leave Lothering in their wake the next day. With soil samples tucked into leather packs and sketches of the ruins made by Zevran's skilled hand, they packed up camp and set their horses westwards. Originally, Teagan had thought about suggesting a detour to Redcliffe, which lay at Lake Calenhad's southernmost tip. It would add a week onto their journey, but would allow the bann to carry out some administrative business on behalf of his brother.

However, after a muted conversation with Wynne that morning, Teagan changed his mind. The senior enchanter had raised the possibility that Flora was expecting twins; a suspicion that she had harboured for some time, based on the size of the queen's belly. Twins often arrived several weeks earlier than their single counterparts, which – with their current plans – would risk their queen going into labour on the road. Teagan had immediately taken out the map and spent nearly an hour pouring over Ferelden's roadways, working out how they could shorten their journey at each proposed leg of the route.

The priestess' mental state had improved rapidly with the increasing miles between the company and the doomed town. Ser Gilmore had manfully offered to take her on the back of his horse; she had said very little, but had murmured a quiet thank you when offered an apple for breakfast. There was still something not quite balanced within the staring depths of her eyes, but at least she was no longer bewailing the slaughter of Lothering's residents in lurid, gory detail.

They passed through a small deciduous wood, following one of the many tributary rivers that meandered towards Ferelden's largest inland body of water. A little village – which had chosen to pray for salvation rather than flee in the face of the horde – lay tucked into a bend in the river. At first they mistook Alistair for Cailan, and then it came out that they hadn't even heard that the Blight was over. The company reacted with quiet incredulity, save for Flora. If the men of Herring had not been summoned to fight for Highever during the final battle against the Darkspawn, it was highly likely that they would have paid little attention to the rumours of Blight.

The priestess turned out to have family residing within the village – a middle-aged niece, who had a henpecked husband and a no-nonsense attitude. The niece readily agreed to take her aunt in; delighted that the elderly woman had survived Lothering's destruction.

The company continued westwards, taking advantage of the summer sunset to ride late into the evening. They made camp on the shore of the smaller lake that fed into Calenhad's south-eastern tip; which marked the beginning of Guerrin territory. Teagan took his bow into these more familiar woods and replenished their meat stocks over the course of several hours.

Flora had not passed a very pleasant few days on the road. She spent much of it with the heads of her babies pressed against her bladder; which was both uncomfortable and extremely inconvenient on a long journey. At one point, the company had stopped six times in an hour to allow the queen to vanish behind a bush. In addition to being saddle-sore, her entire aching body felt raw and wrung out with fatigue. That morning, she had been violently sick for the first time in a month.

Tears of weariness and frustration emerged mid-afternoon on the third day of their travels, just as they came to a halt in a shady clearing. Alistair was consumed with guilt at being the cause of his wife's discomfort – after all, they were only on progress because he was _king._ For several moments, he seriously considered calling off the entire journey and returning to Denerim as swiftly as possible.

Wynne made Flora some of the tea prepared by the midwife and Zevran had made her laugh with his impression of Arlessa Isolde – which even Teagan had smiled at. The Mabari had been hovering anxiously about her for hours, sensing her despondency.

Sitting on the damp grass, aware of the raw culpability scrawled across Alistair's face, Flora took a deep breath. She made herself smile up at Zevran, reached out to pat the Mabari; took sips of Wynne's herbal concoction. By the time that she had finished her tea, she had calmed down enough to assuage some of Alistair's concerns. To the king's immense relief, Ser Gilmore came up with a slight alteration to their route that would allow them to pass the night in a tavern as opposed to a tent.

The company proceeded to follow a long, gently sloping trail that climbed towards the apex of a grassy ridge. The sun was just lowering itself towards the distant Frostbacks; flooding the sky with a painter's palette of mauve, apricot, and streaks of lurid pink. The first faint flecks of stars were just about visible within the ambrosial cloud, like distant chips of glass.

Zevran, who had urged his horse onwards, reached the top of the ridge first. The elf was rewarded with a view of Lake Calenhad, spreading out before him like a great inland sea. Deeper than anyone had ever been able to measure, it stretched from Redcliffe in the south to the Circle in the north; it took three days for a fast rider to travel from end to end.

The others soon joined him atop the grassy ridge, their imaginations equally captured by the sheer scale of the vast lake. Teagan pointed out the distant shadow of Redcliffe, a day's ride to the south. Above the town rose the rocky promontory upon which Redcliffe Castle stood vigil.

"You know the old story about Lake Calenhad, don't you?" Wynne murmured, her pale blue eyes meandering across the water's still surface.

"The one about the mages turning cups of lake water into a suit of invincible armour for Calenhad?" Alistair replied, distracted by the waking Flora shifting against his chest. "I remember Eamon told me that one when I was a boy."

"No, the even _older_ story. The Avvar legend," corrected Wynne, a faint smile writ across her face. "I'll tell you once we reach the tavern."

Flora opened her eyes, reaching up to rub grubby fingers over her face.

"Where are – oh!"

She sat upright as best she could, her pale irises sweeping across the vast, unruffled surface of the lake. She spared Redcliffe Castle a brief glance, more focused on the little fishing village sprawled at the base of the muddy red cliffs.

"Oh!" she repeated, wonderingly. "We're at Lake Calenhad."

"Actually, _mi sirenita,"_ piped up Zevran from an adjacent horse, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. "This is Lake _Grab-a-bag,_ an adjacent body of water slightly to the west of Lake Calenhad. Home to many robber-barons and thief-guilds."

Flora's jaw dropped and she clutched her pack a little tighter to her chest.

"Oh! Grab-a-bag? _Robber-barons?"_

" _Sí, carina._ Look, there is the keep of the notorious scoundrel, Ser Rob-a-lot! He once stole forty three goats from his neighbour."

The elf extended a slender, tattooed finger towards Redcliffe Castle; perched like a watchful Mabari atop its jutting cliff. Flora gaped up at it gormlessly, while Wynne sighed under her breath and Teagan wondered whether or not to gently intervene.

"Huh! It looks just like Redcliffe Castle!

"An _astonishing_ coincidence, _nena."_

Alistair, who had been fiddling with the compass, looked up as Flora nudged him in the ribs.

"Are you feeling better, my love?"

"You need to arrest the owner of that castle," his wife instructed him, wide-eyed and outraged as she jabbed a finger up at Redcliffe's imposing grey façade. "Immediately!"

" _Whaa-,"_ said Alistair, confused. "Why, what's he done?"

"He's a _robber! A robber-baron._ He stole forty seven goats!"

" _Eamon?!"_

By this point, Zevran was nearly falling off his saddle, unable to suppress a surge of giggles. Alistair's gaze swung suspiciously over to the elf and his nostrils flared with indignation.

"What have you been telling Flo, you damned Antivan?"

Zevran was chortling so hard that he could not reply, so Wynne stepped in with a faintly reproving, yet semi-amused explanation. As Alistair listened, his jaw dropped and his arms tightened protectively around a thoroughly confused Flora.

"You've been making fun of my wife!" he retorted, indignant. "The mother of my child!"

"Only teasing," crooned Zevran, as a wholly unbothered Flora yawned and rubbed at her eyes. "You know I would never make fun of _mi límonita._ I _adore_ her."

With athletic grace, he wound the reins around one wrist and leaned across the gap between their saddles, kissing Flora on the cheek as she blinked bemusedly at him.

"Baby brain," murmured the senior enchanter to Teagan, who let out a soft grunt. "When I was expecting my own child, I would forget what floor my quarters were on."

Immediately, Flora's head swung sideways, her ears pricking hopefully. Whenever Wynne made a rare mention of her own experience bearing a child, Flora inevitably sat up and took great notice; desperate to ask questions and seek advice. Yet the senior enchanter – who was still reluctant to share this part of her life – did as she always did after dropping a tantalising hint; spur her horse onwards, outriding the curious stares and Flora's hopeful face.

Alistair felt Flora slump in disappointment against him, weary, aching and vaguely nauseous. He tightened his grip around his wife and kissed the top of her head, pondering inwardly while simultaneously ignoring the serene splendour of Calenhad spread out before him.

These waning days of Solace brought a cool gilded light to their sunsets; a watery gold stippling left in the wake of the sun's descent, muting the usual palette of ochre, crimson and umber. The warmest month of the year was almost over, August in Ferelden tended to bring a gradual decline in temperature as the autumn approached. Thedas' southernmost province did not enjoy the extended summers of the west; Kingsway arrived with a harsh, unforgiving blast of chilly air and a wash of seasonal drizzle. The muted sunset was mirrored across the lake's unruffled surface; marred only by the occasional small island. The main road to the Circle tower followed the contour of the lake, rising and falling with the lay of the land.

Nestled within a small inlet was a compact, two-storey tavern named the _Sword and Scroll_ after its position halfway between the Circle and battle-seasoned Redcliffe. It had survived the Blight relatively unscathed, although a lack of travellers and merchants on the roads had cut down on its annual profits. The whole dwelling had an air of gentle neglect about it; several terracotta tiles were missing from its roof, the sign hanging above the door needed re-painting, and one broken window had been hastily boarded up rather than replaced.

Despite this vague dilapidation, it had four solid walls and a reasonably intact roof. More importantly, the smell of cooking meat-pies and roasted game was emanating from a wide-breasted chimney climbing the side of the building.

A red-faced boy with a pock-marked face emerged from the stables as they approached, shortly followed by a cackling girl with straw falling from her blouse.

"Our prices have gone up by a crown, on account o'the Blight," the youth relayed in bored tones, then caught sight of the Theirin and Cousland livery sported by the guards. His eyes swung straight towards Alistair, whose presence was commanding enough even without the band of authority; then dropped to Flora's distinctive, dark red cloud of hair.

" _Bess!"_ he hissed in a sudden surge of panic, flailing on the spot like a fish dropped from a bucket. "Bess, get in and tell my dad that we've got guests."

"We always got guests," retorted the obstinate Bess, who was not the brightest.

" _Important_ guests," snarled the tavern owner's son, frantically flattening his hair down. "Just go!"

Bess sauntered indolently towards the door, tossing her dark curls and winking at Ser Gilmore.

"The Blight is over," Alistair informed the youth sternly as he dismounted, reaching up immediately to lift Flora down in his wake. "There's no need to inflate prices, especially this far west."

" _Y-y-y-yes, your majesty!"_ bleated the youth, scrambling to take the reins. "Of course!"

As the men disappeared into the stables – Alistair and Teagan always checked over their own horses after a long day's ride – Flora shifted from foot to foot and yawned, rubbing a hand over her face. There was a squirming from within her stomach, a wriggling that jostled her organs with unforgiving vigour.

"Please calm yourself," she entreated the little creature – and, unknowingly, it's sibling. "It's the evening. Time to settle down. Have a nap."

Wynne, who was sorting through her pack in search of her journal, glanced sideways towards the plump-bellied queen and something unreadable passed over her face.

"Wynne," Flora spoke up tentatively, after a moment. "When you were with child, did you get gut ache all the time? And heart-burn?"

"I don't remember," the senior enchanter replied, briskly. "Now, shall we work on your literacy while we wait? Come on, quick – how do you spell _Pentaghast?"_

"P, A, N,-" replied a glum Flora, searching her memory for the elusive letters. "P-A-N-T-Y-"

"T-A-G-H-A-S-T," supplied a sympathetic Teagan as he emerged from the stables. "Hasn't the poor girl been tormented enough today, senior enchanter, without spelling tests too?"

The interior of the tavern was rustic and typically Ferelden; the stone walls covered with bits of rusting horse-tack, battered shields and the occasional stuffed hunter's trophy. The tables were covered in ring-marks but otherwise mostly clean, and a hearty fire roared away within a solid, squat hearth. A faded enamel portrait of Maric hung above the bar, which explained how the youth had identified Alistair so quickly.

The tavern owner greeted them with trembling, effusive formality; his entire family lined up alongside him. Teagan stepped forward, politely thanking the man in advance for his hospitality before requesting that they be treated like any other guest – albeit ones paying a fair price, and not an inflated one.

After their packs had been stored on the upper gallery, the company gathered around several round, ale- stained tables. A few other patrons sat huddled in corner booths; eyeing the royal party with surreptitious fascination. Overhead, a candelabra constructed from woven antlers cast a buttery, inconstant light across the flagstones.

The tavern owner had emptied his pantry for the royal company, deploying each member of his family to rustle up the best Fereldan cuisine they could manage. Soon, the tables were straining beneath the weight of bowls and platters. A rich meat broth bubbled away within a small cauldron, great hunks of bread were piled up beside pots of herbed butter. Slices of apples steeped in port-wine were laid out to satisfy the sweet-toothed. A stew of root vegetables had been prepared for especially for the queen.

Flora had perked up immensely at the sight of the food, sitting on the chair at Alistair's right and devouring her way through half of the pot in what seemed like minutes.

"Eating for two!" she justified cheerfully as Zevran giggled and made a comment.

Wynne, overhearing, raised a finely plucked silvery eyebrow.

" _At least_ two," she murmured, quiet enough that most did not hear her.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooohhh this was a fun chapter to write! I wanted a nice light and humorous chapter after the Lothering doom and gloom. I don't know why I'm making people be so mean to Flora when she's tired and miserable, lol. She's not the brightest intellectual in Thedas at the best of times, so baby brain just makes her that bit more susceptible to things like Zevran's 'Grab-a-bag', hahaha.

So we're nearly back at the Circle! Hopefully with less demons and abominations this time XD

Sorry for missing an update last night – we had organised a Holocaust speaker to come and do a public talk against hate crime, so that lasted really late with all the dignitaries and important people hanging around for about six years afterwards. And afterwards when we finally got to leave, I accidentally dropped a box of 350 rubber wristbands saying NO HATE on the pavement and that took another six years to pick up.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	102. An Evening in the Sword and Scroll

Chapter 102: An Evening in the Sword and Scroll

Ser Gilmore, who was seated at the table nearby, caught the gist of the senior enchanter's whispered suggestion. He dropped his spoon into his meat broth, splattering the rich liquid down the front of his Highever-navy tunic.

Soon Flora felt the tell-tale pressure against her bladder once again; gritting her teeth as her biological needs interrupted her eating. As the tavern-keeper's wife showed her where the privy lay, Alistair shot a pointed stare towards one of the guards. In truth the man did not require any instruction; as soon as the queen had heaved herself to her feet, he had risen to follow quietly in her wake. Alistair watched the guard follow at a discreet distance, his head swivelling like an owl.

Once they had disappeared down a side-corridor, the king returned his attention to the table. The others were all preoccupied, either with their food or light-hearted conversation. Zevran was ignoring the winks and pouts of the girl with curly dark hair; she was pretty, but too young for him. The elf, conscious of his own less than salubrious upbringing, had never laid a finger on anyone less than ten-and-eight years.

Teagan and Ser Gilmore were engaged in a game of dice, gambling with the lower stakes of second sons. Teagan was winning, until a lucky toss from the knight had him reclaim the entire pile of silver coins.

Taking advantage of the others' distraction, the king swiftly shuffled his chair across the floorboards until it rested alongside Wynne's. The senior enchanter put down her cup of wine measuredly; her suspicions growing when Alistair turned his most entreating expression on her.

"Why are you gazing at me like a Mabari pup, _your majesty_?" she enquired, sternly.

"I want to ask you a favour!"

"Well, I'm offended that you think myself so susceptible to the charms of a handsome face. You usually save those melting eyes for your wife."

"Well… is it working?" he asked, hopefully.

"Somewhat," Wynne relented a fraction, shaking her head with a slight laugh. "What do you want, Alistair?"

Alistair beamed, then lowered his voice and drew his chair closer. His hazel eyes caught hers, the green flecks standing out like shards of sea-glass. The superficial charm was gone, replaced by earnest purpose.

"I know you don't like to talk about your… your child," he said, apologetically. "And I'm sorry to bring it up. But I think Flo needs to talk to someone about… about what it's like, to bear a child. She has questions that I can't answer, and she worries about things that I don't have the slightest clue about."

Wynne folded her lips together, a shadow darkening her lovely, porcelain-blue eyes. Alistair pressed on, determinedly.

"She's had such a hard time so far with this baby. She's not enjoyed any of it, I don't think. I just want to try and make it easier for her."

The senior enchanter was silent for several long moments, sipping at her wine-cup before speaking.

"Time is a strange thing," she said, very quietly. "I gave birth to my own child nearly three decades ago, and yet the wound in my heart still feels raw. Shouldn't it have healed, at least a little, over the years?"

"I… well. I've known Flo for less than a year, but it feels like we've been together for an Age," Alistair replied, instinctively glancing down at the woven gold band around his ring finger. "So I suppose it can work the other way round, too. A long time ago could feel like yesterday."

"My son's name was… _is_ Rhys."

Wynne's lips had some difficulty forming the word, as though she had not uttered it out loud for many years.

"Rhys," Alistair repeated, swiftly hiding his surprise that the son was referred to in the _present tense._ "That's a good Fereldan name."

Wynne was then quiet for several minutes, gazing down into her wine-cup as though the crimson liquid might hold the answer to some unspoken question.

Finally, she inclined her head and Alistair felt a great rush of relief.

"Of course I can speak to Florence about the bearing and birth of a child, Alistair. It's a perfectly reasonable request, and the poor girl has had to cope with much of it on her own. I'll have a word with her tomorrow."

Alistair beamed, and in defiance of the three days of stubble writ across his face, suddenly appeared younger than his one-and-twenty decades. He made as though to embrace the senior enchanter, and then changed his mind, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.

Soon after, Flora emerged from the side-corridor, wiping her hands absentmindedly on a square of linen. Alistair hastily shuffled back to his original position, rising to his feet to pull out her chair. She smiled up at him anxiously with smudges of tiredness beneath her eyes; letting him grip her fingers and bring them to his lips.

"I don't know why I keep getting indigestion so much. I don't know if it's… _normal_ or not."

"The baby's body- " Wynne just about restrained herself from using the plural – "is crowding up against your stomach. The same happened to me, child."

Flora gazed at the senior enchanter with such transparent gratitude that Wynne felt a sharp prod of guilt at not sharing her experiences earlier.

As they were finishing their wine-cups, Teagan made a lucky throw that won him the entire game. Letting out a triumphant bark, he raised his arm to summon the serving-maid, declaring that he would purchase every patron in the tavern a fresh round. The serving-maid duly went behind the bar to refill tankards, darting glances at Teagan from the corner of her eye.

Once every cup, glass and stein had been filled to the brim, the serving-maid made a circuit around the tavern; distributing each drink to its grateful owner. Pausing before the king's table, she lowered the tray and then glanced between king, queen and bann.

"I – I don't know if you remember me," she began, hesitantly. "My name is Kaitlyn. I used to live in Redcliffe."

All three immediately gazed up at the woman, who went slightly pink beneath their scrutiny. She appeared only in her late twenties, though the fine lines ingrained on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes suggested a life hard-lived. Roughly-shorn ash blonde hair hung above her shoulders; the ends uneven and in need of attention.

Flora, who had spent only a week within the town in total, did not recognise the careworn young woman. Alistair gazed long and hard at her face, but he had spent most of his time at Redcliffe within the castle rather than down amidst the villagers. Teagan, however, let out a sudden grunt of acknowledgement.

"Beron's daughter," he said, nodding. "The axe-smith. Didn't he have a son too?"

Immediately, the bann cursed his own blunt question – considering the troubles that Redcliffe had been through recently, enquiring about family members was reckless.

Fortunately, Kaitlyn's face lightened, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards in a weary smile.

"Aye, Bevin. He's the reason we're both here, actually. He loves making maps – was drawing his own the moment he could hold a pencil – and Arl Eamon once told my dad about a cartographer who takes apprentices. Lives up in Denerim. So – now the Blight's over and it's safe to travel – we're heading towards the city, one tavern at a time."

Kaitlyn lowered her voice, glancing over her shoulder to ensure that her current employers couldn't overhear her.

"I work for a few weeks, just enough to save up enough coin to travel to the next town. I'm hoping we'll reach Denerim by the time the autumn frost comes."

Flora didn't know what cartography was, but she admired the woman's determination to realise her younger sibling's dream. She smiled up at the serving-maid, wondering what her own brothers were doing at that moment.

"The roads are in reasonable condition," Alistair offered with a nod. "The West Road is intact, it's not been damaged by the Darkspawn. You can restock supplies in South Reach, there's a small outpost set up at the base of the cliff there."

"Thank you, your majesty," Kaitlyn replied, bowing her own ash-blond head. "All knowledge is worth having."

She made as though to leave, and then paused once again; curious eyes sweeping from Alistair to Flora.

"Forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn," the woman said, quietly. "I remember you two when you came to Redcliffe as Wardens. You saved the village from the undead pouring forth from the castle. You know they've built a statue in your honour?"

Flora and Alistair glanced sideways at each other, before turning identical startled expressions on the serving-maid.

"A _statue?_ Embarrassing! _"_

"What of?"

Kaitlyn blushed at their attention, clearing her throat.

"A large _creature_ – like the one the Wardens wear on their armour – crushing the enemies of Ferelden underfoot."

Alistair let out a low, amused chuckle, taking a long swig of his ale.

"Perfect. I couldn't think of anything more fitting."

Kaitlyn lifted the empty tray and made as though to leave, glancing over her shoulder to where the tavern-owner was gesticulating behind the bar. Instead of answering his summons, she lingered at the table; another question itching on the tip of her tongue.

"I've heard that you're not Wardens anymore," she said, hesitantly. "That the Maker removed that burden from you as a reward. And the Chantry says that you… you aren't a mage any more, your majesty. Another miracle from the Maker!"

Just like everyone else who had heard the story about how the young Cousland girl had dealt the final blow to the Archdemon; Kaitlyn's eyes slid down to Flora's hands, one resting on her stomach and the other curled around a pewter cup of pear-juice. The white sunburst marks were starkly visible against her creamy complexion; each one extending crooked arcs up to the base of her fingers and down onto her wrists. Similar marks were burnt into her palms, as though the front and back of her hands had been branded with silver flame.

Flora was still not entirely used to having _scars,_ even less for them to be the objects of scrutiny. Although she was accustomed to being stared at – for her looks, for her magic, or for her status – this was a new type of attention; one which she did not quite know how to feel about yet. As she felt the heat of the serving-maid's stare, Flora felt a twinge of self-consciousness deep within her gut. Not knowing why, she curled her fingers into her palms and tucked her hands beneath the table; hiding them from view.

The queen's discomfort over the Archdemon's branding – similar marks were on her hip, thigh, back and shoulder – was blatantly clear. As Kaitlyn returned to the bar, Alistair reached out to retrieve his best friend's hands, his teeth gritted. Lifting them from Flora's lap, he pressed several tender kisses to her fingers. His gaze wandered over the finely-hewn contours of her face; the full, rosy mouth and the limpid grey eyes, solemn and soulful as a Mabari.

"Florence," he murmured, intimate as though they were alone in the room. "Every part of you is _exquisite."_

Flora, slightly mesmerised by his unusual use of her full name, stared at him; pupils expanding to take up the majority of her soft grey irises. He continued to gaze at her, the centres of his own hazel eyes contracting into tiny black dots of focus. As though in a dream, Alistair reached up to touch a strand of thick, oxblood hair as it hung beside her finely hewn cheek. Flora inhaled unsteadily as the back of his calloused finger brushed against her skin, her lips trembling as they parted.

"The Maker broke the mould when He made you," the king continued, in a voice throaty and awed. "My beautiful wife."

The rest of the company sat in awkward silence on the other side of the table, as the newlyweds gazed fixedly at one another. Wynne leaned over, directing a whisper into Zevran's ear.

"It's a pity that dear Leliana isn't here. She laps this sort of thing up."

Zevran, who had preoccupied himself with sorting a pack of Wicked Grace cards into suits, let out an ambiguous grunt in response.

Abruptly and without warning, Alistair reached down and lifted his wife into his arms; his eyes not leaving her face. There was simply no time for him to offer any brief words of explanation to the rest of the company – before Wynne's eyebrows had met her hairline, he was striding off towards the stairs that led to the upper gallery. His boots echoed against the wooden steps as he ascended them with admirable haste considering his _not-inconsiderable_ burden; moments later, a bedchamber door slammed behind king and queen with a resonant thud.

"Well, the lad is remarkably strong," commented Teagan at last, to break the silence. "She's a hefty little creature with that belly on her."

Wynne retired to bed shortly afterwards – mostly to ensure that she could claim a room as far away from the currently-occupied one as possible. The other patrons of the tavern began to drift away, venturing out into a surprisingly cool Solace night. A quarter-moon was emerging from behind a sheer veil of silver cloud; a near-perfect replica of the sky cast across the still surface of Lake Calenhad below.

Within the _Sword and Scroll,_ the tavern owner went around to extinguish the candles, mindful of their costly wax. The lower floor was now lit solely by the great hearth, which cast a flickering, sunset-hued glow across the white plastered walls.

Leaning back against his chair, Teagan peered at the woman from Redcliffe with an appraising eye; sliding an extra silver coin across the table when she came to collect the empties. When Kaitlyn blushed and stammered her thanks, the bann bestowed upon her the smile that had won him a certain _reputation_ back in Ostwick.

Zevran, who had briefly ventured upstairs to retrieve some conditioning oil for his blade, slid back into the chair beside Teagan with a sigh.

"I think you're in luck with our serving-wench," he commented, lightly. "I'd close the deal sooner rather than later, or someone might poach your prize."

The bann snorted, draining his tankard and placing it on the table with a slightly unsteady hand.

"Are they _shtill-_ still at it?" he enquired, tilting his chin in the direction of the chambers that branched off the upper gallery. "Our enamoured young newlyweds."

The elf smiled, the firelight adding a warm lustre to his richly-hued skin. His teeth flashed bright in the gloom, one crooked incisor lending his grin a distinctly piratical air.

" _Ah, sí._ From what I heard through the door, they're _role-playing_ now," he murmured, with transparent delight _. "Ser-Grab-a-lot_ and his prey. Rather charmingly, our queen appears to have taken the role of _Ser-Grab-a-lot._ I don't know if that makes Alistair one of the forty seven goats?"

Teagan let out a deep belly-chuckle that echoed about the wooden rafters, eyeing the elf appreciatively.

"Ha!"

Some time later, up in the tavern's largest guest bedchamber, Flora and Alistair lay amidst tangled blankets. Both of them were perspiring and recovering their breath; her cheeks were bright pink and a vein pulsed insistently in his neck. Blindly, the king reached out a limp arm, a weary smile rising as he felt his plump-bellied queen roll against his side.

"Are you alright, sweetheart? That wasn't too… too much?"

"It's always _too much_ with you," Flora croaked, patting her fingers against his damp chest to hear the wet sound of their colliding skin. "But in the _best possible way."_

Alistair pressed a kiss to the top of her head, smiling to himself as he gazed up at the white-plastered ceiling. Even the tavern's 'grandest' room was not especially refined; exposed wooden beams ran across its length, and there was little in the way of décor. This suited the king more than well, since he shared his father's preference for simple, rustic interiors. The bed – always the most important part of the room – was comfortable enough, a rag-stuffed mattress overspilling with embroidered blankets.

"Are you looking forward to going back to the Circle, my love?" he asked eventually, stroking his thumb down the curve of her naked back. "We should be there by tomorrow evening."

"Eeh…"

Flora grimaced against the firm muscle of his chest, and the hesitation before her reply drew Alistair's attention.

"Darling?"

"I didn't enjoy my four years there," his former mage replied, in a small and thoughtful voice. "I missed Herring, and nobody liked me very much."

Sensing that Flora had not yet finished Alistair said nothing, but tightened his grip on her while gritting his teeth slightly.

"The instructors said that I was lazy," she offered by way of explanation, shrugging her shoulders. "Because I couldn't read or write, and I couldn't learn magic. And they'd never heard of someone who could only channel one type of energy. They thought I wasn't trying. The other students just thought I was useless."

Alistair pressed another, fiercer kiss to the top of her head, nuzzling his face into her mop of sweaty hair. His wife's body felt suddenly cold against him and he drew up the blankets over them, embracing her more tightly.

"They called you the _Vase,"_ he said, recalling the nickname she had once told him.

 _A lovely exterior; nothing of value inside._

Flora nodded, comforted by the strong, steady rhythm of her husband's heartbeat against her cheek. For a moment they lay in companionable silence, sweaty limbs entangled beneath the mess of woollen blankets. An owl gave a long, melancholy cry from outside, receiving an answering hoot shortly afterwards.

"Don't you want to go back there and… I don't know… _gloat_ a little?" Alistair offered eventually, while knowing perfectly well that his wife was not the type to do so. "You _did_ kill the Archdemon and end the Blight, after all. Your magic was instrumental to that. You're the Hero of Ferelden."

"My _spirits_ killed the Archdemon," Flora corrected, in a small voice. "And now I have no magic at all. They aren't going to think I'm any _more useful_ because of it, are they? Now I really am just _the vase."_

 _Having my spirits with me was what made the Circle tolerable. They kept me company for four years when everyone else thought I was ignorant, and ignored me. It's going to feel so strange to return there without them._

There was so much illogicality displayed within these few sentences that Alistair's jaw dropped, incredulous eyebrows rising. He tilted her chin up so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"There's no value that can be placed on you, my love," he breathed, pressing his lips to her forehead, her nose and her cheeks in rapid succession. "I don't care how much knowledge and learning they have, they're _fools_ if they don't see the worth in you. I think you're _priceless."_

Flora rolled over awkwardly onto her side - feeling a little like a beached whale - and propped herself on an elbow; gazing down at her husband as he sprawled on the mattress beside her. It had not escaped the queen that her husband had been over-effusive with his compliments ever since she had woken up _without_ her spirits. Alistair, aware that his wife's self-esteem and confidence had been built on the foundation of her magical abilities, made sure to liberally praise her at every possible opportunity.

 _You sing my magic-less worth to the skies,_ Flora thought to herself, with a sudden surge of affection. _You praise me far more now than when I had the power of two incalculably-strong spirits at my fingertips. My kind-hearted brother-warden… former._

"Your opinion matters more to me than the judgement of all the mages in Thedas," she breathed, tracing the curvature of his broad pectoral muscle with a finger. "I love you more deeper – _more deeply -_ than the ocean."

Alistair grinned up at his wife, reaching out to stroke a hand over the top of her head.

"My love," he murmured, stifling a yawn. "I couldn't even begin to _measure_ how I feel about you. There aren't numbers to quantify it."

Flora opened her mouth to respond, and then let out a startled squeak as something knocked into the wall behind the bed.

"Aah!"

" _Maker's Breath,"_ Alistair yelped, sitting up and twisting around in the blankets. "What was that?"

Within moments, the knocking started up again; the distinctive percussive thud of a headboard colliding rhythmically with the wall. Flakes of dislodged plaster drifted down from the ceiling like snow, landing on the blankets.

Flora and Alistair gazed at one another, wide-eyed. The king let out a slightly embarrassed bark of laughter, aware that they were usually the _cause_ of such noises, rather than the audience.

"Is that Zevran? Who do you reckon he's convinced to join him, one of the scouts?"

Flora shook her head, stifling a cackle behind her fingers.

"Zevran's room is across the hall, and the scouts are in the back passage," she replied, solemnly. "That's Bann Teagan's chamber."

Alistair's face contorted almost comically in dismay and he sunk down against the pillows, putting his fingers against his ears.

"Ah, _Maker's-_ that's my _uncle_! Or, as good as. I don't want to hear this!"

He hid his head beneath the blankets with a muffled groan. Flora eyed him, tempted to point out that Teagan had been forced to listen to _them_ through thin canvas wallsfor the past few weeks.

As though determined to escape the sound of his uncle and his mysterious partner, Alistair fell asleep soon afterwards. Flora, soothed by the reassuring rumble of his snores, followed rapidly in his wake.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol, Alistair calling Flora _Florence_ when he's being heartfelt is my new aesthetic! Speaking of eavesdropping through doors, can't you just imagine the guards posted outside their door making gagging noises as the star-crossed lovers tell each other how amazing they are? Hahaha, it's sweet, though.

Poor old Flora getting self-conscious about the marks left by the Archdemon on her body – she's not used to having scars or war-wounds, since her spirits used to automatically mend any marks and blemishes!

Replying to reviews in the reviews! Thank you!


	103. Peppermint Tea and Promises to Teagan

Chapter 103: Peppermint Tea and Promises to Teagan

The tavern gradually settled down for the night, cloaked in a translucent veil of shadow. Lake Calenhad stretched out like a vast, still mirror at the building's edge; a great inland sea that reached for almost sixty miles. Just about visible on a distant shore was the blazing pinnacle of the Circle Tower, a beacon that stood at the lake's northernmost tip.

On the upper gallery of the _Sword and Scroll_ , the Mabari hounds yawned as they lay outside the king and queen's guest-chamber; with one ear pricked even in sleep. In their own bedroom, the tavern-keeper and his wife conversed in soft, excitable tones, still in disbelief that the royal company had chosen _their_ establishment to stop at. If Alistair had not commented sternly about the artificial inflation of costs to their son earlier, the couple would have doubled their prices.

As the night reached its apex, a single figure sat alone at a table downstairs, nursing a tankard of ale while gazing mindlessly into thin air. His shirt was only half-buttoned and stubble lined his face; he had the look of a man come newly from amorous congress.

Teagan finished the ale with a long gulp, wiping stray flecks of foam from his auburn goatee. A flicker of movement caught his eye and one hand went reflexively to the dagger he kept at his belt. No true Fereldan noble was ever caught entirely defenceless, even fresh from the bedchamber.

As his vision clarified around the movement, he inhaled and removed his hand swiftly; rising to his feet from the chair.

"Please don't stab me," said Flora amiably, descending the last step from the upper gallery. One of the Mabari padded silently in her wake, yawning and snapping its jaws at a stray spark from the fire.

"Never, poppet," the bann reassured her, one brow rising. "Is everything all right?"

Flora nodded, waving something small, pale and square in his direction as she approached barefoot across the flagstones. She was clad in the ugly mustard-coloured dressing robe from the Royal Palace; the warm and utterly charmless garment reminded her of Herring, and she was fond of it.

"I've got _indigestion_ ," the queen informed him, with an incongruous toothy grin. "I can't sleep."

Teagan blinked for a moment, wondering at the cheerfulness that accompanied such a confession.

"And you're… _happy_ about this?" he asked, slightly bemused.

Flora came to a halt on the other side of the table, her slight figure in juxtaposition to the high, rounded swell of her stomach. It jutted out before her like the prow of a ship, tenting the mustard-coloured wool. She showed him the pouch in her hand – it was a small, woven herb-bag with a handwritten label sewn onto it.

"It gives me an excuse to have a tea that I _really like,"_ Flora confessed, unable to stop herself from beaming. "Peppermint. The midwife gave it to me for indigestion. It's the only one that doesn't taste like stewed grass. Leliana says that I don't have a very refined pa- _pallat_ – plat- pellet… _mouth."_

Teagan smiled at her, reaching out to take the woven pouch.

"Sit down and rest, petal. I'll make it for you."

As Flora hovered - uncertain whether or not to accept his kindness - the bann took matters into his own hands. He reached out and took the woven pouch from her fingers, heading towards the open hearth.

"You know, you don't _need_ an excuse to have peppermint tea if you like it," he said over his shoulder, pouring water from a flagon into a small copper kettle. "You could have it all the time. When Isolde was expecting Connor, she demanded fresh Antivan bananas for breakfast every day. Eamon practically needed to open a new trade route."

"Oh, no!" Flora breathed, alarmed. "That would be _extravagant._ But…" here she smiled, taking a seat at the table. "I do get indigestion _a lot."_

The queen fiddled with a loose strand of wool in her sleeve as Teagan prepared the water. The bann was not quite as efficient at setting up the kettle above the flames as she would have been – it was clear that this would usually be a task delegated to servants. Eventually, after some mild cursing, he managed to manoeuvre the apparatus into place; jabbing a poker into the spitting coals before tossing on another log.

Flora propped her chin in her hand, stifling a yawn as she watched him. Once the younger of the Guerrin brothers had finished setting up the kettle, he returned to sit in the chair beside her with a long exhalation. The next moment, remembering his dishevelled and post-coital state, he coughed and hastily fastened several buttons at the front of his shirt.

They were silent for several moments, listening to the soft hiss and crackle of the fire as it rumbled away in the hearth. Teagan, despite his inward resolve, found his eyes sliding sideways to the girl sitting at his right. Flora was slumped in the chair with a casualness that was a legacy of _Herring_ rather than _Highever_ ; more concerned with finding a comfortable position for her occupied belly than with appearing decorous. Despite the lurid hideousness of the dressing gown, the bruised tiredness beneath her eyes and the un-brushed ropes of dark red that hung loose to her waist; there was a full-lipped, languid beauty about her that seemed almost archaic, like a siren from some Fereldan legend.

"I could eat _all_ the fish in Lake Calenhad," Flora announced, spoiling the illusion. "I want to go swimming with my mouth open and just… just _inhale_ them."

The bann laughed, feeling some of the odd tension within him drain away. He refilled his own tankard, splashing several drops of ale over the wood.

"Do you think Alistair would let me go swimming?" Flora continued, propping her bare toes on her bound knee and inspecting the grubby soles of her feet. "Probably not."

"Aye, probably not," agreed Teagan gravely, taking several deep gulps of ale.

Flora raised her gaze to a small, enamel portrait of Maric that was nailed to a beam above the bar. The old king's faded features were handsome, ascetic and finely-hewn; Flora realised with a start that this would most likely be how Alistair would look in decades to come.

"Alistair'll be sporting grey hairs and wrinkles by the time he's thirty if you keep sneaking off to ruined villages at night. Or burning down Chantries," murmured the observant bann, his words echoed within his flagon. "Or suggesting midnight swims while heavy with child."

 _Or, children,_ Teagan thought to himself, recalling Wynne's hypothesis. _What a blessing if there were two._

" _Sneaking?!_ I didn't ' _sneak'_ off to Lothering," an indignant Flora retorted, conveniently forgetting how she had slithered out beneath the wall of the tent to avoid rousing anyone. "I walked. I didn't _sneak._ I'm not a _gribble worm."_

"A gribble worm?" replied the bann, stifling a smile.

"The _sneakiest_ of sea-creatures," Flora intoned, fixing wide, limpid eyes on him. "They eat up jetties with _little_ _tiny teeth."_

"Is that right, pet?"

"Mm!"

Teagan knew that he was allowing himself to become disarmed by the queen's innocuous, peculiar and oddly beguiling manner of charm. Clearing his throat, he summoned back his earlier resolve.

" _Anyway_. Do you think you can restrain yourself from embarking upon these… nocturnal adventures? Until the babies - _babe_ is born, at least."

The bann held his breath, wondering if Flora had caught his slip of the tongue. She did not react to it, but appeared to be listening so he pressed home the advantage.

"It would _kill_ Alistair if anything happened to you, poppet. He was a man broken when you lay insensible after slaying the Archdemon. I don't think he'd be in any fit state to rule."

As Teagan had suspected, this angle of argument made far more of an impression on Flora. After a moment's reflection she gave a grave nod, settling her fingers solemnly on top of her breast.

"Alright, I swear," she replied, solemnly. "I won't leave camp – or wherever we're staying – at night on my own any more. I promise to always wake someone up."

The water within the copper kettle began to boil, and the bann rose to his feet. Flora felt a squirming inside her stomach and shifted in the chair to accommodate it, watching Teagan carefully remove the kettle from the hook. Using a cloth to protect his fingers from the handle, he carried it over to the table.

As the bann busied himself with kettle, cup and aromatic peppermint leaves, Flora lifted her eyes once again to the solemn portrait of Maric; his hawklike Theirin gaze staring out sightlessly across the tavern.

After several moments, Teagan slid the steaming cup across the table towards her. With a single quick glance, Flora realised that the younger Guerrin – who possessed little experience making herbal tea – had mixed the leaves freely with the hot water; as though expecting them to dissolve into the contents of the cup.

"Thank you," she breathed earnestly, making no mention of the bann's mistake as she took the vessel. "It smells so nice. I love it."

"I put some cold water in it too," Teagan added, wryly. "I don't want to risk incurring Alistair's wrath by burning his bride's tongue."

Although he had not intended for his words to carry a bawdy implication, they emerged with one nonetheless. The bann coughed to hide his embarrassment, taking too-large a gulp of ale.

Flora peered at him curiously over the rim of the cup, and then smiled.

"Thank you," she repeated, wondering if she could use her teeth as a filter to stop herself from ending up with a mouthful of leaves.

Teagan drained his tankard, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed. One of the Mabari appeared at the top of the stairs to investigate the whereabouts of its kennel-mate. On seeing that both hound and queen were seated at the table, the dog returned to its original position lying across the king's doorway.

Flora took a tentative sip of tea, feeling the leaves brushing against her teeth. The bann was watching her closely, irrationally anxious.

"Is it alright, pet?" he asked, in an abrupt manner that reminded her of Leonas Bryland.

"It's delicious!" the kind Flora replied immediately, taking several valiant gulps and making herself swallow the tea, leaves and all. "Thank you!"

In the distance, a small Chantry chapel nestled between two hills rung out the hour; a single peal to mark the start of a new day. Flora felt an inward shiver – recalling the bells of lost Lothering – and lifted her gaze towards the bann, Maric's portrait catching her eye once more.

"What was your sister like?" she asked, impulsively. "Queen Rowan."

A wistful flicker passed across Teagan's handsome, prematurely lined face; quick as the sun briefly emerging from a miasma of Herring cloud. When he spoke, his voice was distant, summoning the memory of a sister who had died over two decades prior.

"She was headstrong," he said, quiet and wry. "She bossed myself and Eamon around like a harpy when we were boys. We were terrified and awed by her in equal measure, especially when she ran off to join the rebellion against Orlais."

"Is that where she met Maric?" Flora asked, recalling a painting of the royal couple hanging near the staircase leading up to the palace's Royal quarters. The queen had been plump-bellied with Cailan while Maric had been proud and beaming; one hand on her shoulder and the other on the hilt of his sword.

"Aye, but Maric was already besotted with an elf lass," Teagan replied, summoning memories of events that he had learnt about through letter while residing in the Marches. "It was Loghain whom my sister loved first. The two grew close in the Deep Roads – Maker knows why they had even ventured down there. I think she bore a love for him for the rest of her life, to be honest."

Flora blinked, bemused. She had heard rumours to this effect before, but found it hard to picture the eternally scowling Loghain Mac Tir in the role of _star-crossed lover._

 _But, if he lost Rowan and then –later - his wife, I'm not surprised that he's dour,_ she thought to herself, suddenly. _If I lost Alistair, I don't think I would ever smile again._

"Rowan was a beautiful woman," Teagan continued, soft and fond. "Stood as tall as a man, but slender as a willow. Brown hair – like Eamon's, before he lost the colour. And grey eyes, like the shallows of the tide. Like yours, poppet. I think that's why Loghain always had a soft spot for you."

Flora was about to protest, but then remembered a certain flickering hearth within a traitorous arl's bedchamber.

 _When I was Rendon Howe's prisoner and masquerading as a Tranquil, Loghain came to see me. We stood before the hearth and he told me about how his mother was raped and murdered by Orlesian chev- chavs- chevels – knights. And I couldn't help but let my sympathy show in my gaze, and he saw it. He tilted my chin up and looked right into my eyes, and he_ knew _that I wasn't really Tranquil. And he didn't tell Howe. In fact, he told Howe to take the magic-restricting collar off._

"I'm grateful for it," Flora replied, biting back her indignation. "Otherwise I'd have been- _ugh."_

Life as Howe's Tranquilised puppet-wife did not bear thinking about, and so she put the thought firmly from her head.

"Teagan?"

The voice drifted down from the upper gallery, pointed and enquiring. The Mabari lying across Flora's feet beneath the table immediately raised its head; ears pricking upwards at the unfamiliar tone. The bann, feeling an irrational surge of guilt, lifted his gaze to where the serving-maid Kaitlyn was perched at the bannister.

"Teagan, are you coming back to bed?" she called down in a low voice, clutching his tunic around her shoulders.

"Aye, soon," the bann replied, hastily. "I won't leave Flor - _the_ _queen_ downstairs on her own."

After a few moments, Flora realised that he was waiting for her to finish her 'tea', which in actuality was a mass of soggy peppermint leaves stewing at the bottom of her cup. Quailing inwardly, she lifted the metal rim to her lips and swallowed the pulpy, pungent remnants; eyes watering.

"Don't rush, petal," the bann advised, watching her throat contract.

"I'm enjoying every mouthful," the gracious queen replied, sweetly and wholly untruthful. "It was kind of you to make it for me."

After Flora had ingested the last bitter gulp, she put down the cup with an unsteady hand, wondering if she might actually be sick. Once she had established that this was unlikely, she put an impulsive arm around the bann's neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you," she repeated, recalling his earlier gentle chiding and concern for her wellbeing. "I appreciate it. See you in the morning."

"Goodnight, poppet."

The Mabari – along with Kaitlyn's pointed stare – followed Flora back up the steps to the upper gallery; although the queen was not aware of the latter. She made her way down the corridor, extracting fragments of peppermint from her teeth with a fingernail. The other hound, lying across Alistair's doorway, gave a little snort of greeting as the bearer of the Theirin progeny approached; rolling to one side to allow Flora entrance.

The chamber was cloaked in shadow, one silvery channel of moonlight penetrating through a gap in the shutters to illuminate the bed. To Flora's relief, Alistair still lay snoring on the mattress, his bare, muscled torso cast in silver by the nocturnal light.

Abandoning the mustard-wool dressing robe on the floorboards, she clambered onto the bed, reaching out to wrap Alistair's arm around her waist. Half-asleep, her husband drew her against his side while reaching for her hand; their fingers twining together.

"My sweet girl," Alistair mumbled sleepily into her hair. "Privy again?"

"No," she replied, prying a peppermint leaf from the roof of her mouth with her tongue. "I had indigestion. Bann Teagan made me some tea."

The king kissed his queen's ear, nuzzling his face against her neck.

"Mm, poor baby. Do you feel any better now, my love?"

When she gave a little grunt of confirmation, he tightened his grip around her waist; strong thumbs kneading into the aching base of her spine.

"Good. Try and get some sleep now, darling. You can have as much of a lie-in as you need, I'll make sure that no one wakes you."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooooohhh you know what they say about the best way to get over someone, is getting your leg over someone else? Well, Teagan just put that to the test! I'm not sure how successful he's been though, lol. Anyway, at least he's got Flora to promise to stop wandering off in the middle of the night!

I wanted to bring up a bit of Rowan since I actually bought some of the DA novels on my Kindle! I haven't got round to reading them yet, but I've read all the wikia articles (haha what an excuse!).

Poor old Flo, ending up with a mouthful of leaves! Teagan doesn't know how to make tea lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	104. The Battle of River Dane

Chapter 104: The Battle of River Dane

The next morning dawned bright and hopeful, the sunlight illuminating the surface of Lake Calenhad like a sheet of glass. The sky was an uninterrupted swathe of periwinkle, the air so clear that they could see the distant violet smudge of the Frostbacks far to the west. The road to the Circle ran north, following the curve and contour of the lake; the parallel-running River Dane lying several miles to its east.

The Royal company paid their bills to the awed tavern keeper, who had brought his entire family and serving staff out to see them off. Alistair insisted on paying the man full price for the food and for the rooms, with a quiet, stern reminder that rates ought not to be inflated in the wake of the Blight. As the horses and carts were prepared for the off, the sharp-eyed former Crow noticed Teagan slipping a surreptitious bag of coin to the pretty, faded serving woman. Grinning, Zevran mentally tucked this nugget of knowledge away for later; swinging himself up onto the saddle with athletic ease.

They set out north on the lake road before the chapel bell had tolled the ninth hour. The birds that dwelt near the shores of Calenhad – cormorants, herons and sandpipers – were in full chorus, sensing the last waning weeks of summer. In a few days, Solace would be over and August would be upon them. In the majority of Thedas, August was the most humid month of the year, but in Ferelden, it was a time of seasonal transition. The leaves began to fade, the evenings drew in with a new chill and dawn arrived accompanied by rain-clouds more often than not.

The company made good time on the northern road, which was kept in excellent condition. The contrast between the thoroughfares in the untouched west and Blighted east of Ferelden was stark. Alistair resolved to create a committee specifically dedicated to the maintenance and rebuilding of roadways once he returned to Denerim.

"An excellent idea," Wynne interjected, overhearing the king sharing his idea with Flora. "Roads are the arteries and veins of a country, through which its worth and well-being circulate. If they are damaged, then the health of the nation suffers."

Alistair grinned – he had known already that it was a good idea, but appreciated the senior enchanter's approval.

"You could employ some of the new surface dwarves," a yawning Flora added, thinking on those that had not desired to return to a life underground in Orzammar after the final battle. "They're good at engineering, and they want to travel."

Alistair nodded, sitting up straighter on the saddle and pressing a kiss to the back of her head.

"That's a great suggestion, Lo," he murmured, pleased that she had woken up. "How are you feeling, my love?"

Flora had dozed most of the morning slumped against his chest, her energy drained by the residents of her stomach.

"Good," she replied, wondering if she still had peppermint in her teeth from Bann Teagan's tea. "Where are we?"

Teagan, who had the map, nudged his horse forward to ride alongside them. Unfolding the parchment, he pointed a finger towards a small inlet on the lake's eastern coast, about two-thirds of the way up.

"Just here, poppet."

As the bann started to tuck the map away once again, Zevran cleared his throat with a faintly malicious edge; his dark Antivan eyes glittering like hot coals.

"It must have been a good night, Bann Teagan."

"Eh?"

"To warrant such a _hefty_ bag of coin placed into the lady Kaitlyn's hands this morning."

Alistair and Flora simultaneously turned astonished eyes on the bann. Teagan now had a crimson flush creeping upwards from his collar; a shade which clashed with the auburn of his neatly trimmed goatee.

"I didn't pay her for - ah – _that_ nature of service,"the younger Guerrin insisted, restraining himself from adding that he never needed to _purchase_ the company of a woman. "I felt sorry for her and her brother, so I paid her coin enough to get to Denerim. She joined me in the bedchamber without expectation of recompense. Sorry, ladies."

Flora beamed blithely at him, while Wynne rolled her eyes; a woman advanced sufficient in years to be shocked by very little.

The company rode on for several hours before pausing for lunch beside one of the many branching tributaries that fed into Calenhad from the River Dane. The river itself was visible to the east, a silver ribbon that snaked its way leisurely across the flood plains. Several dozen acres of peaceful, grassy land stretched out alongside the river; reeds growing in thick, bristled clumps at its shoreline.

"Do you notice anything unusual about the trees down on the plain?" Wynne asked suddenly, as the company was just finishing their hunks of buttered bread and cheese.

Those seated on the grass near the senior enchanter looked down at the marshy plains, their gaze moving from trunk to slender trunk. Flora and Alistair both looked nonplussed, while even the sharp-eyed Zevran seemed at a loss. Like all good teachers, Wynne never gave away an answer too freely.

"They're all young trees," Ser Gilmore offered, after the pause stretched out into a prolonged silence. "On the plains."

The old mage nodded, the corner of her lips curling upwards into a smile.

"They're all less than thirty years old."

Teagan, returning from attending to a stone in his horse's hoof, grasped Wynne's point far more swiftly; having received instruction in Fereldan history from childhood.

"No trees would have survived the battle that took place here at the close of the last Age," the bann explained, lowering himself to the grass beside Ser Gilmore. "The Battle of the River Dane."

A flicker of recognition passed across Alistair's face – this battle was a cornerstone of Fereldan legend, and one that he recalled Eamon recanting several times; usually while half-inebriated. It was one of the most fundamental facets of the rebellion that had won the province independence from the Empire.

"This was where Loghain Mac Tir's forces ambushed the Orlesian chevaliers," the king recalled, retrieving the story from the depths of his memory. "Two legions of the Emperor's troops were wiped out here."

"How many soldiers are there in a legion?" Flora asked, unfamiliar with the story.

"Two thousand a piece," Teagan said, a note of residual pride filtering through the reply. "It was a slaughter."

Flora grimaced inwardly, aware that a queen of Ferelden could not be seen to publicly show sympathy for the Imperial oppressors. She swivelled her head away from the deceptively innocuous grasslands, letting her gaze settle on the far more pleasing Lake Calenhad.

Alistair was also staring hard at the verdant plain, though not for the purpose of patriotic recollection. Instead, he was thinking of a desolate and muddied wasteland, carved raggedly by trenches and gullies, and pitted by the discharge of siege weaponry.

"There's hope for the Alamarri plains, then," he said at last. "Perhaps they'll recover too, given enough time."

Flora, who still found it painful to look upon the Alamarri plains whenever they rode in and out of Denerim, brightened at the prospect. Both king and queen turned hopefully to Wynne, whom they regarded as the member of the company possessing the greatest quantity of wisdom.

"Oh, I think so," the senior enchanter said, softly. "I think Ferelden's land is as resilient as its people. Thanks to you two, the Blight swept across the land for a year – it didn't have time to properly take hold."

As always, whenever anybody made reference to the former Wardens' gathering of the armies, both of them looked vaguely sheepish and directed their gazes elsewhere.

"What happens to the land when the Blight's properly set in, then?" asked Flora, in an attempt to divert attention from themselves. "Does it turn into a… a swamp? A puddle?"

"A _puddle?"_ repeated Wynne, shaking her head incredulously. _"No,_ Florence. Have you ever heard of a region named the Western Approach?"

Flora grimaced, she had never studied any form of geography. She knew that Orlais lay beyond the Frostbacks, and that the Marches were across the Waking Sea; but all other nations within Thedas lay in some great, nebulous _elsewhere_ that she could not quite articulate.

"It's in Orlais, isn't it?" Alistair offered, having once noted the region on a map. "In the south of the country."

Wynne nodded, casting an eye across the peaceful plains where nearly four thousand men had met their deaths thirty years earlier.

"The Darkspawn swarmed it during the Second Blight. They came surging up from a great crack in the ground and poisoned the land beyond repair. The soil crumbled away into nothingness, leaving only sand and the bare bones of rock behind. It's nothing more than a desert now."

Alistair grimaced, picturing Ferelden succumbing to a similar fate. Zevran reached across and tapped slender, tattooed fingers gently across the king's leather boot.

"But that is not the case this time, hm? Your land is in bloom, and your wife is plump with fecundity."

Flora, overhearing only the last part, widened her eyes accusatorially.

"Did you call me – did you call me _fat?"_

The elf mirrored her indignation, his own dark pupils expanding.

" _Mi sirenita!_ Of course not. You are ripening _beautifully, mi pequeño melocotón._ I could devour you in a single gulp!"

As they continued to follow the road north alongside the lake, the River Dane gradually receded into the eastern horizon, lost amidst the hills of the bannorn. The afternoon began to wane, the dimming of the light indicating that sunset was close at hand. The company had just crossed one of the many small tributary streams that fed into the almighty Calenhad, when a series of small islands came into view in the centre of the lake.

Teagan, unfolding the map once again, identified them as an uninhabited cluster of landforms colloquially known as the _Seven Sisters_. There were a number of local legends from Redcliffe involving the islands – the most common story suggested that Calenhad had exiled all seven of his sisters to the middle of the lake when one of them had an affair with a rival clansman. This was highly unlikely, since Chantry historians were relatively certain that Calenhad had possessed no siblings, let alone seven sisters.

The silhouette of the Circle Tower – high and angular, with multiple jutting buttresses and supporting struts – was visible on its own larger island to the north, reachable only by boat. Flora had recognised the distinctive outline of the _Seven Sister_ before anyone else, though she was used to seeing them from a far loftier perspective. As an apprentice, she had spent much of her time devising ways to sneak up onto the tower's flat roof, although she tended to choose the northern face rather than the southern.

Despite recognising the islands, Flora had not said anything to the others – in fact, she had said very little for the past few hours. Since the queen was not a great conversationalist at the best of times, her quietness went unnoticed by most. Only Alistair, who could read his wife's subtle mannerisms and nonverbal cues like a plainly-writ letter, had realised that she had fallen into a glum silence after that first glimpse of the Circle.

He recalled Flora's quiet confession in the tavern the previous evening; that she was not looking forward to returning to her past home. Within the lofty heights of Kinloch Hold, she had been labelled both ignorant and incompetent, subjected to endless cruel jibes about her limited ability, and casually mocked for her commoner's accent. Ironically enough, it had been her fellow mages responsible for much of the taunting – the Templars viewed her as barely one step up from a Tranquil, and left her in peace.

Now – despite the fact that she would be returning both as the widely lauded Hero of Ferelden _and_ the nation's new queen – Flora felt at once fraudulent and doubly incompetent. As the Circle tower loomed larger with each passing hour, she felt her stomach begin to churn.

Alistair, attuned to his wife with especial sensitivity, was aware of her discomfort and could guess at the cause. He had not attempted to reassure her with words, knowing that they would serve no purpose – he could tell her nothing that she did not already know. Instead, he had pressed his lips to the back of her head; stroked her be-ringed fingers with his leather clad hand; nuzzled his face surreptitiously into her neck when nobody else was looking.

Flora appreciated each tender touch and caress, grateful for her husband's comfort. Determinedly, she closed her eyes and relaxed into his arms, recalling the year's accomplishments in her head.

 _Alistair and I gathered an army._

 _We won the support of the Landsmeet._

 _I killed the Archdemon. Or, at least, my spirits did._

 _Surely that has to balance out never passing any classes? My inability to light a candle after four years of tutelage?_

 _Are they still going to call me the Vase? Surely not. At least, not to my face._

Shortly before they reached the Calenhad docks, the company stopped in a small tavern; both to water the horses and to allow the royal couple to wash and dress themselves in more suitable attire. Unlike the informal stops at South Reach and Lothering, the first visit of a new king to the Circle tower was a necessarily official occasion. The First Enchanter would officially pledge the loyalty of Ferelden's mages to the crown, witnessed by the Templars and several local banns. The rest of the company waited in the lower rooms of the tavern as king and queen prepared themselves in an upstairs chamber.

Gazing into a smeared mirror above the hearth, Alistair - whose jaw was covered in thin, dense gilded growth - took out his shaving blade for the first time in a fortnight.

"I was just beginning to cultivate my face too," he commented wistfully, testing the sharpness of the blade with a finger. "I'll never grow a beard like Eamon's."

Flora, who was seated in her smalls on the patchwork bed covering, gave a distracted grunt in response. She was preoccupied with trying to wrench a comb through thick strands of hair, which fell to her waist in a smouldering, tangled mass of dark red.

"Me neither," she offered and Alistair snorted, shooting her a fond glance in the mirror.

"You know, I've heard that dwarven women can grow beards. But I don't remember seeing any in Orzammar, do you?"

Flora let go of the brush, leaving it suspended in her tangle of hair as she recalled their week spent in the subterranean depths. Eventually she shook her head, pulling a small face.

"I don't think so. The barmaid at Tapster's didn't have a beard. Nor did any of the lady deshyr. Don't they have tattoos on their faces? Maybe that stops the hair from growing."

"The only ones with tattoos on their faces are the ones from the Legion of the Dead," corrected Alistair, smoothing down the errant tuft of hair at the front of his head with sandalwood oil. "Do you think that's why Zevran doesn't have any hair on his face? I've never seen the man shave."

Flora shrugged, realising that her hair was as neat as it was ever going to be. After weaving the front strands into a knot at the nape of her neck, she began to rummage through the pack that Leliana had labelled 'FORMAL OUTFITS' in clearly readable letters.

"His tattoos are only on his cheeks," she replied, pulling a face at a raspberry coloured silk gown that Leliana _must_ have included as a jest. "Not on his chin. Maybe elves don't grow facial hair as easily as humans? I don't know what to wear. Leliana isn't here to dress me!"

Alistair, who did not have a mass of uncooperative hair to wrangle, had already manoeuvred himself into a fur-edged tunic. After buttoning up the front with deft, sword-callused fingers, he went to assist his wife.

"What about this, baby?" he suggested, pulling up a tunic of rich forest-green lambswool, edged with gold stitching on the sleeves. "I don't think I've ever seen you in _green_ before, and you can wear your calfskin breeches and boots with it."

Flora, who could not care less what she wore, gave a placid nod of acquiescence. Once they had tightened the laces, and she had located the bottom half of the outfit, she stood before the mirror and eyed her reflection. They had been on progress for almost a month, and yet she had rapidly grown accustomed to the travel clothes, the casually tied back hair and the lack of ornamentation. This harkened back to when they had been travelling around Ferelden gathering their armies; she had worn whatever had emerged first from her pack.

Now, standing before the mirror clad in a tunic that cost more than a Herring fisherman would make in a year, Flora eyed her reflection somewhat dubiously. She was also astonished at how much her stomach had grown over the past four weeks – it had expanded to the size of a large, rotund pumpkin.

Alistair, conversely, was enchanted by the sight of his copper-haired wife in bottle-green. He paused at her side to admire her reflection, then impulsively pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Darling, that colour looks stunning on you. You should wear it more often!"

He fingered a thick rope of oxblood hair, letting it rest against its richly contrasting backdrop.

"Green isn't the colour of Theirin," Flora pointed out, obtusely. "Or Highever. It's the colour of South Reach."

Alistair grinned, giving an amiable shrug as he went to open a polished walnut case.

"Well, I'm sure Leonas wouldn't mind. Ready for the final touch, sweetheart?"

Inside the walnut case lay two burnished golden bands, one nestled within the other. The spikes on the larger were more prominent, while the smaller was decorated with seed-pearls set at intervals. Alistair lifted out the more feminine of the crowns, placing it atop his wife's head as she raised her chin to meet its weight and pressure. The king then positioned his own simple coronet, a fraction more used to wearing such a headpiece.

"My beautiful queen," he murmured, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "Everything will be fine tonight, I _promise."_

When they descended to the lower floor of the tavern, the rest of the company fell silent; as though suddenly recalling that their travel companions - an amiable young man and his pretty, kind-hearted wife - were also the crowned, anointed leaders of the nation. Ser Gilmore almost went to bow, before Wynne elbowed him with a soft roll of the eyes.

Zevran broke the silence by breaking into a famous Antivan poem about a very expensive courtesan who wore emerald green robes and had eyes like chips of glass. Flora smiled at him while Alistair snorted, taking a gulp from a leftover tankard of ale. She did not know what a courtesan was – she suspected something _lascivious_ \- but she was grateful for the elf's ribaldry and subsequent dissolving of the odd atmosphere. Soon after, the company retrieved their horses from the stables, and set out on the final stage of their journey to the Circle Tower.

* * *

OOC Author Note: The Dragon Age calendar confuses me so much sometimes… I use the more colloquial names for the months, but it makes no sense to me why AUGUST is a month? Literally no other month is called by its real-world counter-part! Did they run out of ideas? Is there a lore reason behind it? Was there a Tevinter emperor named Augustus? Haha it's the most inconsequential thing in the world but I was just curious!

The River Dane battle info I got from the DA wikia (must credit those sources, lol). Love sneaking a bit of history in!

Incidentally, here's a fun fact that has no real place in this story… I was just reminded after reblogging an old commission on my tumblr. Flora's method of healing – the _exhaling_ of magic and the _inhaling_ of toxins – was actually based on an old plot point that I abandoned. Originally, Flora was based even more strongly on Wynne – instead of just being a spirit healer, she was actually meant to have her spirits residing within her! Technically an abomination! I hinted at it in one of the early chapters of the Lion and the Light, where Flora (still ignorant of her Cousland heritage) explains that she had no memories before the age of five because she almost drowned picking cockles and had to be pulled from the sea… well, originally, she pretty much did die, and was saved by her spirits. So when Flora healed, she exhaled through her mouth because it was _literally_ her spirits working inside her! When she killed the Archdemon, her spirits would have been destroyed and she would have died too. However, once she gets up the duff I decided to go with the slightly more prosaic 'spirits helping her from the Fade' because I wasn't going to kill off a pregnant character – too grim for me, lol. But her using her mouth to heal is a legacy of that original aspect of her character! Anyway, that was a fun fact that's totally irrelevant to this story since she's lost her magic, hehehe

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	105. Return to Kinloch Hold

Chapter 105: Return to Kinloch Hold

They reached the Calenhad docks just as the sun touched the Frostbacks, spilling a mellow, apricot-tinged light across the lake's surface. Kinloch Hold – the larger of Ferelden's two Circles – stood stark and brutally impressive, rising an uncompromising height above its rocky isle. Turrets and parapets jutted out from its roughly hewn stone edifice; crude iron bars soldered over the windows. No faces appeared behind the slats, and the only movement from the tower came from the flapping of a lone Chantry banner near its base.

Three figures clad in Templar garb stood at the edge of the docks to greet them, accompanied by several stable-hands. The tallest – whose greying hair and advancing years did not impede his rigid, militaristic posture – was flanked by two younger officers; all three of them equally solemn faced.

As the company rode down the grassy slope towards them, Flora was seized by an irrational surge of fear. She leaned across the gap between their horses – causing an alarmed Alistair to grip her more tightly – and wound her fingers possessively in Wynne's sleeve.

"Wynne, Wynne! _Wynne!"_

"Why are you bleating my name like a sheep, child?"

"They won't try and _keep_ you in the Circle once we go back there, will they?" Flora breathed, her anxious eyes searching the senior enchanter's face. "They'll let you leave with us?"

Wynne suppressed a smile, injecting as much reassurance into her response as possible.

"Florence, I promise you that Greagoir will not entrap me within the Circle. I _do_ intend on returning here eventually, but certainly not until the babies are born, at least- _baby_."

The elder mage inhaled at her own slip of the tongue, wondering if either Flora or Alistair had registered her meaning. Alistair, though, was distracted by the approaching Templars and Flora had deliberately stopped listening when Wynne had expressed her eventual intention to return to the Circle. It had been traumatic enough for the young queen when Oghren had departed with the Wardens and Morrigan had left for the Wilds – she was not yet ready to part with any more of her companions.

Knight-Commander Greagoir strode forward, his well-oiled Templar armour making no metallic rattle as it accommodated his movement. He came to a halt before Alistair's horse, bowing deeply.

"Welcome, King Alistair," he said stiffly, more familiar with greeting Chantry seniority than royal guests. It had been a decade since Maric had last visited the Fereldan Circle, and Cailan had never bothered."And- _Queen Florence."_

There was the slightest, most infinitesimal pause before the Templar commander addressed Flora by her new title. Still, it was a pause noted by the company, including Flora and Alistair himself. The king had just finished assisting his wife down onto the grass, a faint flicker of a scowl passing over his features.

Not all of their party would be accompanying the royal couple into the Circle Tower, since the resident Templars would take on responsibility for guarding the royal couple. Wynne, Zevran and Teagan joined them on the docks; the party dividing themselves into two small groups to fit into the boats provided to ferry them across the serene waters.

The shades of sunset grew richer as they bobbed gently across the placid lake, the sky streaked with mauve atop a background of rich peach. It was a mild evening, accompanied by the cool air typical of late Solace. The chill deepened when they passed into the long shadow of the Circle tower, which fell across the water like a chiding finger.

Alistair, Flora and Greagoir were seated in one ferry boat, accompanied by a seasick Mabari hound and a straight-faced Templar officer. Greagoir kept shooting repeated glances at the increasingly miserable queen; at the peculiar white marks on her hands, the gilded fleck in her eye and the incongruous crown atop her head. Even the boat ride was not enough to bring a smile to her face. Sensitive to his best friend's discomfort, Alistair's expression was growing more and more un-amused; he had half a mind to demand that the boat turn around and return to the docks.

"Sorry, your majesty," the old Templar said suddenly, a note of apology in his voice. "I've never met anyone who lost their magic and wasn't made Tranquil before. It's a… well. It's a first for me."

Flora looked up, with face wan and eyes as translucent as the lake waters lapping at the sides of the boat. Greagoir was scratching at his beard, quite clearly at a loss for how to explain himself.

"Do you remember me? I mean, from when I was at the tower," Flora amended, not wanting to bring up the terrible afternoon when the Wardens had arrived to find the Circle in the grip of demons. "I lived here for four years."

"Aye, vaguely," Greagoir replied, abruptly. "Mostly because you were always out in the corridors with mop and bucket."

Flora brightened, she had enjoyed the cleaning far more than being in the classroom. She was good at cleaning, and had a knack for making the centuries' old flagstones shine like polished slate.

"How is the Circle now?" she asked, letting her hand trail in the water at the side of the boat. "Has everything been mended?"

"Aye," replied Greagoir, relieved that they were in more familiar conversational territory. "We'd made good progress on the restoration of the upper floors even before the Blight was ended, and now the Harrowing chamber itself has been purified and rebuilt."

Alistair suppressed a shiver, recalling the terrible mutilations inflicted on the tower by Uldred and his abominable allies. Pushing the memory forcibly from his mind, he scratched the whimpering Mabari comfortingly behind the ears and returned his gaze to the Templar commander.

"And there's no corruption or malefic taint left?" he asked, sternly. "I won't bring my wife into somewhere _polluted,_ especially not when she's expecting a child."

Greagoir spent the remainder of the journey assuring the king of the tower's cleanliness; detailing the various wards, crystals and purification rituals in place to purge any remnant of foul magic.

The two boats dropped anchor at the shore of the rocky isle, where a narrow set of steps hewn into the stone led up to the tower itself. First Enchanter Irving, flanked by a pair of senior enchanters clad in distinctive maroon robes, was waiting before the great wooden doors; his face expectant.

"Your majesties," he declared as the company made their way up to the foot of the tower. "Welcome back to Kinloch Hold. I trust you'll find us in better condition than on your previous visit."

He and the other two mages bowed deeply, as Flora cast an appraising eye over the man who had – for four years - held ultimate seniority in her life. Irving appeared much the same as he had in Denerim two months prior, where he had brought several battalions of mages to assist in the final battle against the Darkspawn. His greying beard was perhaps a shade paler, and the furrows on his forehead a touch deeper; yet on the whole, he appeared hale and hearty enough.

Wynne smiled at the First Enchanter, and Irving inclined his head in an especial nod of greeting to her.

"Senior Enchanter, you're looking well," he commented, wryly. "It appears that life outside the Circle suits you."

Wynne let out a little laugh, darting her gaze over her fellow senior enchanters Sweeney and Torrin.

"I admit, I'm not quite ready to return myself to the Hold's safekeeping quite yet," she replied, equally droll. "Though, I look forward to gaining a roof over my head before the heavens break above us."

Indeed, the evening had drawn in around them, accompanied by some ominous-looking clouds. The rich jewel tones of sunset had been replaced by shrouded layers of grey and navy, and there was a damp promise heavy in the air.

Both sets of doors – outer and inner - were unlocked, and duly sealed behind the party with an ominous thud. Flora stepped into the tower's reception area with slight trepidation; recalling that the last time she had done so, she had been hit with a silencing spell directly in the face.

 _The last time we were here, the floor was strewn with injured mages and terrified apprentices,_ she thought to herself as several Tranquil stepped forward to take their travelling-cloaks. _The Templars were about to seal off the doors to the upper chambers, and Greagoir was considering the Rite of Annulment._

In marked contrast, the receiving floor of the Tower was now a pleasant and welcoming space; Flora suspected that it had been made deliberately so. A blazing fire roared in the hearth, emanating a soft, bruised cedar-wood scent. Tapestries had been hung over what must have been battle-scarred walls, and eye-catching rugs placed across the tiles.

"Your majesty," Irving began, then smiled and nodded as the king hastily permitted him to use a more familiar address. "Alistair. I suspect that, after a day on the road, you don't want the full tour tonight. You and your party will be accommodated on the fourth floor, in our guest chambers."

Alistair nodded in the affirmative, taking a deep breath before turning to his plump-bellied wife.

"Right, my love. How many of these steps do you feel like tackling? I won't have you over-exerting yourself."

Flora mused quietly to herself for a moment, casting an appraising eye across at the foot of the stairs. They appeared innocuous enough, but she knew that they stretched up for over forty steps between floors.

"We do have a winch and pulley system outside the tower," offered one of the junior Templars, in a moronic attempt to be helpful. "It's used for hoisting furniture up to the top floor."

Alistair gaped, mildly traumatised by the notion of his pregnant wife being hauled on ropes up the hundred-foot high edifice. Beside him, Zevran let out an appalled snort.

Flora, on the other hand, looked faintly intrigued. She was about to open her mouth to enquire in further depth when Alistair cut across her, firmly.

"We'll be taking the stairs," he retorted, as Greagoir shot his aide a malevolent glare. "When you get tired, Flo, let me know."

Flora managed the first flight of steps, huffing and puffing like a small but determined ox. Alistair followed on her tail, his eyes fixed on his best friend's frame. Ten steps into the second flight and she came to an abrupt halt, one hand against the wall.

"I just need a moment," she said, then yelped as Alistair hoisted her upwards into his arms. "You can't carry me up three more flights of steps!"

"I'll take over once we get to the third floor," Teagan interjected, hastily.

The party resumed their ascension of the Circle tower, more rapidly now that they were not limited to the pace of a seven-months' pregnant queen. Flora, clinging to a red-faced Alistair, peered down at Zevran. The elf was hopping up the steps as easily as skipping downhill; not a single hair out of place.

"I'm a literal and figurative burden," she whispered, and her former Crow companion let out another giggle.

"Nonsense, _carina._ Although I _am_ impressed by your complex and _existential_ descriptive vocabulary. Were you inspired by our intellectual surroundings?"

"No," said Flora amiably, who had no idea what _existential_ meant. "Sten told me I was now a 'literal and figurative burden' before we left Denerim. I thought it was a compliment so I said thank you. He almost _laughed!_ For the first time ever! It was a special moment."

Sleepy-eyed, she smiled at Zevran and the elf grinned back at her, reaching up to tug gently at a stray lock of dark red hair.

"You are a burden well worth the bearing, _nena."_

Once they had reached the third floor of the tower, Alistair handed Flora over to Teagan; his now-dozing wife barely registered the transition. The staircase wound around the building's central spine, finally reaching the level housing the Templar quarters – and the guest bedchambers.

"Tomorrow, I thought we could give you a tour of the renewed facilities," Irving explained as they followed a wide, curving corridor with a lofty ceiling shrouded in shadow. The First Enchanter was aware of the faint ridiculousness in showing Flora around the tower where she had been confined for four years, yet he had clearly decided to ignore the strangeness of the situation and follow the standard protocol for noteworthy guests.

"Sounds good to me," replied Alistair, more cheerful now the end of the day – and public obligation – was imminent. "Have you recruited more Templars? The place is crawling with them."

Sure enough, the halls and interconnected chambers were filled with fresh-faced young recruits, which reminded Alistair incongruously of himself five years prior. He had spent his training years within Jainen rather than Kinloch Hold, but the solemn earnestness of the junior Templars they passed was oddly familiar. The youths kept their eyes studiously lowered, trained to show dutiful obedience in the presence of their elders.

Irving opened his mouth to respond but Greagoir quickly interjected, giving a curt nod.

"Aye, King Alistair. We're determined not to let another… _incident_ like the one from Firstfall happen again."

Flora, who had never been allowed on this floor as a mage, opened her eyes and gazed around her with transparent curiosity. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting events from Andraste's life, much like the ones lining the corridor leading to the Chantry in Denerim Castle.

Nudging Teagan to lower her to the flagstones, she stifled a yawn and looked upwards; recognising the same wrought-iron candelabras they used to illuminate the lower floors. Unlike the lower floors, these were lit with earthly flame rather than violet arcane fire.

"I hope that you aren't all _too_ tired," Irving said, a rare note of indulgence in his voice. "There's someone who's been eagerly anticipating your arrival. Normally, mages wouldn't be permitted onto this floor, but… Greagoir allowed an exception in this case."

"Uncle! Uncle Teagan!"

An excitable, childish voice came echoing down the corridor, followed shortly by the quick patter of booted footsteps. Teagan inhaled sharply, his eyes widening as they focused on a slight figure hurrying towards them.

Connor Guerrin seemed to have grown an inch since his arrival in the Mage tower, though perhaps this was because he no longer held his head low and shoulders hunched. He was clad in the maroon garb of an apprentice, a half-size staff slung across his back. A beam of delight spread over his face as he caught sight of his uncle.

Teagan strode forward to embrace his nephew, ruffling his hair fiercely before holding the boy at arm's length to look him up and down.

"Connor," he said, a note of relief running through the name. "You're looking very well. How are you feeling?"

"I'm at the top of my class," Connor said, proudly. "I can light candles with a _click of my fingers._ My instructors are all very pleased with my progress."

Teagan smiled down at his nephew, the fears of previous months somewhat alleviated.

"Good lad. I'll be sure to tell your father such, and write to your mother."

Connor nodded, squirming free of his uncle and peering at the rest of the company. His eyes fell on Flora, and his auburn brows rose to his hairline.

"Are you having a _baby?!"_ he demanded imperiously, the residual authority of an arl's son reverberating about the stone passage. _"His_ baby?"

The young Guerrin made a gesture towards the king. Flora nodded, hoping that her face did not betray the maelstrom of emotions currently swirling within her.

 _I'm so glad that you're doing well, and that you no longer hang your head in shame._

 _But, please don't ask me to make another Peraquialus for you._

Instead, Connor lowered his voice, continuing in the gentle tones of an earnest, sorrowful child.

"I'm sorry that you lost your magic, Lady Cousland," he said, solemnly. "You probably feel as strange _without_ it, as I once did _with_ it."

Very few people had so openly expressed sympathy for the loss of her abilities. Flora smiled at Connor, not quite trusting herself to speak. She was grateful for Alistair's hand on the small of her back, his palm spread out with comforting warmth.

"Thank you for your letters," the boy continued, producing a crumpled bundle of parchment in a fist. "Though your last note confused me a little. Your writing is _very bad."_

Connor's brow furrowed, and he waved one particular letter at her. By the size and weight of the vellum, Flora recognised it as the one she had sent to the young mage just before the royal party had left Denerim.

Flora wanted to laugh, but instead forced herself to nod gravely.

"I know it's bad," she replied, equally solemn. "Though having any letters at all is an improvement on having _none."_

As a special concession and royal favour, Connor was permitted to spend the rest of the evening with his uncle in the guest quarters. Teagan politely enquired if Alistair needed him any longer and Alistair hastily replied in the negative, urging the bann to go and spend time with his young nephew. Wynne disappeared off to Irving's study for an extensive catch-up; the letters exchanged between the pair were no substitute for a proper, fully-articulated conversation.

Not wanting their other companion to spend the evening alone, Alistair asked if Zevran wanted to join them in their quarters. For a moment, the elf instinctively went to decline, about to offer a quick quip about testing the Templar adherence to _chastity._ A moment later, the Antivan realised that – actually – he would much rather spend the evening with his companions than engage in the pursuit of casual sex. A polite young Tranquil then showed the members of the company to their guest quarters. The separate bedrooms all shared the same entranceway; three doors branching off one common, torch-lit antechamber.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Including this progress around Ferelden was a really important part of the sequel for me, because it was a great opportunity to tie up loose ends. The surveying of South Reach, the burning of the Lothering Chantry, this return to the Circle Tower – and then going back to Flora's hometown of Herring and then Highever…. but anyway, I was really looking forward to this bit! The Circle was so messed up during the Origins questline, I couldn't just LEAVE it that way!

Haha poor old Flo is not enjoying this little excursion at all! Greagoir doesn't really know how to treat her – he remembers her being this random, pretty useless apprentice who could cure Frostcough and do little else of note… and now it's turned out that she was actually a powerful spirit healer who kept her head down and avoided attention for four years… and now she's lost her magic, but she's the new queen of Ferelden. Lol! It was nice to see Connor again - the last time we saw him, he was leaving South Reach en route to the Circle. Flora promised that she would write to him, and she has - albeit barely legibly. Is it true that in Inquisition, he can set himself on fire?! WTF? I hope that's not actually true!

Hoisting a pregnant woman up on ropes and pulley on the outside of the tower… not the best idea ever, haha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	106. Keeping Warm on a Cold Night

Chapter 106: Keeping Warm on a Cold Night

The bedchamber ascribed to the royal couple was the same one assigned to senior members of the Chantry, when they happened to visit on official inspection. It was therefore very comfortable – since Chantry elders were often venerable – with a vast, overstuffed bed, layers of finely embroidered blankets, and a bookshelf full of religious codices. However, the décor too was chosen to suit the tastes of Chantry officials. A vast and eerily lifelike tapestry of Andraste burning at the stake hung opposite the bed, while a small altar had been set up opposite the hearth. A full-size pair of statues depicting Maferath crippled by guilt flanked either side of the headboard.

Alistair, muttering darkly under his breath, dragged a chair across to the offending tapestry. With some help from the agile elf, he hung up a blanket over the Maker's burning bride, whose agony was embroidered in excruciating detail.

"I'm not having the poor woman staring down at us for three nights," he complained, seeing Flora visibly exhale in relief once the image was covered. "How am I supposed to make love to my wife in the face of _that?"_

"That was the only Chantry story I really remembered when I was younger," Flora added, sitting cross-legged amidst a nest of blankets as she detangled her hair from the crown. "The one with Andraste being martyred. It used to give me nightmares, I thought that if Templars ever caught me in Herring, they would burn me alive."

"Maker's Breath!" remarked Alistair in astonishment, removing the gold band from his own head and placing it atop the dresser. "The Templars aren't monsters. They'd never burn a mage, even an apostate. _Especially_ not a child."

"Well, I was only fifteen when they caught me," Flora said, quietly. "And they weren't especially gentle."

The queen, as a former mage, and the king - a former Templar – had differing perspectives on the Chantry's militaristic arm. Alistair began to unbutton his tunic, striding over to the bed and sitting on the edge of the mattress.

"My poor darling," he said, knowing exactly what incident she was referring to. They had glimpsed this most traumatic of recollections at South Reach, when Wynne had delved deep within Flora's memory to uncover her hidden Cousland heritage. "They weren't at all gentle with you. It makes me sick to my stomach."

Alistair reached out to lift Flora's legs onto his lap, removing her boots carefully one by one. After adjusting the tightness of the leather strap around her weak knee, he began to knead her sore feet with strong, capable fingers. Flora slumped back on the bed, her stomach now so prominent that it hid her head entirely from view when she was in prostrate position.

"Zev- ran?"

The elf's name drifted up from behind the firm bulge of flesh, bisected by a yawn. Zevran paused in his inspection of a cunningly crafted statuette of a priestess, cast in silverite. He swung his slender frame towards her, lithe and fleet-footed as a desert cat.

" _Carina?"_ he purred, sauntering around to the other side of the bed and sprawling across the blankets.

Flora propped herself up on an elbow, grateful for Alistair's firm grasp wringing out the aches from her throbbing toes.

"What are the Circles like in Antiva? Have you ever been to one?"

The elf nodded, rubbing the embroidered blanket absentmindedly between finger and thumb.

"The Crows sent me there once – for surveillance, not for a mark. I met a beautiful young apprentice who was very _curious_ about the outside world, and eager for any information I could give her. Ah, she was a lovely creature – glossy dark hair, lips like polished garnets…"

The elf cut himself off as Flora eyed him, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his tanned, tattooed features.

"Sorry. Anyway, from what little I know, I believe that in Antiva, the Templars keep an even _closer_ eye on their charges; like an old man with a pretty young wife. There are many Templars here, _sí,_ but in the Antivan Circle you cannot take a step without a guard breathing down your neck with one hand on his blade."

Flora grimaced, leaning back against the pillows and watching Alistair shrug his unbuttoned tunic from his broad shoulders. Both she and the elf were silent for a moment, admiring the solid, olive-toned musculature of Alistair's chest; honed through years of meticulous drill and action in the field.

"The Templars here weren't that bad," she said at last, thoughtfully. "I know they punished people who tried to escape, but they weren't _overly_ harsh. I got caught out after curfew a lot – mostly sneaking down to the kitchens – and I mostly got told off. They didn't treat me too badly."

Alistair gave an indignant nod, striding over to the window. Like all holes hewn into the solid stone edifice, it was covered with a soldered iron grill; thick, black bars impeding the view of Calenhad's reflection of the night sky.

"I should think not," he retorted, drawing the crimson velvet curtain across the barred window. "My love. It's hard to imagine you locked up in this grim prison. At least the Templars weren't too horrible to you."

Flora and Zevran glanced at one another, a flicker of mutual understanding passing between them. The elf reached out to tap her good knee gently in a premature apology, clearing his throat.

" _Sí, mi sirenita_ has been very fortunate," he murmured, leaning back against the pillows. "There are many horror stories emerging from the mage towers of Thedas. If Flora had been in – say – _Kirkwall's_ Circle, her experience could have been quite different, from what I've heard."

Alistair finished drawing the curtains, a frown scrawling itself across his handsome features as he turned back to the bed.

"What do you mean?"

Zevran paused, and then lifted one shoulder in a rueful shrug.

"A beautiful girl from – apparently – a background of poverty, with nobody to speak for her? In Kirkwall, _mi florita_ would have been taken as some Templar officer's bedchamber pet. Perhaps even Tranquillised to facilitate the abuse."

Alistair's jaw dropped even as Flora winced; she had predicted that Zevran's example would be cruel, but not _that_ hideous.

"But… but that's a violation of their oath to the Chantry," the king protested, striding over to the bed and sitting down beside his grimacing wife. "Templars are supposed to _protect_ the mages within their care. To preserve their well-being! _Maker's Breath!_ Flo, nothing like that… nothing like that ever happened to you? Well, I suppose you could have just used your shield if anyone tried to _–_ to _force themselves_ on you."

Flora gazed at her best friend silently, waiting for his thought to reach its logical conclusion. It manifested visibly on Alistair's face, a brief contortion of dreaded realisation.

"But if you used magic against a Templar, they _could_ use that as an excuse to have you Tranquilised."

Alistair reached out for Flora, drawing her close against his side in a surge of sudden protectiveness.

"My sweet girl," he breathed, his arm now wrapped tight around her shoulders. "You were only little when you came here. Fifteen years old is – well, you were _a child."_

The troubled look embedded itself more deeply on Alistair's face; the realisation dawning that – had his training been completed – he would have been on the other side of this imbalanced power equation.

Zevran glanced at Flora, who shot her friend a wan smile in return.

 _It's enough to make him aware,_ the elf communicated with a single flicker of his rich Antivan eyes. _Get the thought planted in that royal brain._

The former Crow rose to his feet with a small sigh, putting fingers to his mouth in an elaborate aping of a yawn.

"Speaking of curious apprentices, I might have a little wander and see what I can find. Or," he continued, with a wry smile and an eloquent shrug. "I may go straight to my slumber. It's been a long day on the road."

As Zevran rose to his feet with catlike grace, Flora grasped a handful of embroidered wool and thrust it towards him.

"Take a spare blanket," she instructed, sternly. "It always gets cold at night here, no matter how much wood you put on the hearth."

The elf reached out for the blanket, folding the bundle of patterned wool elegantly over his arm. He looked about to say something, and then changed his mind, reaching out to drop an affectionate hand to the top of Flora's head instead.

" _Gracias, nena._ See you both in the morning, hm?"

As the door closed in Zevran's wake, those left within caught a metallic sheen outside; the usual Royal Guard replaced by Templars for the duration of their Circle stay. Flora leaned back against the cushions, watching Alistair arrange a half-dozen more logs in the hearth. He had taken her warning about chilly nights at Kinloch Hold to heart; the king was determined to defy the rule.

"The cold is in the building's bones," she told him, wriggling her bare toes against the tangled blankets. "It's sunk in too deep. It's never properly warm here."

Alistair could _feel_ what she meant – there was an odd texture to the tower air that let draughts pass freely through, but any thermal breeze or warm current was brutally suppressed. He thought that it might have something to do with the dampness of the walls, or their ancient, Tevinter-built thickness – regardless of the cause, the outcome was a permanent chilly edge to the air.

He abandoned the hearth, hanging the poker on its hook and turning back towards the bed. Flora was still slumped against the cushions, patting a hand idly over her stomach to try and encourage its contents into a more comfortable position. Her hair was dishevelled – she had spent much of the afternoon snoring against his chest - and she was paler than usual, smudges of tiredness outlining her eyes.

Alistair paused at the foot of the bed, his soft, hazel eyes bruised with affection as they settled on her.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

Flora looked over at him as he sat on the mattress, scratching the end of her nose.

"I feel like a bloated fish," she confessed, dolefully. "And every part of me is sore."

Slithering up the blankets Alistair propped himself on top of her, using strong arms to keep himself elevated. Flora reflexively slid back down against the pillows, peering up at him through half-closed eyes. He ducked his head to peer closely at her; the green flecks in his tawny stare standing out more prominently in the firelight.

Flora, a northerner who never shied away from direct gazes, stared unblinkingly back at him. Alistair's gaze wandered over her finely-hewn features, which - over the past year - had begun to emerge with startling clarity from the childishness of adolescence.

"Maker," he murmured, with breathless admiration. _"'Florence the Fair',_ indeed. My beautiful wife. I'm the luckiest man in Thedas."

The king, sensitive to his queen's advanced condition, was in the habit of letting her decide whether or not they would be intimate. There had been a few occasions when Flora had preferred to lie chaste and untouched at his side; usually when she felt particularly nauseous. Most nights, she still actively sought out her husband's touch, urged onwards by hormonal imbalance and a desire to be distracted from the soreness of her body.

Now Flora smiled shyly, the wide, languid mouth curving upwards at one corner even as a flush spread itself across her collarbone. Reaching up, she cupped his newly stubbled cheek in a palm and drew his head down to hers; letting one knee loll to the side in a blatant invitation.

Alistair's gaze refocused, narrowing and darkening as lust began to diffuse into the tenderness. He licked his lips, letting his thigh drop between her parted legs with deliberate provocation. To further display her willingness Flora readily ground herself against the hard muscle, an involuntary whimper escaping her throat.

" _Aah- "_

"Keep doing that, baby," the king instructed hoarsely, unbuttoning her night-shirt with lust-clumsy fingers. "Maker, I can't get enough of all the gorgeous little noises you make. I wish I could bottle them."

Letting the fabric drape open to reveal Flora's full cleavage, Alistair began to lavish her bare breasts with careful attention. He pressed gentle kisses against her sensitive nipples, letting his tongue gently flick at each one in turn. Instead of squeezing each ripe breast like a peach at market, he caressed the plump mound with loving, softly stroking fingers.

Only once his new wife was squirming and desperate for _more_ , did Alistair begin to kiss his way down her body. His kisses shifted from lustful to loving, then veered sharply back to the former as his mouth reached her pubic mound. After nuzzling his face into the soft wisps of hair he licked his lips in anticipation, eager to begin.

"Can I kiss you down here, lovely?" he asked for a final time, wanting to confirm her desire. "Use my tongue on that pretty little- "

She parted her thighs as readily as she had done for him at Ostagar seven months earlier; when he had taken her hard and ungentle on a mouldering bedroll with Cailan's ashes still smudged on his cheek.

Twenty minutes later, and Flora had somehow discarded the remainder of her clothing. She was sprawled entirely naked atop the blankets, one hand flung limply to the side. An expression of delight was embedded across her flushed face; her eyes half-closed and her lips parted. The only sound in the chamber came from the crackling hearth, and from the king's mouth working enthusiastically between his bride's legs, his tongue tracing the most intimate contours of her body. Small pants of arousal escaped her throat and the fingers of her free hand clutched the blanket.

The king had honed his skills in this area extensively over the past seven months, mostly through frequent practice with an enthusiastic and extremely willing partner. He had also learnt several invaluable techniques from watching Flora and Isabela in bed together. The future queen and Rivaini pirate had made love for almost a half-candle before Alistair had joined in; he had been struck into paralysis by the beauty of their entwined bodies writhing on the bed.

Now Flora's other hand rested atop Alistair's head, gently nudging his attention between different spots. He acquiesced eagerly, drinking her in, his tongue's sole aim to coax forth as much pleasure as possible.

"Come on, baby," he murmured thickly between caresses, nuzzling his face against her inner thigh. "Come on, my love. Don't hold back; I want to taste my prize."

Sure enough, Flora obligingly came apart beneath him, her fingers clenched in the blankets and her hips arching as high as they were able, considering the additional weight upon them. Her wail of completion echoed to the lofty ceiling of the guest chamber, reverberating between the covered tapestry of Andraste and the Chantry relics arranged on the dresser.

A delighted Alistair continued to press teasing kisses into her, branding her with his lips over and over until she was almost cross-eyed.

Finally, he emerged from between her legs and reached for a flagon from the night-table, taking several breathless gulps. Once he had refreshed himself, he replaced the tankard and went to take his wife in his arms, embracing her as she lay limp and dazed in a tangle of blankets.

"Darling," he breathed, drawing her close to his chest and curving his body around her. "We haven't done that in _weeks._ What's _wrong_ with me? It's one of my favourite things to do."

"It's hard to do in a tent," Flora replied prosaically, patting her six foot and three inch tall husband on the back of the neck. "And you'd have to contort yourself oddly. Or have your feet sticking out of the doorway!"

Alistair let out a dismissive grunt, he was happy to contort himself in whatever peculiar manner was required, if it would satisfy his wife. Flora reached for his hand and linked their fingers together, the metal of the wedding rings making a gentle _clink_ as they collided.

"It was a little strange not being able to see you," she confessed, gesturing down to her protruding stomach and trying not to giggle. "When you did that _thing_ with your tongue, I thought maybe Isabela had got lost on her way back to the harbour. Except for the _stubble,_ which was a giveaway."

Alistair grinned, bringing their conjoined fingers to his mouth for a kiss.

"I did learn that 'thing' from her," he admitted, cheerfully. "She was a good teacher."

* * *

OOC Author Note: WHAAAAAT two updates in one day? My husband is taking me to Bath for a few days, so there won't be any update until Sunday. Bath (google Bath, England) is a lovely little town with really nice Regency era architecture… I can get my Jane Austen fantasy on! Hahaha, I'm not really a Georgian period fan – it's not bloody or betraying enough for my medievalist heart – but it'll be nice anyway.


	107. The Watchers and the Watched

Chapter 107: The Watchers and the Watched

Flora had not been telling fibs: night in the Circle Tower arrived swiftly, with cold breath and colder hands. Despite it still being the end of Solace, Kinloch Hold's geographical position meant that it intercepted both the westerly winds from the Frostbacks, and the frigid air drifting south from the Waking Sea. Every chamber in the Circle tower had a roof that stood a dozen yards high, so any heat from the hearth was perpetually lost to the rafters. The basalt tiles, cut in sharp geometric patterns, were as unforgiving on bare feet as blocks of ice. In the winter, gossamer-thin veins of frost formed on the insides of the windows.

Flora, who had spent ten years sleeping in a mildewed fisherman's hut before being taken to the Circle, had once found the night-time chill oddly comforting. She had liked to wrap herself up in blankets until only her eyes remained visible; snug as a nesting bird until morning. Now that she had to pry herself from the warmth of Alistair's arms at regular intervals to use the privy, Flora was not so keen on the Circle's bitterly cold climate.

As the Templars changed watch at the second hour of morning, she was forced to disentangle herself from Alistair once again. He let out a sleepy mumble, rolling over into the warm hollow where his wife had been lying.

Grimacing at every bare-footed step, Flora inched her way across the frigid tiles, suddenly wistful for the liberally-strewn furs covering the floor of the Royal bedchamber back in Denerim.

 _Leliana mentioned once that in Orlais, they have special night-shoes for when you needed to seek out the privy at night,_ she remembered, probing her mind for the memory. _Made of silk, with a fur lining._

 _I made fun of her at the time – needing special shoes just to go to the toilet! Herring girls, barefoot always! But now, I'm envious. I wish I had some._

 _What were they called? Kippers?_

Finally reaching the door, Flora rapped gently at the solid oak with her knuckles. It swung open almost immediately; a Templar whom she vaguely recognised stepped forwards with a bow.

"Your majesty? Is anything wrong?"

"I need the privy again," she confessed, slightly embarrassed. "Nothing's wrong."

The Templar, keeping a well-honed straight face, nodded. He stepped back to allow Flora to pass through the doorway, following in her wake at a discreet distance.

On her way back from the privy, a small doorway half-hidden between racks of stacked shields caught the queen's eye. She paused, a flicker of memory igniting in the back of her mind.

"Where does that lead to?"

"Up to the roof, mag- _your majesty,"_ replied Flora's Templar escort, who had once berated her sixteen year old self for twenty solid minutes after she had been caught in the kitchens after curfew. "The back stair."

"Oh," Flora breathed, her eyes misting over with reminiscence. "Oh, I used to sneak up there _all the time._ Oops, sorry."

A vein above the Templar's eye was twitching at this confession, but professionalism won out. He let out a slightly strangled grunt, inclining his head.

"I wanted to see if you could see the sea from up there," she confessed, wanting to justify her rule-breaking. "I was so homesick. You _couldn't_ see the sea, but… but if it was a cloudy evening, you could fool yourself into thinking that the horizon was water."

Flora blinked at herself, surprised at her own eloquence in the face of a Templar. She had rarely spoken to one in such lengths before; spurred on by her impulsivity, she took a step towards the doorway and reached out for the handle. As her fingers grasped the iron ring, a nagging voice echoed in the back of her head, stern and demanding acknowledgement.

 _You promised: no more nocturnal wanderings!_

It was not the voice of her spirits, but it was authoritative enough for Flora to listen. She withdrew her hand, turning on her bare heel and scuttling – crab-like – back across the cold tiles towards the bedchamber.

Moments later, she was hunched awkwardly beside Alistair, patting his shoulder with rhythmic urgency.

"Alistair, Alistair- "

The king let out a strangled groan, rubbing his hand over his face and letting out an unintelligible sound. Flora continued to beat at him gently with her fingers until he opened his eyes, blinking to gain focus.

"Alistair, Alistair."

"Wha – what is it, my love?" he said, the words emerging in a tangle of sleep.

"You asked me to tell you when I was going off in the middle of the night," she whispered, more dark-red ropes of hair hanging free from the band than contained within it. "So this is that. Me telling you."

Alistair blinked again as her words pierced the fog of sleep with ominous clarity.

"' _Going off in the middle of the night',"_ he repeated, a frown embedding itself across his handsome features. "Going off _where,_ pumpkin?"

"The roof."

" _The roof?!"_ Alistair's voice rose several pitches in alarm as he sat up, gaping at her. "Darling, I don't want you running amok on rooftops! Especially not in your condition."

"I won't be _running_ _amok_ ," Flora retorted, indignantly. "I'll be… _elegantly strolling_."

"Elegantly strolling?"

"Mm. It's a flat roof. It's got a _precipice."_

She had meant to say _parapet,_ unwittingly choosing its more dangerous cousin _._ Alistair eyed her appraisingly for a moment; Flora gazed back at him, a fleck of Herring grit in her stare. The king, realising that his wife was not going to change her mind, swung his legs out of bed with a yawn.

" _Right._ If we're going outside, my love, you're not going in just a nightie and bare feet."

Flora patiently waited, holding out her arms as she was bundled up in about six different jumpers and a blanket. Once Alistair was satisfied that the harsh western winds were not going to reach an inch of his wife's baby-bearing body, he pulled on his own tunic and gamely made to follow her on this most recent nocturnal venture.

Hand in hand, they made their way out into the tiled corridor with its dizzyingly high ceiling. The Templars on guard duty shot them an odd glance before following discretely in their wake; as did several more patrolling the corridors.

"Now that I'm the _watched_ rather than the _watcher_ in this situation _,"_ Alistair breathed, watching Flora wrap her fingers around the iron ring on the door. "I can see how odd it must feel. Let me get the door, sweeting."

Flora nodded; she recalled well enough how it felt to be scrutinised. She and Alistair had grown used to being in the public eye over recent months, but even that was not the same as this particular type of observation – a close, disturbingly intimate stare that looked for any hint of demonic possession. It was a stare with one hand on the sword, rather than raised in praise or greeting. Although neither Flora nor Alistair were in danger of possession; the Templar glare did not discriminate.

Alistair's lips tautened as he held the door open, light spilling into a shadowed spiral staircase. The narrow constrictions of the space seemed even tighter when compared to the airy vastness of the rest of the Circle architecture. The torches placed in iron brackets were unlit, since the back stair was so infrequently used; the air had a strange mustiness to it. Due to its location within the centre of the Tower, there were no windows to let in slits of light. One of the guards brought forth a lantern from some nearby store, venturing up ahead to light their way.

"Oh," breathed Flora, astounded that it was only a year ago that she had crept up this cobwebbed staircase with regularity. "It feels like ages ago since I was last here."

She began to plod up the steps, noting with some ruefulness how often she needed to stop to catch her breath. Alistair followed close on her heels, arms hovering in preparation to reach out and steady her in case of lost footing.

Gradually, they made their way in tight concentric circles up through the remaining floors of the Circle. They passed behind the wall of the First Enchanter's study, where Irving and Wynne were hunched deep in conversation; then beside the Harrowing Chamber at the apex of the tower.

The staircase came to an abrupt end with a wooden door, upon which a heavy iron padlock had been ostentatiously hung.

"Looks like it's been locked up tight," observed Alistair, nudging the padlock with a finger. "Save for battering the door down, there's not much we can do."

"No, no- " corrected Flora, clutching the errant blanket to her chest. It kept slithering down her shoulders, the rich lambs' wool lacking the traction of its coarse, cheaper equivalent. "It's not attached to anything."

She reached out and lifted the padlock, showing that it merely hung useless at the handle; though looked convincing enough at a distance. A gentle nudge and the door swung open, administering a blast of chilly air straight to their faces.

The rooftop was wide and flat, surrounded by a low, crenelated parapet. The central spire in its centre rose up towards the night sky like a finger pointed to the heavens. To the south, Lake Calenhad stretched out in a vast, ink-black mirror, emulating the night sky with eerie accuracy. To the east, the terrain rose up in low, uneven hills, covered in dense forest. To the north lay rugged moorland, occupied only by sheep and their caretakers. Yet perhaps the most impressive view was directly _upwards;_ where the stars crowded the heavens with a tangle of iridescent constellations, the moon a vast, glimmering replica of the pearl resting on the queen's slender finger. The night sky during the waning of Solace was always especially beautiful; streaks of silvery mist strewn through the atmosphere like the effervescent breath of some nocturnal goddess.

Alistair paused for a moment to gaze upwards, struck into silence by the sheer beauty of the gleaming firmament. The air was cold enough that he could see his own breath coalesce before his face; the exposed skin of his forearms rose up in startled dimples. He took several steps forward, resting his hands atop the parapet that separated the roof from the precarious drop.

The king could see the occasional cluster of lights along the shore, marking the locations of various villages too small to be noted by cartographers. His thoughts turned reflexively to Herring – which had now been hand-inked on every map in Ferelden – and then to his wife, who had been so indignant when she first realised that it had not been included in the first place.

Flora had not ventured to the more picturesque southern face of the tower, with its view of the Lake, or the east to gaze at the rolling hills of the Bannorn. Instead, she had crossed the flagstones – ignorant of the chill air – to stare out from the northern balcony. The peat moorland stretched out for three dozen barren miles, unbroken by civilisation save for the occasional shepherd's hut. No trees or tall bushes rose up to interrupt the rugged skyline; all life on the moors was forced to hunch close to the earth by the punishing and perpetual winds from the Waking Sea. The horizon was lost in a mass of cloud, grey and ominous.

The sea itself was not visible from the Circle Tower's northern balcony. This had been a source of recurring sadness for the younger Flora, who lived in hope that the cloud might one day clear and allow her to glimpse her home. This was a foolish hope – especially for a native of Herring – since thick, dense cloud was an almost permanent climatic cipher of the north.

Now, darkness hid all but the first few miles of moorland, shrouding what lay beyond in shadow. Out of habit, Flora still squinted towards it, placing both hands on the cold basalt stone of the parapet. She had let the blanket drop from her shoulders in her eagerness to venture over to the balcony, although the multiple layers of woollen jumper kept her sufficiently warm.

"We'll be at the north coast by the middle of next week, my love."

Alistair replaced the blanket around her shoulders, having retrieved it as he ventured across the tower roof. He slid his arms around her swollen waist and she instinctively leaned back against him.

"I'm so excited," she whispered, tremulously. "I can't wait to see the sea. Not that the Amaranthine Ocean wasn't beautiful," she admitted hastily, recalling the placid, pea-green coastline beside Denerim. "But it… it wasn't the Waking Sea."

Alistair grimaced involuntarily, and he ducked his head to press a kiss to Flora's head. Both from what Finian had told him, and his own general knowledge of Fereldan geography, the northern coast was an unbroken stretch of bleak and brutal ugliness; with the foulest weather in Ferelden and a tide that actively sought to drag men to their deaths.

Yet Flora was gazing off into the mist-shrouded horizon with an odd wistfulness, recalling the dozens – _hundreds_ \- of times over her four year stay she had perched on this parapet and stared fruitlessly towards her home, always tantalisingly just hidden from view.

"Once I thought the cloud was clearing and so I stayed up here until dawn," she said, almost to herself. "That was the time the Templars caught me."

"What did they do?" breathed Alistair, barely daring to ask.

"Put me in a dark cell on my own for a week," Flora replied, with a little shrug. "But it wasn't so bad. I had my spirits to talk to, and I- I could make my own light."

She raised her fingers, and for a brief moment, was genuinely shocked that no gleaming gold ignited beneath her bitten nails.

"How old were you, my love?" asked Alistair, having a hard time keeping his voice even.

"It wasn't long after I arrived," Flora replied, after furrowing her brow in thought. "I'd just turned fifteen."

"Maker's Breath," said Alistair in alarm, drawing her closer. "You were still a-a little girl."

Flora shrugged a shoulder and gave an ambiguous grunt; her spirits had been with her and she had not been frightened. In fact, the quiet and isolation had been a welcome break from the crowds and bustle of the apprentice dormitories.

"I was never hurt by the Templars," she countered, wrapping her fingers around his arm and stroking it through the sleeve. _"You_ used to get beaten at the monastery when you misbehaved."

"Well, I probably deserved it," the king replied, with forced cheeriness. "I was an angry little sod at times."

Flora shot him a beady-eyed look of reproach, her head swivelling back and forth in firm denial.

"You did _not_ deserve it _._ If we ever go to Bournshire monastery, I'm going to… to… to _keel-haul_ all the instructors that ever laid a finger on you!"

Alistair bit back a smile, rubbing the heel of his palm over her wool-swaddled belly to feel the outline of the babe beneath.

"Sounds like a plan, my love. Though I'm sure, after a month at Revanloch, you've seen enough Chantry monasteries to last a lifetime."

They stayed up on the rooftop for some time, huddled together for protection against the chilly night air and gazing out towards the mist-shrouded north. Eventually, Flora yawned and turned her face sleepily against Alistair's arm; he kissed the top of her head with tender affection.

"Ready to go back to bed, my sweet little lobster?"

Flora, who loved any marine-themed term of endearment, beamed.

"Mm!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Just got back from Bath and husband is already locked in the study hard at work, so I just finished some editing! I love Bath and I highly recommend it to anyone who lives in England or who ever comes to London to a holiday – it's only 90 minutes on the train from London Paddington! As well as the Roman Baths, which are stunning, the whole town is a UNESCO World Heritage site because of the Georgian architecture – all buildings have to be built from honey-coloured Cotswolds stone, and in the Palladian style. Plus the shopping is amazing (p much had to buy a new suitcase to come back) and Stonehenge is really close. Lol I sound like a tourist ad for Bath! #NOTSPONSORED hahaha. Anyway, I recommend it!

Dual meaning to the chapter title – referring to the Templars always watching, and Flora's continuous vigil in hope of seeing the northern coast from the tower roof!

And Flora, you moron, it's "SLIPPERS". Kippers!

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	108. The Mage Council

Chapter 108: The Mage Council

The next morning, Alistair could have sworn that he had awoken back in Denerim Castle. The door to their bedroom was eased open an hour after dawn, and what seemed like a bevy of people trooped in. This included – to the king's mild alarm – Wynne, Greagoir and the First Enchanter's secretary.

Thanking Andraste that neither he nor Flora were unclothed – he was in his sleep-trousers while she was in the alarming mustard dressing gown – Alistair rubbed a hand over his face and eyed the early arrivals.

"It's the Council of the Bedchamber: Circle edition," he commented without rancour, nudging Flora gently awake. "Morning, everyone. Did we oversleep?"

"No," began the diplomatic Teagan, just as Wynne issued a blunt _yes._ "Well, perhaps just a little. Did you two have a late night?"

The bann cringed, realising the inference that could be gleaned from his question. Alistair blinked, but Flora came to her husband's rescue; pushing herself up against the cushions and smiling at Teagan.

"We went up onto the roof," she confessed, cheerfully. "It was my fault. We were up there for an hour."

"Did you see the sea this time, _nena_?" Zevran asked, eyeing a gilded symbol of Andraste stood prominently on the dresser. The elf recalled well enough Flora describing the purpose of her past rooftop visits during their earlier travels.

"No, it was too cloudy," Flora replied, swinging her legs from beneath the blankets. "Ooh, I need the privy again."

As the queen padded off – a vision in mustard wool - with a guard trailing in her wake, Alistair clambered out of bed and stretched his sleep-sore muscles.

"What's the plan for today?" he asked, taking a hunk of bread from the breakfast tray as he headed towards the ewer and basin. "Let me guess – it involves a lot of climbing up and down staircases?"

"In the morning, after attending the senior enchanters' briefing, you'll be shown around the Circle facilities," announced Irving's secretary, making a show of consulting his notebook despite having learnt the schedule off by heart. "In the afternoon, you'll be observing one of our classroom sessions."

Alistair nodded, dropping the wet flannel back into the bowl and looking about the chamber for his tunic.

"And the evening?"

"If you and the queen desire it, we have a very astute healer amongst our senior ranks," the secretary continued, quill and parchment in hand. "A mage proficient in assessing the wellbeing of mother and unborn babe – he's just returned from assisting a midwife in a nearby village. Would you have him visit your quarters this evening?"

Alistair nodded, letting out a long exhalation of relief.

"Maker's Breath! Yes. I'd appreciate that _immensely."_

The secretary made a brief note on his parchment and then paused, an edge of slight wariness creeping into his tone.

"I should mention that – the healer in question is a former _Dalish_ _elf._ Would this be an issue, your majesty?"

From his perch near the window, Zevran let out a low snort, rolling his coal-dark Antivan eyes. Alistair paused in the buttoning of his tunic, his voice calm and measured but with chips of glass in his accompanying stare.

"I assure you, that won't be an issue _in the slightest,"_ he replied, quietly. "Shall we ask the queen, to be sure? Though I'm reasonably certain I know her answer."

Flora had just returned, her oxblood hair clashing alarmingly with the lurid wool.

"My love?"

"Eh?"

"There's someone who can check the health of the baby later today. A Dalish elf."

Flora beamed, her expression brightening.

"Oh, good! I wonder if they've got any herbal remedies for indigestion? My stomach keeps growling like… like an angry toadfish."

Alistair turned back towards the secretary with eyebrows raised to his hairline, spreading his hands wryly.

"The queen clearly has no issue with it, ser."

"Issue with what?" asked Flora, gratefully accepting a pear from Teagan.

"Nothing, my love. Eat up, we've a long day ahead of us."

The first item on the day's agenda was a meeting with the senior enchanters, hosted within a circular room nestled between the Harrowing chamber and the First Enchanter's study. It was a round, high-ceilinged space, lined with curving bookshelves and hung with various arcane curiosities. Oddities in glass cases were scattered amongst the bookshelves, some of them emitting their own muted source of light.

As they entered, Zevran drew closer to Flora, drawing her attention towards one particular case. It contained a Qunari skull, one horn broken; its mouth affixed in a wide, silent roar. Various runic inscriptions were carved into the pale bone, several of them appeared to be glowing faintly.

" _Carina,_ it's things such as _that_ which give mages a bad name," he murmured under his breath. "Why could there not be something innocuous in there?"

"Like what?" replied Flora, bemused.

Zevran could not think of anything and so pulled a little face, eyeing the Qunari skull with misgiving.

"Enjoy your tedious meeting, _nena._ I am off to explore."

"Don't get into trouble!"

"I shall endeavour to!"

It was oddly poignant to sit at the oval table with the survivors of Ferelden's senior mage council – each chair had been labelled with a name, and several seats sat empty. Out of respect for those who had been killed – either during the Circle crisis or in the final battle – their staves and cloaks were left on their unoccupied chairs. One chair was turned ostensibly away from the table; Flora assumed that this must have belonged to the traitor Uldred.

She, Alistair and Teagan were seated on chairs reserved for guests, near the apex of the oval. Alistair was seated in the position of honour beside First Enchanter Irving, and Flora was placed at his right. There was a slight delay as various cushions were located for the heavy-bellied queen's back – and she found her eyes wandering to the empty chair beside Teagan's seat.

There was a handwritten label on it, but the writing was elegant, calligraphic, and utterly unintelligible. Flora nudged Teagan, pointing towards the label.

"Whose chair was that?"

Teagan leaned over, reading the name with ease.

"' _Niall'."_

Flora inhaled, recalling the sad-faced mage instructor she had met while trapped within the Sloth demon's Fade-prison. Together, she and Niall had slain the demon; but only she had returned back through the Veil into the waking world.

"Was he one of your old teachers, poppet?" Teagan asked, spotting the flicker of recognition across Flora's face.

"No," she replied, gravely. "The senior enchanters taught the advanced classes. I never passed beyond beginner."

"A _critical_ flaw in our system," murmured Wynne from her own designated seat, brow furrowing. "Someone with your healing abilities should have been tutored by a senior enchanter from the moment you arrived at the Circle. But since your other skills were so limited, you were kept in classes taught by less experienced mages."

Flora was grateful for the timely arrival of the cushions, saving them from further reminiscence on her own former abilities.

Once she had been sufficiently propped up against the chair, several Tranquil arrived to place silver wine-jugs and matching cups before them.

First Enchanter Irving swept his gaze around those gathered at the table, clearing his throat and steepling his fingers. The elderly mage was dressed in ceremonial navy robes that appeared in far better condition than his usual drab attire – the other mages were clad in the customary maroon garb of a senior enchanter. Knight-Captain Greagoir was seated in a chair set slightly apart from the council table, its wooden back carved with the Templar symbol.

"As always, we shall begin our session with a moment of silence to honour those members of our Council no longer with us," Irving began, his words resonating through the still, damp air. "Leorah; Niall; Surana; Jamic."

There followed a pause, during which Flora dutifully closed her eyes and Alistair shot a curious side-glance towards Uldred's turned-away chair. Returning his gaze forward, the king flinched as he met the direct stare of a balding, portly mage seated opposite – only to realise that the man was blind, pale clouds floating over his pupils.

"May their spirits watch over us from the Fade," Irving concluded, then cleared his throat and shuffled his parchment. "Right. What's next?"

Greagoir let out a soft snort of exasperation. Wynne rolled her eyes at the First Enchanter's absentmindedness, canting her head pointedly towards where Alistair and Flora were sitting.

"Ah!" said Irving, brightly. "Of course. The Circle is honoured by the presence of King Alistair… ah, _Queen Florence,_ and Bann Guerrin of Rainesfere."

There was only the slightest pause before _Queen Florence,_ but it went unnoticed by no one. Flora hunched a fraction in her chair, trying desperately not to sulk. Alistair nodded politely, his lips taut. He was well aware of Flora's discomfort, and wished that he could put his hand on her knee beneath the table. Unfortunately, the chairs were spaced too far apart; their wooden legs magically sealed to the flagstones.

"It's been many decades since a king of Ferelden last visited our Circle," Irving continued, fingers running thoughtfully through the end of his trailing beard. "Your father came shortly after his coronation, around the turn of the Age."

"Yes, it's been far too long," Alistair said bluntly, in no mood for draping politeness over his words. "Denerim needs to become much more involved in Ferelden's Circles, if only to ensure that what happened last year will never be repeated. I want to hear the results of your inquiry into the incident, _including_ the measures and precautions taken to prevent it from happening again."

The First Enchanter raised his eyebrows and gazed at the young king, who stared back with Marician steeliness. Alistair was leaning back in his chair, exuding the natural confidence that accompanied a position of authority, his expression expectant.

Flora felt a throb of pride within her chest as she glanced sideways at her best friend.

 _He's getting so good at this,_ she thought to herself. _I don't even think he needs to force himself to do it anymore. I think it's starting to come naturally._

"Senior Enchanter Torrin led the investigation into the abomination crisis," Irving said, acquiescing to the king's request. "Torrin, would you kindly recant your findings?"

"Just the important bits," Alistair said hastily, aware that mages tended towards wordiness. "Like _why_ it happened in the first place, and _how_ you're going to ensure that it'll never happen again. But I want a full copy of the report to take back to Denerim."

Over the next hour, the senior enchanter went meticulously through all that Alistair had requested, including Uldred's growing fascination with blood magic and his eventual summoning of the Sloth demon. Alistair listened with a stony expression; it having just occurred to him that if Flora had not been recruited by Duncan, she too would have been caught up in the carnage and chaos at the Circle.

The king was more interested in the new _precautions_ put in place to prevent such terrible events from occurring again. These included more extensive checks on senior enchanters, in the same manner that their junior colleagues were scrutinised.

"Woken up in the middle of the night to check for possession," muttered Senior Enchanter Sweeney to the mage at his side. "Just like being a bloody apprentice again."

He was silenced by glares from all other parts of the table. Torrin continued to list off the precautions in a monotonous drone; including package inspections and new regulations on items taken from the reagent stores.

Alistair listened keenly, nodding even as a line furrowed its way into his brow.

"Listen," he said at last, leaning forward with an earnest expression writ across his handsome, bronze-stubbled face. "I don't want more _punitive_ actions taken against the mages. I just want them to be kept safe. They're Fereldan citizens, which means that their wellbeing is ultimately _my_ responsibility."

No king had ever been so explicit. Flora, unable to stop herself, stretched out her hand across the table. Alistair reached out to catch her fingers and brought them to his mouth, pecking them with swift affection.

The next item for discussion was whether there was some magical way of purifying the Blight-tainted soil. Morrigan had gone to investigate the method purportedly used by the Korcari tribes, but Alistair also wanted to pursue a line of inquiry within the Circle itself.

Glass vials of Blighted soil from both Lothering and South Reach were brought out from satchels and placed on the table. Various other arcane and alchemical supplies were produced with quick efficiency by attending Tranquil. Alembics, crucibles, mortars and pestles were set up alongside a variety of colourful phials, some of them bubbling away without any discernible source of heat.

"Sweetheart," said Alistair, and there was a note of apology in his tone. "My love, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in here during the experiments. In case the baby inhales some _miasmic fumes_ by proxy. Would you wait outside, just for a bit? There's benches in the passage."

Flora briefly considered voicing protest – the alchemical paraphernalia looked far more interesting than staring at a wall with only a dour-faced Templar for company. However, she conceded that Alistair probably had a point.

There was a general shuffling as the mage council rose to echo the movement of the queen. Alistair walked Flora to the door, ducking to kiss her in the centre of the forehead.

"I'll try and speed this along as quickly as possible," he murmured, gazing down at her. "You know how mages like to pontificate."

Flora had no idea what he meant but nodded anyway, flashing him a wan smile in response.

As she left, two Templars rose to discreetly follow in her wake; Alistair's eyes narrowed like a hawk as he watched them go.

"May we sit down now, Alistair?" Wynne asked, pointedly. "My knees aren't what they used to be."

"Oh, right. Yes, of course."

* * *

OOC Author Note: It was nice to write Alistair being more authoritative – I'm not sure if everyone agrees with my characterisation, but I think it's perfectly possible for the shy and insecure Alistair from the beginning of Origins to mature and develop into a confident leader. It's a character arc/development that I personally prefer, anyway! Anyway, all this stuff about senior enchanter meetings is pure headcanon, but I love me some good headcanon, lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	109. Flora the Archmage?

Chapter 109: Flora the Archmage?

The passageway was like any other within the Circle: curved, high-ceilinged and with a dizzying geometric pattern set into the tiled floor. Flora sat down on a stone bench outside the council chamber, with one hand resting at the apex of her squirming stomach.

"You're full of energy today," she said to her belly, feeling a wriggle in response to her voice. "Did you have a restful night?"

"The standard six hours, as per regulation," came a muffled reply, as one of the Templar guards misinterpreted the direction of her question. Immediately afterwards, the Templar realised his mistake and flushed crimson behind his helm.

Flora, initially taken aback, was kind enough not to point out the guard's error.

"Six hours?" she repeated, turning her pale gaze towards him. "Do you think that's long enough? Wynne says that _eight_ is best. I slept for _ten_ the other day."

The Templar let out a grunt, suspiciously eyeing the mark on the back of Flora's hand as it rested on top of her swollen stomach. Seconds later, his gaze inched upwards to where one elongated arc of the scar on her collarbone protruded above the neckline of her tunic.

Flora understood that people were curious as to the _type_ of marks left on one's body by an Archdemon's soul, but she felt vaguely uncomfortable with such scrutiny when it originated from a Templar. It reminded her of the miserable month she had spent in Revanloch, in mourning for the destruction of her spirits, and for the loss of her own magic.

Heaving herself to her feet, Flora decided to have a little _explore_ of these lofty quarters that had been restricted to her as a junior apprentice. The two Templars, exchanging a look of mild alarm, began to shuffle in the queen's wake as she padded along the corridor.

Flora paused beside the First Enchanter's study, recalling how she had once waited here for Duncan to come and fetch her; staff and travel cloak resting on her lap. Continuing around the curve in the corridor, she averted her eyes from the magically sealed entrance to the Harrowing chamber.

 _I still don't remember what happened during my own Harrowing,_ she thought to herself. _I remember the demon appearing and then – nothing. I suppose Valour killed it for me._

There came a little squirm from within her stomach. Flora patted it absentmindedly, wandering further along the curving corridor. Muffled voices echoed from ahead, their conversation too distant to discern.

A cluster of mages – along with a requisite scowling gaggle of Templar – were gathered in the entrance of a side-chamber; chattering like a flock of sparrows. Flora sidled forwards, curious as to what they were so transfixed by.

"What's going on?" she whispered to one rotund, bearded man who kept hopping from foot to foot excitedly.

"Enchanter Amell has manifested skeins of entropic magic without a foci," the man hissed back, then blanched as he caught sight of the question's progenitor. "Flor – Flora – wait, no - _Queen Florence!"_

Flora recognised the man – they had often vied for first place in the queue at dinner – and offered a smile that emerged more as a grimace. A ripple of whispers passed through the crowd, and more heads turned towards Flora as news of her arrival spread. She recognised a handful of them – several were former apprentices who had increased their seniority after she had left the Circle.

 _That girl with the curly hair used to poke candles into my ribs to try and provoke me into lighting them. She thought I was faking my limited abilities to seem more docile to the Templars._

 _That elf used to make fun of the way I spoke._

 _There's someone who left an actual vase on my pillow!_

In the face of their stares and scrutiny, Flora suddenly wished that she had not left the safety of the bench. She wanted nothing more than to return to Alistair's side, to be in the company of those who actually valued her.

 _Come on, you coward,_ she thought firmly, willing herself into lifting her chin. _Where's that Herring grit? Less shrimp, more shark!_

Straightening her shoulders and letting her belly precede her like the majestic prow of a ship, Flora sailed through the crowd to take up a position in the doorway. The other mages parted before her, still murmuring in fascination amongst themselves.

Arnette Amell had not allowed herself to become distracted by the new arrival. She was standing in the centre of a windowless hexagonal chamber, which contained no furniture save for a small pedestal at its centre. She was clad in the maroon robes of a senior enchanter – the colour fresh and bright, as though the garb had been freshly bestowed – and her dark hair was caught up in the usual uncompromising bun. In spite of the fracas at the doorway, her face bore a look of utter, unwavering focus; her features in still contrast to the precise movements of her arms. Her fingers wove about her as though conducting some invisible choir, carving glittering runic patterns through the air. Dark skeins of energy, varying in shade from rich black to inky navy, followed in the wake of her gesticulating hands. The occasional flash of crimson crackled between her fingers like localised lightning, reflected against the pale fixedness of her face.

"Don't get too close, your majesty," muttered one of the Templar guards, voice muffled behind his helmet. "Entropic magic is inherently unstable."

"It's beautiful," Flora breathed, resting her cheek against the stone frame of the doorway and watching in fascination.

 _Entropic magic is the opposite of creation magic, which is what I use - used to use. The other mages used to have a hard time even casting entropy spells in my presence; my whole body was like a dampener._

Gradually, the other mages overcame their initial excitement at the reappearance of the _Vase,_ crowding at her back to watch Arnette Amell's clever conjurations. Flora spent almost a half-candle gazing in fascination at the shifting veins of magical energy; though she was so disconnected from the Fade that she could not even taste the tingle of the arcane on her tongue.

"Queen Florence?"

It was one of the Tranquil, their bland enquiry breaking the crowd's awed silence. Flora turned around, startled, having also been absorbed in Amell's demonstration.

"They're ready for you in the council chamber."

Flora tore her gaze wistfully from the skilful display, following the Tranquil back along the corridor with the familiar thud of metallic boots in her wake.

As she entered the council chamber, those seated rose once more to acknowledge her arrival. Alistair stopped his pacing – he had been treading indentations in the flagstones between the table and the bookshelf – and crossed the distance between them in a handful of strides.

Flora smiled up at him, having missed her best friend's presence during the half-candle that they had been parted. Alistair reached down to catch her fingers in his, bringing her hand to his mouth to kiss each of her knuckles in turn.

"We were just talking about you, sweetheart," he murmured, touching her cheek before dropping his arm. "Come and sit."

"Talking about me?" Flora repeated warily, following him back to the table and settling herself down in her cushion-padded seat. "Oh, dear."

Irving nodded, quietly. His clever, milky blue eyes settled on the queen as she reached for her water-cup, lifting the vessel to her undeniably Cousland-shaped mouth.

"We were just discussing the fact that after the Blight – if you'd kept your abilities, naturally - you would have been granted the rank of _Archmage_."

It took all of Flora's restraint not to spit her mouthful of water across the polished wooden surface of the table. Instead, she let the cup drop with a clatter and stared in raw incredulity across at the First Enchanter.

" _Whaaa-?!"_

"Florence, what have we said about those nonsensical exclamations?" Wynne chided, briskly. "And it would have been a perfectly reasonable position to bestow upon you."

"Reasonable? _How?!"_ retorted Flora, astonished. "I could only ever do two things! I couldn't even light a _candle._ "

"But your healing could neutralise the taint itself," Irving countered, softly. "And your shield was strong enough to not only withstand my own channelled flame, but also the incendiary breath of an Archdemon."

Flora blinked a moment, her brow furrowed in a series of creases.

"But… I could only do those things because of my spirits," she said, in a small voice. "I know _now_ that they must have been powerful, but… still. I was just the vessel through which they channelled."

"Yes: a spirit healer," Irving replied, equally quietly. "One of rare potency. And the title of _Archmage_ is of course inapplicable now, but I thought you'd like to know, nonetheless."

Flora remained quiet for several long moments, her eyes pale and unfathomable as the Waking Sea. Alistair, who could read her ambiguous features like an open book, knew that his wife was drawing upon her Cousland heritage; summoning a righteous indignation that a humble Herring peasant would never think to express.

When she spoke at last, there was a steely vein in her tone that made those present at the table sit up and take notice.

"Do you know how many times I had to sit through _Elementary Elemental_ class when I was an apprentice here?" she asked, soft and low. "Actually, don't guess – I don't know the answer. I stopped counting when I ran out of fingers and toes."

She tapped her bitten fingernails on the table, a rhythmic staccato ringing out against the wood. The plump, milky pearl on her fourth finger rested snugly above the woven golden rope of the wedding band; glinting in the light from the suspended candelabras.

"I spent more time cleaning the corridors than I did in the classroom. All my instructors thought that I was _ignorant_ because I couldn't read, and _incompetent_ because I couldn't even light a candle. Which is why I find it a little strange that now – a year later – I'm worthy of the title _Archmage?"_

Flora took a breath, voicing thoughts that had been on her mind from the moment she had set foot once more in Kinloch Hold.

"I should have been taught how to read," she said, quietly. "How to write. And I shouldn't have been made to sit in the same class over and over, for _four years."_

There was a long pause, while the senior enchanters avoided looking at one another. Wynne flashed Flora a surreptitious, oddly proud smile.

"The Circle failed you, Flora," admitted Irving, who had suspected that the new queen might express thoughts of this nature. "I personally apologise for oversights made during your time here."

"Thank you, but I don't want an apology," replied Flora, patiently. "I also don't want anyone else to feel the way that _I_ felt when I lived here, if their magic doesn't quite work in the _usual_ way. Something needs to change."

"A mentoring scheme might work," Wynne spoke up, quietly. "Where new apprentices are assigned to a senior enchanter. They could meet once a month - you could _definitely_ spare the time, Sweeney, your book is almost complete – and any issues or concerns that the apprentice had could be addressed."

Flora gave a nod, suddenly very weary. She had spoken out and said her piece; revealing an old hurt that she had suppressed during the Blight but which had emerged with a vengeance as they had neared the Circle. Speaking out with fervour and eloquence was far more draining than it had been a few months prior, a state of affairs that she blamed firmly on the occupant of her stomach.

Alistair, glancing sideways at his best friend, could visibly see her wilting; shoulders drooping and fingers curling limply in her lap. She was a fraction paler than normal, the flecks of tan freckle standing out more prominently on her nose. Clearing his throat, he rose to his feet and went to stand behind Flora's chair, his hands resting gently on her shoulders.

"Forgive us," he said abruptly, though the tone of his voice stated well enough that he required nobody's clemency. "We'll have lunch in our quarters, and then the queen needs to lie down before we begin the tour. She's been on her feet all day."

"Flora has been on her feet for the thirty weeks that she's borne the babe," Wynne said, softly. "Nobody would begrudge the poor girl a rest. Have a nap, child, and take as long as you need."

Flora shot the senior enchanter a grateful look; at that moment, the offer of a nap was a greater gift than the bounty of several nations. The edges of her vision were beginning to blur, dark spots encroaching in the corners of her eyes. Irving acquiesced readily – hosting royalty was a stressful experience, and he too was grateful for a break in formalities. He agreed to have lunch brought up to the guest chambers, and for the tour to recommence once the queen was rested.

The queen herself did not remember the journey back to the guest bedchamber. Flora was so weary and light-headed that it took all her concentration merely to place one foot before the other on the flagstones. Halfway there, Alistair hoisted her into his arms, not trusting the steadiness of her legs. This was a most timely intervention, since Flora's vision contracted just as they crossed the threshold into the bedchamber. She registered Alistair's sharp inhalation of dismay and then the world slipped gently into darkness, like the receding tide.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Flora you need to stop overdoing it, haha! Either it's that, or one of the twins is pressing up against some important blood vessel, lol.

I thought it was a nice contrast – and also quite poignant – to have her watching this other mage effortlessly drawing skeins of magic from the Fade. We've met Arnette Amell before – she took part in the final battle!

It was also nice to have Flo voice her complaint – she doesn't often complain, but she was treated poorly at the Circle (or neglected, at the very least). The Archmage thing is based on an achievement you get at level 20 in game. Full disclosure: I never GOT this achievement because the moment I found out that my mage couldn't marry Alistair (I went into the game with no spoilers so I didn't find out until the Landsmeet) I was like fuuuuucckkkk that and rerolled with a Cousland, hahaha. Anyway, Flora is still re-learning her confidence during this sequel story... it took a serious blow with the loss of her spirits.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	110. Unbalanced Humours

Chapter 110: Unbalanced Humours

Flora awoke several minutes later, sprawled flat on her back on the bed in the guest chamber. Her bare feet were elevated incongruously upon Zevran's shoulders, his fingers gripping her ankles in place. He flashed a wicked grin, dark eyes flashing in the sunlight filtering through the leaded glass.

"I always knew I'd have your legs over my shoulders one day, _nena,"_ he purred, darting her a salacious look.

Wynne's chiding voice rose immediately in the background. Flora decided that the situation was _far_ too peculiar to comprehend, and slipped easily back into unconsciousness.

The second time she awoke, her feet were still propped on Zevran's shoulders, but there was no saucy comment emerging from the elf's lips this time. Instead, he smiled gently down at her, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes creasing.

"Hello, _carina._ Alistair, you can stop wearing grooves into the flagstones now."

Alistair immediately lunged across the room from where he had been pacing an agitated patrol before the hearth. He crouched beside the bed and took her hand, pressing his lips feverishly to her knuckles.

"Darling," he breathed, his pupils shrunken into pinpricks of fear. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit odd," Flora admitted, feeling something cool dripping down her neck. She canted her gaze to see Wynne leaning over with a square of damp linen, pressing the compress against her forehead. "Did I faint again?"

The senior enchanter nodded briskly, going on to pat the wet material against each of Flora's flushed cheeks in turn.

"As I've tried to reassure Alistair, it's not _unheard_ of for women to faint even in this last six weeks of carrying a child. As your womb is expanding, it's pressing against the vessels and courses of your body. It restricts the flow of your humours, and causes them to become unbalanced."

There was a vigorous and visible squirm from Flora's belly, as though the occupants knew that they were the cause of their mother's inconvenience. Alistair reached out reflexively to stroke his callused palm over the rounded mound of flesh, his face still aged years with anxiety.

"My sweet girl!"

"Well, can't I _balance_ myself out again?" Flora asked plaintively as Zevran lowered her feet to the blankets. "I don't want to be a person that _faints._ I am a tough Herring barnacle!"

"That depends," replied Wynne, shooting her a stern glance. "What have you had to _eat_ today?"

"Um," she said vaguely, aware of Alistair's stare. "A pear."

"And?"

"And… some rye bread?"

"Are you asking me, or telling me?"

"Euermm- "

" _Flora!"_

This anguished admonition came from Alistair, who was gazing at his wife with the soulful, accusatory eyes of a kicked Mabari. Flora dropped her eyes to her lap, pleating her tunic between her fingers.

"Please, my love," he entreated, reaching out to clasp her slender fingers between his palms. "If you don't like the food here, just _say_ , and I'll have whatever you want brought to your… to your very lap, sweetheart. Peaches from Rivain, cauliflower from the Anderfels – whatever you want, Lo, so long as you _eat."_

Alistair pressed his lips to her bitten nails and Flora immediately felt guilty. She allowed her body to slump gracelessly sideways until her head was in his lap, fingers curling against the soft calfskin of his breeches. He moved his hands to cradle her head, tracing the curve of her ear with his thumb.

Wynne's voice softened as she gazed down at the newlyweds; at the weary young mother curled up on the blankets and Alistair's anxious face hovering above her.

"Why don't we delay the afternoon's schedule for two hours?" she murmured, gliding across to the window and drawing the curtains shut with a soft rustle of costly fabric. "Enough time for you to have a nap, and _eat_ something."

Alistair gave a nod, shooting a grateful glance up at the senior enchanter.

"Thanks, Wynne."

Before he took his leave with the elder mage, Zevran sidled over to the bed and touched Flora's knee; soft and affectionate.

"I am going to ransack the kitchens in search of something that might alleviate your suffering, _nena,"_ the elf murmured, softly. "I have a few ideas."

In response, Flora swiped her bare foot against the former Crow's leather-clad thigh, too weary to vocalise her gratitude.

"Thanks, Zev," Alistair replied, leaning back against the cushions and exhaling. "I appreciate it."

Finally, the door was quietly closed and they were alone in the chamber; which was lit only by a sliver of muted sunlight creeping through a gap in the curtains. The king watched the dust motes suspended in the air, caught in emanations of heat from smouldering hearth. The next moment, he heard a small sniff from his lap. Looking down, he saw matching trails of tears trickling down his best friend's cheeks. Immediately Alistair bent low over his new wife, ducking his head as close to hers as he could manage.

"Sweetheart?"

"Sorry," Flora mumbled against his thigh, a distinct tremor in her voice. "I feel all _unbalanced._ It's been harder than I thought… coming back to the Circle. Worse than Lothering, in a way."

She twisted her head to gaze anxiously up at him, saltwater pooling in the base of her grave, grey irises.

"I remember how ashamed I felt when I first arrived. Nobody could understand the way I spoke because my accent was so thick. I couldn't read the dormitory and bunk assignment I'd been given. I wandered around for hours with my bedding, and then… and then I just went to sleep on the flagstones beneath the sink."

"Sweetheart," said Alistair, distressed by proxy. "My poor darling."

"I didn't mind it," Flora confessed, reaching up to wipe her wet eyelashes with a trembling finger. "It reminded me of sleeping on the floor b-back in Herring."

Alistair bowed to kiss her on the forehead; his lips lingering against her skin.

"My love," he said, reaching down to pull the blankets up over her body. "Everybody here owes you their lives. First, you stopped the Templars from performing the Rite of Annulment. Then… you killed the Archdemon and ended the Blight."

Flora let out a miserable sniff, letting her cheek rest against his muscled thigh in lieu of a pillow.

"Tell me one of your stories," she whispered back, seeking the comfort of her husband's low, kind voice.

"What kind of story, Lola?"

"One from the south. That I haven't heard before."

Alistair thought for a moment, absentmindedly winding thick strands of crimson hair around his fingers. Beyond the bedchamber rose the sounds of Templars going about their daily routine; yet the thick walls muffled all but the occasional barked command or loud sheathing of sword.

"There was once a Tevinter emperor who was born with donkey ears," he said at last, his words echoing in the stillness of the shadowed air. "To his great shame and embarrassment. Only the emperor's barber knew about the donkey ears, and he was sworn to secrecy. Yet the barber was going mad with the desire to tell someone, and so he went down to the bank of the Nocen sea and… he told the water-reeds. Unfortunately, the next day, some travelling musicians cut down the reeds to make themselves flutes. They arrived at the palace and began to play their flutes for the emperor. Instead of music, the flutes sang out _the emperor has donkey ears! the emperor has donkey ears!"_

Flora gazed up at him with eyes dreaming and distant; picturing the emperor with the donkey ears and his tell-tale barber.

"I wonder if it's based on _real-life?"_ she breathed, yawning mid-sentence. "A real-life emperor."

"Probably, knowing the shenanigans those Tevinter mages get up to," Alistair commented, drily. "To be honest, I'm surprised _I_ didn't end up with a pair of ass ears – courtesy of Morrigan – at some point during our travels."

Flora smiled up at him, pleating the blanket into absent-minded folds.

"Now I've got to tell you a tale from the north," she said, earnestly. "You should always give a story back when you receive one."

The king leaned back against the cushions, fingers stroking rhythmically over his queen's small and distinctly _human_ ears.

"Tell me, my heart."

"There was once a god named Caradoc, who lived at the bottom of the Waking Sea," she began, her words slurring slightly with drowsiness. "And he grew jealous of an old man who lived on the shore, who had three beautiful daughters. One day, Caradoc decided to steal the three girls, and so he sent a giant wave onto the shore, which swept them away. Caradoc was content but the old man was distraught. The god felt remorse for his wickedness, but the girls had become too… too _changed_ for him to send back. Instead, Caradoc turned them into seagulls, birds that belong to both the sea _and_ the land. And whenever the old man went walking on the shore and called out the names of his daughters, three gulls would fly to him from the sea."

Flora finished her story with another yawn, nestling her cheek against Alistair's thigh.

"All our northern stories are depressing," she mumbled, eyes closing. "I never realised that before. I think I preferred your one, with the donkey-ears emperor."

Alistair bent his neck to kiss the top of her head, made dizzy by a sudden potent surge of affection.

"Well, I'll give you a funny story in exchange for each of your sad ones, love."

Flora fell asleep first, her head resting on his knee and her fingers tangled against his palm. Alistair dozed on and off for an hour, the room drifting intermittently out of focus. Although it was not warm in the bedchamber – nowhere in the Circle tower could ever be described as _warm_ – there was a certain lethargy that arose from the darkness, and the smouldering wood in the hearth.

Alistair awoke with a start a short time later, with the room bathed in incongruous afternoon daylight and the pressure of his wife's head lifted from his lap. Flora was sitting on the edge of the bed, fiddling with something on her knee.

Feeling his fingers swiping affectionately at her rear, she turned as best as she was able and smiled at him.

"I've been making us sandwiches," she said, cheerfully. "Do you want cheese by itself, or cheese with red pepper? Whatever we don't eat, I'm going to put in my pockets for later."

Sure enough, resting on the blankets nearby was a precarious tower of sandwiches. Alistair shuffled himself over to sit carefully beside her, swinging his feet to the ground.

"These look delicious, baby. I'll have a cheese one. Red pepper is a bit too spicy for my Fereldan guts to handle."

"One can become accustomed to anything, with sufficient practice," wound a familiar, teasing voice across the room. "I will be brave and _dare_ the red pepper. I am curious as to _quite_ how bland your home-grown varieties are."

As Zevran sauntered across the room, both Alistair and Flora stared at him in astonishment.

"How did you get in so stealthily?" the king demanded, eyes wide. "That door shrieks like the undead whenever it's opened."

"Skills, _mi rey,"_ Zevran replied with a deliberately elusive grin, sitting down on Flora's other side. She duly handed him a cheese and red-pepper sandwich; a clumsy but well-meaning effort hacked together with a butter knife.

For several minutes, they ate their sandwiches in companionable silence; crumbs falling to their laps as they listened to the daily machinations of the Circle moving around them. Flora, aware of Alistair's pointed stare, ate three sandwiches in a row and tucked two more into her pockets for later.

Zevran brushed his fingers clean once he had finished, then reached into the pocket of his tunic and drew out something long and knobbled. It was pale, furred and extremely phallic in appearance.

Alistair nearly choked on his last mouthful of cheese, eyes wide.

"Maker's Breath, Zev? What in the void is _that?!"_

Flora, rather immaturely, let out a cackle. The elf shot her a wicked little grin, before assuming a more reproving expression.

"It's _ginger,_ you filthy-minded children! I obtained it after bribing a pretty kitchen-maid and ransacking a few sacks of mouldy vegetables. It's meant to be good for your stomach, _nena._ Might help with the belly-ache."

Flora took the pale, unappetising object from his slender hands and eyed it, her misgivings clear. The next moment, she had taken a huge bite from the end of the root. Her face contorted as she chewed, and she turned an accusatory stare on her elven companion.

Zevran had to stifle a smile, assuming an equally grave demeanour.

"Perhaps try grating it into tea next time, _mi sirenita,"_ he murmured, with a deliberately straight face. "It can be a little _unpleasant_ when eaten raw."

Some time later, refreshed and replenished, the royal couple were taken on a tour of the newly refurbished Circle. They were shown a half-dozen seemingly identical libraries, two high-ceilinged alchemical laboratories, a small chapel which appeared unusually sparse even for a Fereldan Chantry.

"Much of our statues and wall-hangings were destroyed during the – the _incident_ ," the Chantry sister explained, portentous in her lofty hat. "We're waiting for Denerim's Grand Chantry to send over some of their surplus _décor_."

"Why don't you take _The Martyrdom of Andraste_ from our guest-chamber?" Alistair suggested, thinking on the graphic tapestry that he and Zevran had covered over with a blanket. "I think it would look good in that empty archway over there!"

Irving nodded for a nearby Tranquil secretary to make a note.

"A sound idea, King Alistair. I'll have one of my own favourite tapestries brought to your chamber to replace it: _The Dismemberment Of Count Silaven."_

"That… that won't be necessary," Alistair said hastily as Flora's jaw dropped beside him. " _Really._ Thanks, though."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Both of those stories are actually old Welsh folk tales! I remember hearing them when I was little. I don't know why I like putting in stories within my own story so much, it seems to be a recurring theme! I think there must be tons of them embedded in random chapters by now, haha. But we have to remember that in a pre-technology age – especially when books were still so expensive – people would have carried around a ton of stories in their heads. It was a form of entertainment after all! So I suppose it's actually quite logical that both Flo and Alistair can recant a whole bunch of tales.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	111. Elementary Elemental: For Beginners

Chapter 111: Elementary Elemental: Beginner's Pyromancy

For the next two candle-lengths, the royal company was shown around a number of chambers that Flora had not even known _existed_ within the Circle Tower. There was a lead-lined vault filled with runic artefacts guarded by a half-dozen grim-faced Templar; a chamber empty save for an oddly-elongated skull resting on a plinth; a cunning indoor garden with perpetual rain falling from the vaulted ceiling.

One small room, no larger than a bath-chamber, was lined on three sides with stepped stone shelves. Upon these flat surfaces rested hundreds of candles, of various size and thickness, some in holsters and others resting naked on the stone. Each one was unlit, their wicks still pale and long. In the centre of the chamber, a multi-faceted focusing lens was set within a specially designed plinth.

"What's _this?"_ Teagan asked at last, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

Irving made a swift gesture up to the ceiling, where there was a hollowed opening made in the stone, no larger than a copper coin.

"When _Toth_ intersects with _Bellitanus_ at the forty-seventh degree during the third lunar cycle, when the atmospheric conditions are comprised of a certain chemical _balance_ – namely three parts phosphorus to one part mercury- "

The First Enchanter continued in this vein for several minutes, while Teagan fervently wished that he had not asked.

" – then a ray of moonlight will _penetrate_ the oculus, hit the bronze lens below and _ignite_ one of the candles!" finished Irving triumphantly, as the bann stifled a yawn.

"Has it ever happened?" breathed Flora, gazing around in awe at the mass of unlit candles.

"Well, not in the past seven hundred and thirty eight years," admitted Irving, with a little shrug. "Which is when they first started keeping track."

As they continued along the corridor, Zevran nudged Alistair's elbow, pointedly.

"What a waste of a perfectly good chamber," he whispered, quirking an eyebrow. "I could put it to much better use."

"They're _mages,"_ replied Alistair _,_ under his breath. "Collecting strange objects and preparing for ancient rituals is what they _do."_

"If it were up to me, I'd use it as a storage chamber for all my spare blades and knives," Zevran suggested, a wistful gleam to his eye. "Polished Antivan mahogany shelving and oak-moss in pots to soak up the damp."

"Excellent idea! Let's suggest that to Greagoir," the king said, with a little snort. _"'Knight-Commander, why not turn this room into a space for the mages to store all their knives, blades, pole-arms, pick-axes and other assorted weaponry?'_ I'm sure he'd _love_ that."

"Love what?" asked Flora, who had been eavesdropping.

" _You,"_ replied Alistair, momentarily forgetting that they were on a formal tour and plastering the top of his wife's head with kisses. " _Mm_ , my gorgeous girl, I love _you._ Have another sandwich."

The final activity of the afternoon was observing one of the apprentice classes, in which Connor would be partaking. They descended to the second level, eastern quarter; where a half-dozen classrooms were segmented neatly between the dormitories.

"The class has just started," murmured Wynne, gesturing towards a nearby, Templar-guarded door. "There are desks at the back for you to sit at, including cushions for you, Florence."

Alistair paused for a moment, wondering if Flora wanted to lead the way – since, after all, this was familiar territory to her. A quick glance sideways established the opposite. Flora was gazing intently at her own belly (she hadn't been able to see her feet in months) with shoulders hunched, pale and unhappy. He had seen his wife face down Loghain in the Landsmeet chamber, take the platform before ten thousand troops, and lift her chin in defiance towards the Archdemon itself. Yet now – before this place of so many small humiliations - she appeared to have lost all her surety, lost as an unmoored boat.

The king inhaled, then reached out and captured her fingers; squeezing them determinedly against his palm in their own familiar anchor.

"Come on, my love," he said under his breath, rubbing his thumb in encouraging circles over her knuckle. "We'll go in together."

Flora took a deep breath to match his, her eyes searching her best friend's face. Then – to his relief – she nodded and raised her chin, returning the pressure on his fingers.

As the king and queen of Ferelden entered the classroom, the instructor at the chalkboard stopped mid-sentence, the occupants of the neatly arranged desks twisting around to stare.

"Don't get up," Alistair said hastily, envisioning piles of textbooks and reams of parchment crashing to the flagstones. "Please, carry on as you normally would."

As Wynne had indicated, there were several empty desks at the back of the room. Alistair, Flora, Zevran and Teagan all duly took a seat as the maroon-clad instructor cleared his throat in an effort to regain some composure. Connor Guerrin, who was seated in the second row back, twisted his head around and gave his uncle a surreptitious wave.

The classroom itself was relatively plain, with little in the way of furniture save for the instructor's desk, chalkboard and the rows of desks. The lack of potentially flammable décor was a necessity, bearing in mind the nature of the class material and the inexperience of the gathered apprentices. They ranged in age from Connor's eleven years to late adolescence, each one clad in the drab navy garb of an unHarrowed apprentice. The majority were human; three elves were seated near the instructor's desk.

The instructor himself was a young man barely in his twenties, with a long chestnut braid and a sallow, angular face. Alistair's first thought was that the man was very _young_ for a teacher. He wondered if the previous instructor had been killed during the abomination crisis, and a replacement hastily sought.

Flora, however, could guess why the young man had been made an instructor, and it had only part to do with quickly filling a vacancy.

 _That's Gethin Amos,_ she thought to herself, surprised at how quickly the name rose to the surface of her memory. _He was the most gifted junior mage in my class. I'm not surprised they've made him a teacher._

 _He was the one who first started calling me the Vase._

"The title for today is _Elementary Elemental: Beginner's Pyromancy,"_ announced the instructor, several beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead. "Make sure you underline it and write in _b- black_ ink-pen."

There was an odd, distinctly discernible tremor to the teacher's voice that the more perceptive students picked up on; several heads lifting to dart curious glances at their sweating instructor.

Meanwhile at the back, Teagan was watching Connor closely, feeling a small glow of pride at his nephew's studiousness and concentration. Zevran – who was not interested in magic in the slightest – was trying to work out which of the Templar guards was the handsomest; a difficult task considering their full-face helmets. Alistair was half-listening to the instructor, shooting frequent glances sideways to where his wife was sitting on the adjacent desk.

Flora almost wanted to laugh: _Elementary Elemental_ was the class that she had taken for four years without passing. Each season, she had watched a new set of students graduate to the next level of tutelage: _Exploring the Fade: Spirit Magic._

 _At least I don't have to write anything down this time,_ she thought to herself, letting her pale gaze settle on the increasingly nervous instructor as he wrote a series of introductory sentences on the board. _They won't ask me to come to the front and light a candle._

 _And I'm pretty sure they won't banish me to the corridor with mop and bucket._

The instructor continued to scribe notes for the students to take down, shooting another nervous glance over at the royal couple as he put chalk to blackboard. His bright blue eyes met Flora's grey stare and he dropped his chalk; the white stick rolling away beneath the desk. When Gethin stooped to pick it up, he hit his forehead on the wooden edge – several students in the front row stifled a giggle.

"The man is perspiring enough to water a stable of horses," Teagan murmured to Alistair, who gave a slightly confused nod.

Flora realised, with a start, that Gethin was petrified _._ Her past tormentor had been confronted with the worst-case scenario for any youthful bully – the return of his old target, elevated far above their previous station. Now, the _Vase_ sat before him with the king at her side and a hero's metaphorical mantle resting on her shoulders.

"And – as with any other spell involving the c-conjuration of _flame,_ intense caution m-must be taken," the instructor continued, thoroughly disconcerted by Flora's emotionless, Waking Sea-cold stare. "Always keep water on hand to extinguish any mishaps- "

As Gethin turned, the corner of his elbow caught the bowl of water resting on the desk. It fell to the flagstones with a splintering of porcelain, water spilling out in a puddle. The instructor muttered a curse under his breath as several appalled gasps broke out amongst the class.

"Shall I fetch another receptacle?" Zevran offered, a wicked, glittering edge to his tone. The elf had put two and two together; having heard much of Flora's experience in the Circle over the past eight months. "A cup? A beaker? A _vase,_ perhaps _?"_

Gethin, who had just gathered up the remnants of the bowl, promptly dropped them again. More shocked snickers broke out from the class of delighted apprentices. Alistair, just coming to the same realisation as Zevran, had to restrain himself from glaring at the hapless instructor. Fortunately, professionalism won out and he managed to retain a somewhat neutral expression.

The kind Flora – who was not one to gloat at someone else's discomfort - suddenly felt rather sorry for her old tormentor. Knowing that her face's natural cast was a cold, haughty stare, she caught the instructor's eye and deliberately smiled at him. Gethin blinked back at her in astonishment, fingers working anxiously in the sleeves of his new instructor's robes.

"You should all be listening to your teacher," Flora said reprovingly, raising her voice to allow its distinctive cadence to ring though the air. Sure enough, the class of apprentices twisted around to gaze at her; this girl who had once sat where they themselves were sitting, and who now bore the title of _Hero of Ferelden_.

"Instructor Gethin was the most _talented_ of our class when I was a student here," she continued, in a northern, typically blunt statement of fact. "Above and beyond any other apprentice. So I would pay heed to him, if I were you."

The wide-eyed class turned back to their instructor; his credibility restored. Gethin looked astonished for a split-second, but he was a sharp young man who was well aware of the life-buoy that had been cast him. Clearing his throat and gathering his composure, he lifted his chalk once more to the board.

Alistair, despite enjoying the sight of Flora's old nemesis stumbling over his words and dropping things, was grown enough to also see the wisdom in his best friend's actions. With unnecessary stealth – after all, he was hardly about to be thrown out of the classroom – he leaned across the gap between their desks and pressed his lips squarely to her cheek. Flora shot him a shy, sideways smile, a pink flush creeping up her throat.

" _No kissing in class!"_ chided Zevran, then let out a wicked little cackle.

Once an extensive portion of the class had been spent scribing notes onto parchment, the apprentices lined up at the instructor's desk to demonstrate their lighting of the candle. Their skill varied from the adept, who required only a few second's worth of focus to ignite the wick; to the less experienced, who glowered down at the candle for minutes at a time, beads of sweat erupting on their foreheads. Sometimes they managed to conjure a spark or a little column of smoke; on occasion, nothing at all would happen. The Templars posted at the classroom entrance watched all attempts with narrowed eyes; fingers not quite _on_ the hilts of their blades, but not far from them either. A bucket of water – a necessary safety precaution – had been placed near the chalkboard.

Flora smiled at a small elven girl who had glowered fruitlessly at the wick for several long minutes, catching the girl's eye as she returned to her seat.

"This was usually when I'd be sent into the corridor with a mop and bucket," she whispered to Alistair, their hands entwined in the space between their adjacent desks. "Though this _one_ time, the instructor made me stand up there for nearly half the lesson trying to light the candle. I burst a blood vessel in my eye _glaring_ at the stupid thing!"

He squeezed her hand in wordless sympathy, watching Connor Guerrin lift his chin and stride determinedly forwards. Teagan sat up in his chair, watching his young nephew closely.

Sure enough, Connor lit his candle in a matter of seconds, earning himself a nod of approval from Gethin. Connor glanced over his shoulder to check that the royal company were watching, unable to stifle a beam.

"Nice to see the lad taking pride in his abilities," murmured Teagan in an undertone to both king and queen. "And to have him hone them in a _controlled_ environment _."_

 _As opposed to becoming possessed and inadvertently summoning the dead._

The bann did not need to vocalise the final part of his thought – the sentiment was reflected in both Alistair and Flora's minds. Alistair almost clapped the young Guerrin as he returned to his seat; remembering just in time that they were in a _classroom._ Instead he mimicked a convincing round of applause, his palms stopping just short of colliding. Flora beamed, feeling a squirming from within her stomach as something woke up and stretched within its cramped quarters.

"Well done, son," Teagan mouthed quietly, smiling at his nephew as Connor retook his seat. "Very impressive."

Once the session was finished, the apprentices gave a dutiful recitation of thanks to their instructor. As they filed out of the classroom, they snuck curious glances down at the king and especially at the _queen,_ who had once been one of their own. The moment that the students had passed into the corridor the neat line spilled into a babbling crowd; excitedly comparing observations on their royal visitors.

" _I heard the king used to be a Templar! Wouldn't mind him watching over me for a few hours... "_

" _Well, I heard that the queen was so advanced in this class that she set fire to the desk when they asked her to light a candle!"_

" _Who told you that, nug-brain? Everyone knows that the lady Florence was a healer."_

" _I don't even think she_ passed _this class."_

Gethin Amos replaced the chalk and pointer within his desk, visibly composing himself and taking a deep breath. Alistair watched him through narrowed eyes, less inclined to be civil now that the young apprentices were no longer present. The air prickled in the damp classroom; a combination of arcane residue and unspoken tension.

Teagan had been told less about Flora's experience in the Circle, but had made some inferences of his own. Clearing his throat, he made to speak first as the instructor approached with measured strides.

"That was a fascinating experience, ser. It seems as though the classroom situation is very carefully monitored to ensure the safety of the students."

" _Yes –_ yes," Gethin replied, needing to repeat his agreement as the word emerged an octave higher than usual. "The well-being of our apprentices is our first p-priority."

"Are any of your apprentices ever _punished_ for not performing in class?" Alistair chimed in, the outward blandness of his voice unable to disguise the steel at its heart. "Like the little elven lass who couldn't light the candle today. Would she be penalised? Sent to do chores, for example?"

"No," croaked the instructor, visibly perspiring. "We… we understand that the manipulation of the Fade comes at a different pace for everyone. Nobody should be punished for a lack of progress."

" _Hm,"_ said Alistair, pointedly. _"Interesting._ It's so important to practice what one preaches, wouldn't you say?"

Flora now felt sorry enough for the progenitor of her hated _Vase_ nickname that she was compelled to intervene.

"Congratulations on being made an instructor, Gethin," she said, squeezing Alistair's fingers surreptitiously. "You were the best in our class, I'm glad you've done so well for yourself."

Gethin gave a nod, eyeing her with some wariness.

"Aye, well – Instructor Melvas was killed during the uprising and they needed a replacement."

Flora felt a sudden twinge of regret for the man who had banished her from his classroom more times than could be counted. As she paused, Gethin opened his mouth once again; hesitant but determined.

"Flor- uh - _Queen Florence._ None… none of us had any idea that you were a spirit healer! If we'd _known_ what you were capable of… we never would have – _I_ never would have…!"

Alistair did not like the implicit, albeit _inadvertent_ accusation in the man's tone. He narrowed his eyes, straightening his shoulders to bring himself to his full six foot and three inches, expression steely.

Flora, sensing her husband's prickling indignation, suddenly realised that it did not actually _matter_ ; that childish teasing and nicknames were utterly inconsequential considering what she had been through over the past year. This revelation caught her off-balance, like an unexpectedly strong wave sweeping to shore between gentler counterparts.

' _The Vase' is the stupidest insult I've ever heard,_ she thought to herself, incredulously. _Also, it sounds vaguely Orlesian – they like all those fiddly bits of porcelain. The other apprentices could have at least come up with something more Fereldan._

Slightly embarrassed at her earlier melodramatics, Flora made herself smile up at the anxious, wide-eyed Gethin; metaphorically dropping him from the hook.

"It doesn't matter," she said, trying not to laugh. "It honestly doesn't. I've had monsters trying to bite my head off for the past year, it puts things into… well. It puts things into perspective."

The instructor swallowed in slight disbelief that he had been let off so lightly – despite Alistair still glowering with a vaguely malevolent curl of the lip. Most likely there was no genuine malice behind the glare; but when combined with his height, broad shoulders, gold band of authority and air of Theirin dominance, it came off as genuinely intimidating.

Flora squeezed Alistair's fingers repeatedly, and as usual, the pressure of his best friend's warm palm anchored the king back to reality. He blinked - shook off the mantle of vague anger - and smiled affectionately down at her.

"Yes, my love?"

"We're hungry," she said while patting her stomach, having consumed each of her secret sandwiches surreptitiously during class. "Starving! Is it dinnertime?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaaah this was a nice chapter! It gives Flora a little bit of closure – I think returning to the familiar environment – but as a former Warden, current Hero of Ferelden and Queen – helped her to realise how moronic the old insults actually were. I don't think she would have come to this revelation without actually going back to her old classroom, where so much of the embarrassment and humiliation took place. And I like to keep adding to Connor Guerrin's character arc when I can!

All the chambers in the Circle are purely headcanon, but the little chamber with the candles I described is based on a room from a game I remember watching my dad play back in the nineties – but I don't remember what it IS! It's actually so frustrating! If anyone knows what it is, please let me know… aha. Anyway, this little room with the candles was in a temple, and you had to solve these puzzles in the temple to go to different realms that were based on different environments? Like there was a water-based music school, and a monastery, and a military fortress – and you had to get elements or something? I don't know lol, it was an RPG from the nineties. My parents have been travelling around Vietnam and Cambodia for the past month and are incommunicado or I'd ask my dad, hahaha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	112. A Twinfold Blessing

Chapter 112: A Twinfold Blessing

It was a small and intimate grouping that ate together in Irving's study – the First Enchanter, Wynne, the royal couple, and Teagan. Zevran, who did not enjoy the scrutiny that accompanied formal dinners with strangers, had vanished to seek food elsewhere.

The main course – capons, seared to herbed perfection, with roasted shallots – was served by a handful of Tranquil servants. Despite the fact that their Circle envoy had been a Tranquil named Pether, Alistair and Teagan were still a little wary in the presence of these stoic former mages. Flora, despite having met many Tranquil during her four years at Kinloch Hold, was also somewhat disquieted. She recalled Zevran's comment from the previous night – about how mages in other Circles were illegally Tranquillised to facilitate their abuse – and how terrified she had been when she believed that Howe was going to Tranquilise _her._ To this end, she made an effort to be _especially_ polite to the attendants; effusively so. At one point Alistair had to put a hand gently on his wife's knee to stop her from physically serving herself.

Later, the bann reflected that it must have been a contender for the _strangest_ location that he had ever passed a meal in. Over Irving's long and illustrious career as a mage, the First Enchanter had collected a variety of weird and wonderful artefacts. This included a wizened, stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling; a variety of elaborate, silver alchemical instruments; an hourglass the size of a man filled with what appeared to be tiny black stones. Resting casually on the window-sill was an _ocularum, a_ polished skull with a prismatic crystal embedded into the right eye socket.

As they waited for the dessert course to be brought out, stuffed full of chicken and onions (and boiled vegetable stew for the meat-averse queen), the more daring members of the company chose to explore the contents of Irving's study. Irving had assured them that anything _dangerous_ would be kept under Templar guard rather than on open display.

A fascinated Alistair was inspecting a small figurine of a dragon, carved from onyx with tiny eyes of embedded jade. Teagan, who had just managed to remove his hand from an innocuous velvet bag that had melded perfectly to his flesh, was sweating slightly.

Flora was drawn to a tall, hexagonal glass cabinet in one corner of the room; upon the shelves of which a variety of curiosities were arranged.

"Look to the centre shelf," Irving murmured, watching her closely from his seat at the table. "In the walnut case."

Flora's eyes dropped to a flat, dark brown case polished to a high sheen; assuming that this must be _walnut_. She reached out to unfasten the gleaming catches at either side of the case, noticing that it was the only object in the cabinet _not_ covered with a fine layer of dust. The lid was heavy – it was inlaid with an intricate geometric design of pale wood and mother of pearl. Carefully, she pushed it up and back, revealing the contents of the case.

The inside was padded with red velvet, with an inscribed ivory plaque and a gilded bracket keeping the contents in place. The item nestled within seemed incongruous compared to its luxurious surroundings; a shrivelled fragment of nondescript wood, the ends splintered and charred. It was no larger than Flora's little finger, for all intents and purposes, a sad and unremarkable splinter.

Yet Flora felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck as she stared down at the broken fragment, a sudden chill creeping down the length of her spine that had nothing to do with the damp Circle climate.

 _I know what this is –_ was –

 _It was my –_

"Alistair?" she breathed, noticing that her hands were shaking and glad that she had not taken the case from the cabinet.

"My love?"

Alistair tore his attention from the onyx dragon, turning towards her.

"Could… could you read this for me? The writing is joined up."

The king abandoned the figurine and strode the six paces that divided them; cupping the back of Flora's neck with an affectionate hand as he bent to see what she was looking at.

As Alistair took in the shrivelled scrap of wood, recognition dawned and the easy smile fell from his face. He shot Flora a quick glance, before clearing his throat and reading aloud the inscription carved on the ivory plaque.

"' _The above being a shard of the staff used by the Grey Warden Florence Cousland to slay the Archdemon Urthemiel, thus ending the Fifth Blight. 9:31, Dragon.'"_

"I thought the pieces of my staff were all burnt," Flora whispered, recalling the pyre at Revanloch monastery.

"Several were saved for posterity," Irving corrected softly, taking a sip from his tea-cup. "We received a fragment, as did the Royal Archive in Denerim. Several foreign parties have also requested a shard – the Museum of Antiquities in Val Royeaux, the Imperial Archon in Tevinter. Their requests are still being processed, I believe."

Flora looked nonplussed, reaching out to touch the charred wood with a gentle fingertip.

"Do you mind, Lo?" Alistair murmured quietly from behind her, his lips brushing the back of her neck. "I can put a stop to it, just say the word."

"No _-o_ ," she said after a moment, reflectively. "I don't mind. What made it special is… is gone now, anyway. It's just wood."

Flora took a final glance at the charred fragment and then closed the case, fastening the lid with fingers a fraction more steady than before. She took a deep breath - wincing as a strong little foot swung into her kidney – and turned her back on cabinet, case, and contents.

Dessert arrived soon after, a blancmange cleverly moulded in the shape of Denerim Castle. It was so garishly pink and ostentatious that the royal company could not help but stare at it; Flora now thoroughly distracted from the fragment of shrivelled wood.

"Our cook seems to have retained a shred of pride in his artistic creations," Irving commented wryly as he handed a knife to Alistair. "The Templars aren't even sure that he was properly Tranquilised, but his food is so good that nobody wants to ask too many questions."

Alistair let out a soft snort of disbelief, noting the tiny Mabari sculpted above the castle's main entrance.

"It seems a pity to cut it up," he commented, but then didn't hesitate to do so; carving off one of the main towers and letting it drop onto a silver dish. "Here you go, my love. You can eat the library tower!"

"Mm! Perhaps it'll help me with my reading," Flora offered, hopefully.

After dinner, the company reconvened in the bedchamber assigned to the royal couple. The elven mage knowledgeable in childbearing was _en route_ ; he had spent all afternoon assisting a midwife in a nearby village with a difficult birth.

Alistair – secretly terrified that the health of mother and child had been adversely affected by the constant travel – was pacing indentations into the floorboards, striding first from hearth to window, and then from bed to door. Wynne, sighing inwardly from her seat on the window bench, did not reprimand the king; instead, she made idle and light-hearted conversation, to which he gave distracted grunts in response.

Zevran was leaning against the hearth, humming softly under his breath as dark Antivan eyes tracked the anxious father's pacing.

"You are making me dizzy, Alistair," he complained, blowing dust from a finger swept across the hearth. "If I lose my balance and fall into the flames, it is _you_ whom I shall haunt."

Alistair let out a little snort, barely listening, his own pupils blown wide with nervous tension. Zevran looked down at Flora – who was sitting back against the bed-pillows, her wide eyes on her fretful husband – and then across to where Teagan was standing beside the door. The two men shared a swift, mutual glance of agreement; their minds meeting at the same conjuncture of thought.

 _He's making her worried with the rawness of his anxiety. He needs to calm down._

"Alistair," said Teagan firmly, stepping forwards to intercept the king's pacing. "Have a sip of brandy. It's not Antivan, so the elf won't approve – but it's not bad."

Alistair looked about to protest, but the old dynamic between bann and former stable-boy won out. He gave a nod, allowing himself to be led over to the dresser. Teagan, who had the steadier hand in the moment, poured his nephew a double-sized helping of Nevarran almond brandy. As the king raised it to his lips, the younger Guerrin leaned forward to murmur quiet reassurance in his ear.

Flora, sprawled inelegantly on the bed, was more worried for Alistair's wellbeing than for her own. She was reasonably certain that the baby was fine – it wriggled as much as it was able in increasingly tight confines. Recalling the midwife's visit at the palace in Denerim, she had stripped down to shirt and smallclothes; reasoning that everybody in the room had already seen her in various states of undress.

Just then, there came a business-like rap at the door. Moments later, a Templar entered to announce the presence of senior enchanter Mavon. The delivery was slightly awkward, since the Chantry soldier was clearly not used to formally introducing the arrival of a _mage_.

Mavon was an elf of slight build, with short-cropped dark hair and a clever, pinched face. He moved with the darting motions of a sparrow, quick and meticulously precise. After sparing the king a quick bow, his eyes went straight to where the queen was sprawled on the bed. Alistair, anxious breath caught in his throat, was stood rigid in place beside the dresser; suddenly grateful for his uncle's comforting hand on his elbow.

"You're younger than I assumed, _Hero of Ferelden_ ," the elf commented, a vague hint of an accent filtering through the words. "First baby?"

Flora nodded, propping herself up on her elbows and gazing at the elf curiously.

"I remember you," she breathed, watching Mavon as he crossed the room and perched on the bed. "You taught one of my classes once when our usual instructor was poorly."

"I'm afraid I don't remember you from your Circle days, your majesty," Mavon murmured, lifting up the blanket from the bed and draping it over Flora's nether regions. "Although of course, I'm well-versed in your more _recent_ exploits. Knees apart, please."

The elf withdrew a small glass vial from the drawstring bag, which emitted a strong, alcoholic scent when uncorked. Tipping several drops of liquid onto his palms, he rubbed them together briskly until his hands were coated in purifying salve. Flora obediently bent her knees apart, lying back and staring at the ceiling.

"I didn't really excel in class," she admitted - in possibly the understatement of the Age - as the elf disappeared beneath the blanket. "I'm not surprised you didn't remember me."

"Apparently so, my lady. May I remove your smallclothes? I'm afraid my hands are a little cold."

Flora gave a grunt of acquiescence; moments later, her eyes bulged in shock.

" _Aah!_ A ' _little'_ cold?! They're colder than…ice-packed fish!"

She pulled a series of grimaces, contorting her face up at the ceiling as the elf worked in business-like manner beneath the blanket. At his wife's squawk of discomfort, Alistair regained his movement; moving across to sit on the bed beside her. He stretched out his hand and Flora took it, grateful that he had stopped the dizzying pacing.

"It's the salve," Wynne explained from her position beside the window, since Mavon was clearly too preoccupied with his assessment to give any explanation. "The alcohol kills any foul miasmas clinging to the fingers."

"The Herring midwife uses saltwater," Flora offered, as Mavon withdrew from beneath the blanket and reached for the salve once again. "She says that salt stops fish from going bad, so it stands to reason that it stops _other_ things from going bad, too."

"Everything looks well enough," the elf interjected briskly, letting the blanket rest on Flora's thighs and reaching for her shirt. "How have you been feeling?"

Alistair let out a little sigh of relief, his thumb rubbing compulsive circles into his best friend's palm.

"Fine," replied Flora vaguely, craning her neck to watch the elf unbuttoning the bottom of her shirt. "What's in the salve?"

"She's sick in the mornings, sometimes," the king spoke up, hastily. "And she's fainted before. She gets indigestion and heartburn most days. She finds it hard to sleep."

The elf stifled a smile; the king was not the first anxious new father he had met.

"All those are wholly normal," he murmured, opening the shirt to reveal Flora's high, rounded belly. "I'm afraid that sleep will become increasingly elusive over the next- "

Mavon broke off suddenly in a way that made both Alistair and Flora look up, startled. The elf was gazing at the size of Flora's stomach, one dark eyebrow raised and his pupils constricted to pinpricks of focus. When he had first entered, the size of her belly had been disguised by the loose shirt and the blankets; now, it stood out swollen and proud.

"How many weeks has it been since conception?" he enquired, softly. "Do you know?"

King and queen peered at each other, attempting to work out exactly how long ago Ostagar had been.

"Thirty four weeks," replied Wynne, who had kept a detailed calendar in her journal since she had first guessed Flora's condition at South Reach.

Mavon leaned forward and began to feel around the firm mound of flesh, pressing in with his thumbs. The second eyebrow rose in parallel to the other, while both Alistair and Flora blinked at each other in confusion.

"Is – is something _wrong?"_ Alistair croaked, naked fear running through each word.

The elf shook his head in a quick back-forth, reaching into the drawstring pouch and bringing out three polished, egg-shaped crystals. Each was clouded and dull; the stones unremarkable.

From her seat by the window Wynne sat up straight, the book abandoned in her lap. The senior enchanter glanced quickly towards the bann; both aware that her suspicions would soon be confirmed or refuted. The perceptive Zevran noticed the tension prickling between the two, narrowing his eyes curiously.

"These are vitality stones," Mavon explained to the royal couple, showing the nondescript stones off in a palm. "They detect and reflect the life-essence of a creature. Tevinter in origin, but – don't worry – _entirely_ safe, and a very useful tool. Now, your majesty, since I only have two hands, I need you to hold the third gem in place for me."

Flora obediently took one of the stones, mirroring the elf's movement as he pressed the dull crystals gently to the bare surface of her stomach. She did not enquire as to the number, assuming that it was a standard amount required for the procedure.

"Why are there three?" Alistair asked, his brow furrowing.

"One for the mother," Mavon replied quietly, his eyes alight with focus as the stone in Flora's hand suddenly flickered to life. She blinked as it grew warm to the touch, emitting a soft, buttery yellow hue.

"One for the baby," the elf continued, watching the stone in his left hand flare with a more incandescent brilliance. Seconds later, the third stone also lit up with gilt-edged illumination; emitting small rays of light between the healer's fingers. "And… one for the baby's _sibling."_

Wynne and Teagan exhaled in unison; the senior enchanter's theory at last proven correct. Zevran almost fell into the hearth out of sheer shock, sporting an expression of deeply uncharacteristic surprise.

Alistair looked stunned, while Flora appeared merely confused.

"The baby's _sibling?"_ she asked, rather stupidly. "Whaa-?"

"Congratulations, your majesties," Mavon murmured, trying to bite back an unprofessional smile. "There's a pair of strong and healthy babes growing in that womb."

Flora still did not quite understand what the elf meant, her brow furrowed deeply. Then, there came a slightly odd sound from beside her; she twisted her head and realised that tears were pouring down Alistair's cheeks. Alarmed, she swivelled as much as she was able with her restricted movement and put her arms tightly about his neck. He pressed his face against her shoulder, letting out a strangled sob.

"Alistair," she breathed, patting between his broad shoulders. "What – what's wrong? I don't understand!"

"Senior Enchanter Mavon couldn't have spelt it out any more clearly, child," Wynne interjected from across the room, the sternness in her tone undermined by the sudden gleam in her own eyes. "You're having _twins._ A double gift from the Maker!"

" _Twins?"_ Flora repeated, the word emerging strangely from her throat. "Twins? Two? TWO? _Two babies?!"_

Her mind thrashed wildly back and forth like a fish caught on a line. In the corner of her eye, she could see the three glowing crystals lying to one side on the blanket; the gems no longer dull but throbbing with vibrant vitality.

 _I thought there was one little creature in there. I thought I was talking to a single pair of ears for all these months; when I was actually talking to two. Two babies in there, the whole time._

 _Actually, now it makes perfect sense why I wanted oily fish one moment and pickled onions the next. A boy and a girl._

 _Herring instinct is never wrong, I should have listened!_

She inhaled unsteadily, grey irises as wide as saucers. Alistair, wet-cheeked and bright-eyed, pressed one damp kiss after another to her cheeks; his trembling palm cupping her head reverently.

"My beautiful wife," he croaked, with a hoarseness to his voice that Flora had never heard before. "What have I done to… to deserve such a blessing?"

Flora swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, dropping her hand to her stomach and patting the curve of one baby's rump.

"I should have saved the names Cod and Lobster," she said, thinking on the Mabari pups currently under Fergus' tutelage. "Now we'll have to think of another matching pair."

Alistair let out a choked half-sob, half-laugh; nuzzling his face against her neck in reluctance to let her go.

"My family," he breathed reverently, palm dropping to cover her own as it rested on her stomach. "My own _family_. Maker's Breath, I knew I was the luckiest man in Ferelden when I married you, my love. Now I feel like the most blessed man in all of Thedas."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Awwww, this was cute! Anyway, the secret is out – Wynne's suspicions are never wrong – and really, it should have been pretty obvious, lol. There was a girl at my work who was about five foot two (Flora's height) and she was having twins, and she was SPHERICAL lol. She literally was almost as wide as she was tall!

Anyway, it was sweet to write Alistair's reaction to becoming a father twice over – Flora's gained family throughout the story with the reunion with her brothers, but he hasn't. Lol I'm not sure how many twenty one year old men would be like YESSSS, BECOMING A FATHER TWICE OVER! but something tells me he would be over the moon, lol.

Also it's very lucky that the names Cod and Lobster have been reserved for the Mabari pups XD I genuinely wouldn't put it past Flo, hahaha. Twinfold is a really archaic way of saying 'twofold', but I thought it was fitting for the title!

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	113. The Perils of Childbed

Chapter 113: The Perils of Childbed

After taking several moments to absorb the news, Alistair inhaled sharply; straightening and sitting upright as though readying himself for this additional measure of responsibility. The king turned to the elven enchanter Mavon, who had busied himself with his supplies in the shocked silence.

"So…. _twins._ What does this mean for the birth?" he asked, clearing his throat. "Is there anything we can do to prepare? Or that we need to take caution with?"

"Twins generally come earlier than full term," Mavon replied in business-like manner, sliding the vitality crystals back into the pouch. "I'd wager that they'll be here within the next month."

"Four - _four weeks!"_ Alistair breathed, blanching a shade paler and turning to his uncle. _"Maker's Breath!_ Uncle, we'll still be on the progress, won't we?"

The king was clearly picturing a worst case scenario of Flora labouring on the side of the road; passers-by and travelling merchants gawking down at her.

"Not if we only spend one night apiece at Herring, Highever and Amaranthine," Teagan replied, having already worked out a quicker route. "And spend the rest of the time journeying."

Alistair nodded, his jaw set tight and determined.

"Aye," murmured the elf, pulling the drawstrings of the pouch tight. "You want a clean and calm environment, with a skilled midwife on hand. Twins can be more difficult to deliver, and the queen is slender-hipped."

The underlying blanch to Alistair's cheeks took on the more sallow cast of fear. His grip tightened on his wife as he nodded, once again confronted with the spectre that haunted the darkest parts of his dreams.

 _My mother died giving birth to me,_ he thought in a moment of sheer, white terror. _Zevran's mother died after birthing him. Lady Isolde came close when she was in labour with Connor._

"Flo will have the best midwife in Ferelden," he breathed, unsteadily. "A whole _team_ of them. And healers – the _best_ menders that the Circle has got. I think there's a Val Royeaux physician staying in the capital too. I'll write to Eamon this very hour, have them summoned."

Flora was unsure how Mab, the grim-faced northern midwife, would react to all these additional attendants. She suspected _not well,_ but also reasoned that it might be entertaining to watch a fight between a Storm Coast native and an Orlesian doctor during labour.

"Perhaps we ought to leave the Circle early," Alistair suggested, suddenly. "We could be on our way _tomorrow_ if need be."

"Alistair, give your wife a few nights more of sleeping on a featherbed," Wynne interjected sternly, corroborated by a swift nod from Mavon. "And under a solid roof."

"Aye, your majesty," added the elf. "I'd advise that you let her rest well before resuming your travels. The queen needs to build up her constitution as much as possible before the birth."

The king's head swung rapidly from Wynne to the elven healer, pupils constricting once again in alarm.

"Do you mean Flo's constitution _isn't_ strong at the moment?" Alistair asked, faintly.

Mavon tucked the pouch away with deft, precise movements, his reply equally measured.

"The babes are thriving, but the queen is paler than I would like," he said at last, steadily. "And she's not put on much fat in the face or the limbs. I'd recommend another eighth-weight be gained before labour."

Alistair gave a feverish nod, his eyes darting around the room as though hoping that a loaf of bread and a block of cheese might appear miraculously on a dresser.

"What else can we do? To make her stronger."

The senior enchanter went on to recommend plenty of sleep, plenty of meat – or, at Flora's grimace, fresh fish – and a variety of herbal tonics, all of which the Circle could provision. He took his leave after assuring the king that the tonics would be sent up within the hour.

A heavy silence was left in the elf's wake. A scowling Flora broke it eventually with a defiant grumble that Herring girls were hardy, and that northerners were _naturally_ fish-belly white.

Nobody offered a reply. Instead, they were looking at her as though seeing her for the first time without the lauded mantle of the _Hero of Ferelden,_ or the status of _queen;_ both distinctions which granted her a peculiar aura of invincibility.

Now, they could see the delicate physicality that lay beneath the renown; a girl a little over five feet in height, slender in frame with small hands and feet, pale enough that the bluish-green channels of her veins were visible beneath her wrists. No longer did she have a pair of spirits fortifying her constitution from within; for the first time, Flora's health and wellbeing was entirely reliant on herself.

"Stop looking at me like I'm made of glass," she said, in a sudden, hormone-fuelled fit of irritability. "I'm as tough as salt-leather!"

"Of course you are, poppet," Teagan said at last, seeing that Alistair was still visibly stricken. "We just need to start feeding you lots of sweetmeats and pastries. It's an enviable position to be in; my own waistband has been getting a little uncomfortable since I started letting my horse do all the work. I won't fit into Eamon's trousers by the time we return to Denerim."

Flora smiled up at him, grateful for his attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

"You don't need to lose any weight, Bann Teagan," she said, kindly. "You're a handsome man."

Unfortunately, this compliment had the adverse effect – now Teagan too had been struck into silence, a flush creeping up from his collar.

Finally, a fed-up Flora had had enough of the gloom.

"If none of you have anything to say! Then I am going," she announced defiantly, shrugging on her dressing robe and fastening the buttons. "To the PRIVY!"

It was almost impossible to make a dramatic exit clad in lurid mustard wool, but the queen did her best, thinking wistfully on when she had stormed out of the Landsmeet chamber clad in full Warden garb, crimson ponytail swinging in her wake.

The Templars had not returned to guard the entrance; expecting that the company would be some time yet. Thus Flora had the rare treat of privacy, making her way along the stone corridor followed only by the eyes of the basalt statues.

She arrived at the privy, only to realise that – for the first time ever – she did not need to use it. Sitting on a nearby stone bench the queen gave her midriff a gentle poke, hoping to prompt one of the babies to shift itself against her bladder. There was stillness and then a little, sleepy squirm, followed shortly by another wriggle from somewhere deeper. For the first time Flora was able to interpret this odd dual movement; one twin waking up, shortly followed by the other. She felt a surge of irrational guilt for rousing them, patting her stomach.

 _Sorry,_ she thought and then remembered that they could both hear her.

"Sorry," Flora repeated out loud, her voice echoing to the high vaulted ceiling.

There followed a short period of wriggling within her belly, as the twins repositioned themselves as best as they were able.

"You haven't got much room anymore, have you?" she continued, sympathetically. "Bit cramped in there. Don't worry, a few more weeks and you'll have all the space you need."

Flora leaned back against the stone wall, trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position. This soon proved to be an impossible dream and so she settled for mild discomfort instead, closing her eyes with a yawn.

"Florence?"

She opened her eyes again and looked about for the source of the voice; southern, aristocratic and with a slight Marcher inflection. Teagan took a seat beside her, grimacing at the hardness of the bench.

"Maker's Breath," he said, eyebrows rising. "Could a _less comfortable_ bench be crafted? I think not."

"There aren't many comfy seats in a Circle," replied Flora, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve. "Is Alistair alright? He looked like he was going to be sick."

"He's worried," the bann replied, quiet and rueful. "As he has every right to be, petal. Birthing twins _is_ more dangerous."

Flora grimaced, rubbing an idle palm over her mustard stomach. A senior Templar strode past, trailing a gaggle of mail-clad juniors. Each one snuck a glance sideways at the young queen, who hastily tugged the wool dressing robe lower over her bare knees.

Just then, one of the babies shifted position; pressing some part of its small body against Flora's bladder. Her eyes lit up, and she pushed herself inelegantly to her feet.

" _Finally!"_

Once she had emerged from the privy, Teagan rose to his feet with a stifled yawn and offered the beleaguered queen his arm.

"Ready to go back?"

Flora shook her head, lowering herself once more to the stone bench. She did not speak for a moment, a faint line furrowing across her forehead as she gazed intently at the tapestry opposite. Teagan returned to his seat, stretching out booted feet into the corridor.

"Bann Teagan, I have something to ask you," the queen said after a moment, her voice wobbling slightly. "A favour."

"Anything within my power, poppet," Teagan replied, immediately. "What is it?"

Flora opened her mouth, closed it again, and then shot him a quick sideways glance. She took a gulp of air, trying to inject some steadiness into her reply.

"I helped the midwife at Herring with a lot of births when I was younger. There's always a question that the mother gets asked at the start of the labour."

Teagan was silent for a moment, a shadow passing swiftly across his face. He knew well enough what this question was; had heard his brother voice an answer to it ten years prior at Connor's birth.

"' _If the birth goes ill, who should be saved?'"_ the bann said eventually, a hollowness to the words. _"If it comes down to choosing between mother or babe.'_ Flora- "

Flora spoke hastily before he could continue, deliberately earnest in an attempt to hide her trembling hands.

"In Herring, the mother is saved," she said, still forcing steadiness into her voice. "A grown person is more valuable to the village than a baby. But – but I think in noble families, the baby is valued over the mother?"

Her words rose in a question. Teagan gave a nod in response, recalling Eamon's own grim answer to a question asked a decade prior.

"Aye, poppet, but Alistair would _never_ countenance that," the bann replied, immediately. "You know he would never choose a course of action that would lead to you coming to harm."

"I know," Flora said, her voice small and determined. "That's… that's why I'm taking the choice out of his hands. If it goes ill, if the birth goes – if it goes _wrong,_ I want the babies to be saved over me. Even if they need to – to _cut_ … anyway. I want them to be saved."

Flora swallowed, hearing Teagan exhale unsteadily beside her.

"Petal, Alistair would _never_ allow that!"

She nodded and turned to him; reaching out to put her hand on his arm.

"Bann Teagan- "

The bann realised then what the favour she wanted from him was, and let out a muffled curse under his breath.

"Maker's Breath, sweetheart – you can't ask me to do that!"

He thrust himself to his feet, paced the width of the corridor and put his head to his fist, heart racing erratically in his chest.

"Please, Bann Teagan," Flora entreated, gazing up at him from the stone bench. "If it comes to that… I might not be in a condition where I can think or speak properly. I need someone to make sure that the twins are saved. To make sure my… my choice is carried out."

The bann let out a groan against his fist, past caring that passing Templars were shooting curious glances towards them. He shook his head in helpless denial for a moment, and then turned back towards her.

"Florence – _Flora_. How could I make that decision? You're asking me to – to sanction your _death."_

"No," she countered, blinking back a sudden surge of emotion. "I'm asking you to save the heirs to the throne… if it comes to that. You _know_ how important these babies are to Ferelden's future."

Teagan returned to sit heavily beside her, shoulders slumped and eyes overcast.

"Why me?" he asked, bleakly. "I can't – I couldn't possibly…"

"Arl Leonas is too loyal to the old teyrn – to my father – to agree," Flora whispered. "I think Wynne would see my point of view, but she's a mage and they might not listen to her. Zevran would never agree because he cares for me- "

"And I _don't?"_ the bann interrupted, a harsh rasp to the words as they slipped from his throat.

Flora gazed at him for several long moments, then reached out and took his hand between both of hers.

"Please, Bann Teagan," she pleaded, clutching his fingers tightly within her own.

"Flora, I - "

" _Please!"_

She turned wide, limpid eyes on him, her full lips parted hopefully. The bann gazed down at his entangled fingers and let out a groan of defeat, reaching out in resignation to touch Flora's cheek with his free hand.

"Fine," he said at last, heavily. "I'll do it, poppet. I'll see your wish carried out."

"Thank you," she replied, giving his fingers a hard and appreciative squeeze. "I… I know it's a terrible thing to ask."

"It's a terrible thing for a girl of only two decades to consider," Teagan countered, wiping a bead of nervous perspiration from his forehead. "The Maker wouldn't be cruel enough to take the life of the _Hero of Ferelden,_ I hope."

Flora swallowed, and gave a little shrug.

"I don't know. I hope not. This is just a… a _worst case scenario._ Herring girls don't die in childbed."

 _Because I was there to mend them,_ she thought to herself, grimly.

With the powerful strength of denial that had seen her refuse to acknowledge the swelling of her body for months, Flora thrust the thought from her mind. She made herself smile at the bann, giving his fingers another squeeze.

"Let's go back to the chamber. I want to see Alistair."

* * *

OOC Author Note: The dangerous reality of Medieval childbirth (actually, childbirth for the majority of history! And still a reality in much of the world today). Here's a random childbirth historical fact for you – Jane Seymour, Henry VIII's third wife (the mother of his only surviving son) died of sepsis shortly after childbirth. It's been hypothesised that the infection was caused by the placenta remaining inside her womb – a midwife would have known to remove it, but the queen would have been treated by the most 'educated' male physicians in England. University educated in the works of Hippocrates and Galen, so TOTAL EXPERTS (not!) - they wouldn't have known to check for remnants of the placenta (or dared to). Such a tragedy! I'm not letting that Val Royeaux physician anywhere near Flo, lol. It'll be Mab the midwife all the way!

No update yesterday because those Thursday night open-to-the-public things have started up once again...sigh...no more THursday evenings for me until Christmas haha! Seriously though who wants to talk to a historian? We love the sound of our own voices and will just talk at you for about six years lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	114. I Won't Lose You!

Chapter 114: I Won't Lose You!

Zevran and Wynne had left the guest chamber during Flora's excursion to the privy; the senior enchanter to oversee the mixing of the fortifying tonics, and the elf to distract himself with the pursuit of mindless pleasure. As bann and queen entered the room Alistair rose to his feet from the armchair beside the hearth; hard and glittering purpose alight in his eyes. He strode towards them, taking his wife in his arms and pressing his lips to the top of her head.

"We're going to get into the habit of eating supper after dinner, my love," he informed her bluntly, gesturing to a nearby table laden down with hastily prepared _crudités,_ hunks of hewn bread and an entire wheel of cheese. "As well as having elevenses, brunch, afternoon tea… And after supper, we're going to get an early night."

"Ooh," said Flora, resigning herself to the prospect of never-ending indigestion. "That cheese looks nice. Is it cheddar?"

Alistair nodded, his arm still fixed firmly around her shoulders.

"Uncle, do you want to join us for some food? You're very pale."

Teagan shook his head, swallowing a hard knot in his throat and straightening his shoulders.

"You two spend some time together," he replied softly, his green Guerrin eyes troubled. "I'll see you in the morning; we've some correspondence to go through after your drill."

As the door shut in the bann's wake, Alistair steered Flora across to the small wooden table and nudged her down to the chair. The next minute, he was piling a plate high with an ambitious stack of vegetable crudités; carving off vast chunks of cheese to fortify the structure

Flora eyed the rapidly expanding tower of food, mildly intimidated.

"I think you may be overestimating the size of my stomach," she said in awe, watching Alistair add a decorative frieze of cherry tomatoes to the base of the tower. "It's almost as tall as this place!"

"You must try to eat it _all,"_ her husband instructed, sternly. "I won't even _think_ about the possibility of losing you, sweetheart. It's not going to happen."

There was a steely vein of determination in his voice, the words emerging defiant and non-negotiable. Flora found herself oddly comforted by her best friend's confidence; for a single moment, she truly believed that the king of Ferelden also held dominion over the realm of life and death.

"I'd better get started on this, then," she replied cheerfully, reaching for a cherry tomato. "Mm, I love food."

After Flora had made a wilful effort to eat as much of the food as possible – she could not tolerate the notion of any of it going to waste – Alistair produced a plethora of small bottles. He fed her a spoonful from each of the fortifying tonics brought up by Wynne; most were bland and inoffensive, but a few were downright bitter. Flora swallowed each tonic, feeling her stomach churn after a particularly sour, blackcurrant-coloured liquid.

"Eurgh! Pass me the fish oil again, I need to wash that down with something _tasty."_

Alistair dutifully passed her the cod liver tonic, just about restraining himself from plugging his nostrils at the stench.

Once all the restorative, constitution- enhancing tonics had been taken, Flora found herself being ushered into bed. Since the bell had just rung to mark the change in watch, she knew that it was only an hour past dusk.

"Are we going to bed?" she asked, curiously. "It's still _light_ outside."

"No, it's not," lied Alistair, drawing the curtains hastily shut over the window. "And I want you to get twelve hours of rest tonight, my love."

" _Twelve hours?!_ Twelve? One-two?"

"We only had about five last night! I'm just trying to compensate for the missing hours."

He gazed at her, and for a single moment the mask of stoicism slipped; revealing a raw, ragged-edged worry carved into the bone below. Flora noticed this brief flicker of fear, and flashed him what she hoped was a comforting smile.

"Well, I can't think of anything I'd like more than to spend twelve hours in bed with you," she said, sincerely. "My most favourite person in the whole of Thedas."

True enough to his word, Alistair gamely changed into his sleep-trousers and settled down in bed alongside her. By the light of the hearth and several carefully-placed candles, Flora laboriously worked through an entry from _Even More Exotic Fish of Thedas,_ while Alistair added several more lines to a letter intended for Eamon.

Once Alistair had grown bored of his own correspondence, he put the letter to one side and slung an arm around his wife's shoulders. With his finger moving beneath the words and gentle prompting, Flora finished reading the entry aloud; closing the leather-bound pages with an involuntary beam of pride.

"When we return to Denerim, I'm going to try and fish up an _Amaranthine Speckled Squid,"_ she declared, eyes alight. "Seven foot long tentacles! I want to see one with my own eyes."

Alistair leaned across to put the book on the bedside table, taking advantage of proximity to blow out the candle resting there. With the chamber half-buried in shadow, he leaned back against the pillows and drew Flora into his side. She rested her cheek against his chest, feeling a little squirm within her stomach as one of the babies woke up. The king instinctively glanced downwards as he too sensed the movement; one hand reaching out to stroke the outline of his child.

"So, twins then, eh?" he said softly into the darkness, continuing to caress her stomach. "Did you have any idea?"

Flora shook her head against his shoulder, and despite her earlier protests at settling down so early, stifled a yawn.

"It makes sense now," she replied, sleepily. "I thought the baby was just being acrobatic when it kicked me in two places at once."

Despite his fears in the face of the impending birth and the anxiety over Flora's health, Alistair allowed himself a few minutes of raw joy at the prospect of his family expanding more than he had ever anticipated. He embraced her within the nest of blankets, drawing his new queen tightly against his chest and kissing the top of her head.

"My darling," the king murmured tenderly, somewhere just north of her ear. "The Maker blessed me just by bringing you into my life. Having you as my partner – as _my wife –_ was all the family I could desire. But this, _this…"_

He trailed off for a moment, caressing the high swell of her stomach with a calloused palm.

" _This_ is something I – I _never_ thought I would have. To be a father – _Maker's Breath._ It's… it's just beyond – beyond anything I could have ever…"

Flora could hear her best friend's coherency slipping away, a tell-tale tremor in the words. Sure enough - when she craned her neck as best as she was able - she could see a peculiar gleam illuminating the flecks of green in Alistair's eyes; fresh dampness on his cheeks. She swivelled gracelessly amidst the blankets and put her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to the remnants of tears.

The king remained quiet – save for trembling inhalation – as his queen kissed his damp cheeks; leaning forward as best as she was able. One of Alistair's hands rose unsteadily to cup the back of Flora's head, cradling the fragile curve of her skull against his palm.

"I feel as clumsy as a seven foot Amaranthine speckled squid," she commented ruefully, stroking her thumb back and forth over his stubbled jaw. _"Clumsier."_

Despite her initial trepidation at retiring to bed so early, Flora soon found herself drifting off to sleep against Alistair's chest; finding more comfort nestled into her husband's body than with any number of cushions and pillows. She lay submerged in a rich and dreamless sleep for several hours, waking disorientated in the middle of the night to find the bed beside her empty.

The room was now almost completely dark, save for the remnants of the fire smouldering away in the hearth. If they had been in the palace at Denerim, servants would have crept in to surreptitiously coax the flame back to life, but the Circle was less familiar with hosting royal guests. It was chilly, but not as bitingly cold as the previous night; from somewhere outside the barred window, an owl sang out a low, mournful hoot.

Assuming that Alistair had gone to the privy or to fetch a drink, Flora peered around the shadowed chamber. It took her a moment to spot him, since she was looking for a head standing at several inches over six feet – and not a figure crouched on the flagstones.

Alistair was kneeling before the small altar set up in the corner of the room, his head bowed and his hands clasped in quiet entreaty. Flora could just about glimpse his mouth working in the darkness; offering prayer after muttered prayer to the Maker, to the Maker's Bride – a mother Herself – and to the spirits in general.

Although she could not hear the exact shape of his plea, Flora could guess well-enough what it was about. Not wanting to disturb a man at prayer she did not say anything, but waited quietly for him to be finished.

Some time later, the king rose to his feet and let out a long exhalation, shooting a final imploring glance at the gilded icon of Andraste. He returned to the bed - taking care to tread lightly across the flagstones - before sitting down on the edge of the mattress.

Moments later, a pair of arms wound their way greedily around Alistair's bare, muscle-bound torso; his wife embracing him from behind as she rested her chin on a jutting ridge of shoulder.

"I am a speckled squid," Flora whispered in his ear, pressing herself wantonly against his back with her dressing gown half-unbuttoned. "With many groping arms. I'm going to eat you up!"

She slid her palms over the chiselled contours of Alistair's abdomen, feeling the iron beneath the battle-marked olive skin. Meanwhile, her lips had occupied themselves with the length of his neck, planting soft little pecks into the sinewy hollow of his throat.

"A speckled squid?" Alistair replied throatily, canting his head to one side as his wife bit gently at his collarbone.

"Mmmm. Mm, speckled," mumbled Flora, distracted by the finely-hewn, bulky physicality before her. "And carnivorous, yum."

He grinned, sliding an affectionate palm up and down the length of her forearm as it draped possessively across his chest.

"I think I need to check the whereabouts of these alleged _speckles,"_ Alistair murmured, twisting at the waist and easing his wife gently back onto the cushions. "To make sure you aren't… an _imposter_."

"An octopus masquerading as a squid," Flora replied solemnly, the corners of her full mouth pulled tight as she tried not to laugh. The mustard wool dressing gown was half unbuttoned at the front, exposing one swollen breast. The mark left by the Archdemon's soul stretched ragged across her shoulder, pale and silvered by the muted light of the hearth.

"Well, you never know, these days," Alistair murmured, leaning forward as his fingers worked the remaining buttons of the dressing robe loose. "I think I need to visually verify the existence of these speckles."

He resisted the temptation of her breast – aware that they were particularly tender today - and instead nuzzled his face against Flora's collarbone; reverently kissing the hollow of her throat as though it were some Andrastrian relic equal to any resting on the altar.

Brother- and sister-warden had once freely used the bedroll to distract themselves from the horrors of the Blight. Now, husband and wife resorted to similar tactics – albeit in nicer surroundings – to temporarily banish the grim spectre of childbirth; with all its inherent dangers.

Afterwards, the king held his yawning and satiated queen tight to his chest, aware that they should probably don some nightclothes in preparation for the inevitable early morning incursion. Yet he was reluctant to let Flora go for even a second, clutching her warm body to his and reassuring himself of its sturdiness.

"'Night, my lovely anemone," she mumbled sleepily into Alistair's shoulder, curling her fingers into his palm.

"Goodnight, my- " Alistair paused for a moment, his mind frantically searching for a marine creature that was both immensely strong and unyieldingly sturdy. "My beautiful… whale."

"WHALE?" demanded Flora, incensed. _"WHALE?!"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Not the best ever choice of endearments, Alistair! And FISH-THEMED ROLEPLAY = a new low for the bedroom, ahahaha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	115. Distractions

Chapter 115: Distractions

Flora's melodramatic outrage at being referred to as a _whale_ lasted for the rest of the night, through the breaking of their fast and well into the next morning. Alistair did not help himself by breaking into periodic bursts of laughter as he caught glimpses of her indignant, finely hewn face glowering at him from the bathtub and over the breakfast rolls.

"Darling," he tried to placate her, struggling to keep a grin from spreading across his handsome features. "I only meant that you had the _warrior spirit_ of a mighty whale – not that you _looked_ like one! You _know_ that you're the most beautiful girl in all of Thedas."

In actuality, Flora was no longer affronted by Alistair's comment – she knew that he had meant it as a compliment, rather than a slight on the size of her belly – but feigning melodramatic outrage was oddly satisfying in her hormonal state. With every indignant pout and toss of her hair, she created distance between themselves and the elven mage's ominous warning from the previous night.

 _Your constitution needs bolstering before the birth. It's not as strong as I'd like._

Alistair, who usually spent an hour or two every day practising with sword and shield, had elected to join the Templars during their morning sparring practice. Although they had only been staying in the Circle for a handful of days, he had seen too many mages with the padded bodies of the eternally sedentary, and had grown unnecessarily nervous about his own muscular physique. Despite no longer being a Warden – or indeed, actively at war – the king of Ferelden was determined to keep himself in prime fighting condition in case the need arose once more to defend his country – or his family.

To this end, after breaking an extensive and heartyfast with his pouting wife, Alistair went to join the Templars in their morning drill. This was customarily held on a wide balcony located on the eastern face of the Tower; a jutting promontory of stone precisely placed to catch the bulk of the morning sun. The balcony was spacious enough to house two dozen spaced-apart target dummies, along with weapon racks, benches and the other items required for training.

The air sang with the clash of metal against metal and the thud of metal against wood; less experienced Templars striking training dummies while their veteran counterparts sparred with their peers. A drill instructor at the far end of the balcony barked out instructions for a dozen adolescent recruits, who wielded training swords crafted from wood.

Flora was perched with Wynne on a bench to the side, positioned where the most sunlight spilled over the stone. They were ostensibly practising Flora's literacy - which had been neglected since the beginning of their progress - but, as the senior enchanter had quickly discovered, the queen was getting a little _too_ distracted by her husband's nearby exertions.

"Flora, I don't see why we couldn't use one of the half-dozen libraries or study carrels located within the Circle," Wynne said, a note of exasperation ringing through the words as she let _A Child's Illustrated History of Ferelden_ rest in her lap. "Your focus keeps drifting like… like an anchorless vessel!"

As the senior enchanter had hoped, the marine reference successfully caught Flora's attention. The queen dutifully swivelled her head back around and forced herself to focus on the hand-inked letters.

"I'd be able to concentrate better if it were my fish book," she mumbled, shifting to accommodate a small knee jabbing into the base of her spine. "Shall I go and get it?"

" _No,_ Florence. You need to learn more about the heritage of the nation that Alistair now leads," countered Wynne sternly, lifting the book and pointing her finger to the page. "Let's continue."

Laboriously, Flora worked her way through the story of Calenhad's relinquishing of the throne; a tale with many complex words and dubious examples of morality. To her mild confusion, her husband's many-times ancestor seemed to have fallen from power after being bewitched into inadvertently sharing a bed with his wife's lady companion.

"So he just – he just _abducted_ the throne and disappeared?"

"Abdicated," corrected Wynne, lowering the book to her lap. "And yes, he vanished."

"Vanished? He was a _mage_ all along?!"

" _No,_ child – he didn't _literally turn invisible._ He secreted himself into the countryside, leaving his throne to the son in his wife's belly."

Flora still looked confused, and so Wynne decided to hastily press on, tapping her finger on the next page.

"Shall we continue with the early reign of Waylon Theirin I?"

But the queen's attention had drifted once again. Wynne followed her gaze to where Alistair was sparring with a nervous Templar; the king clad in a thin shirt and a fine sheen of perspiration.

" _Florence Cousland,_ focus!"

"I _am_ focused," Flora breathed, her eyes studying the movement of ironbound muscle with each fluid swing of the sword. "Ooh, he's _so_ handsome."

"I knew we should have gone to the archives to study," grumbled Wynne, though without rancour. "I doubt you'd get as distracted by Old Peter, the librarian with the knee-length beard and the facial warts."

Flora had stopped listening, her lips parting as she devoured her husband's powerful, yet meticulously controlled movements. The king was aware of his own strength – he was almost two metres of bulk and muscle – and did not want to injure his opponent. This had been a lesson hard learned from his days in the Templar monastery; where his younger self had often been disciplined for accidentally destroying training dummies.

Sensing the admiring gaze of his wife, Alistair lowered his sword and turned towards the stone benches, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from his eyes. His green-flecked stare met Flora's; two dozen yards away across the balcony, she flashed him a slow, rare public smile, laying out her bait.

As though he were being wound slowly in on a fishing line, Alistair crossed the flagstones; sparring recruits hastily drawing apart to clear a path for their king. Flora continued to smile at him, her face warmed by a fresh rush of blood to her cheeks.

Alistair sheathed his sword before reaching her, straddling the stone bench as Flora swivelled as best she could towards him. He took her face gently between his damp palms, the perspiration gleaming within the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. She gazed at him, mesmerised, her full lips wet and slightly parted.

"Oh, for Maker's sake," grumbled Wynne, sliding ostensibly down the bench as far as was possible. "You were both happily engaged in separate pursuits a moment ago. Flora, your literacy is never going to improve if you keep losing your focus!"

Unfortunately, Flora was already entirely distracted, her arms wrapped around Alistair's neck as he kissed her with a raw and enthusiastic ardour. One of his palms spread proudly across the small of her back, the other was wound within her hair; anchoring her to him.

"My own wife," he whispered when they parted, flushed in the face and breathless. "My very own sweet wife."

Flora smiled back at him, surreptitiously inhaling the heated, masculine scent of his damp skin.

" _Ahem."_

The cough came from Irving's private secretary; a slender, ungainly man with a scholar's ink-stained fingers. "I have a message from Bann Guerrin, King Alistair. Shall I relate it?"

Alistair grunted his assent, fingering a thick strand of Flora's oxblood hair.

"Go ahead."

The secretary cleared his throat, steepling his fingers.

"' _There's a stack of letters the height of a dwarf awaiting your attention. Come to the council chamber – once you've bathed.'"_

Alistair snorted, gently tugging at the strand of hair before releasing it and rising to his feet.

"That's my uncle's polite way of saying _get up here, now._ Ready to go, Flo?"

"Mm!"

While Alistair took his bath within the guest bedchamber, Flora decided to seek out their elven companion. Nobody had seen Zevran since the previous evening, when the senior enchanter had delivered both the news of twins, and the more unwelcome revelation that Flora's constitution required strengthening before she could give birth safely.

After leaning on the rim of the bathtub and kissing Alistair on his damp, soapy cheek, Flora took her leave from their chamber. She could feel his eyes boring anxiously between her shoulder-blades as she left – the king recalled her gentle slide into unconsciousness the previous day – and heard the quiet, ubiquitous tread of Templars in her wake.

First, she tried the guest chamber assigned to the elf; located opposite from their own across a small communal hallway. It was empty, but she saw - to her relief - that the elf's less cared for possessions were still neatly arranged on the dresser.

The queen glanced around the smaller, plainer bedchamber with slight envy, noticing the lack of gruesome or overly pious Chantry décor. Unlike the quarters assigned to the royal couple – which mostly served visiting church officials – this guest chamber was far more secular. It had plain, white-washed walls, an inoffensive oil painting of the old king Maric above the hearth, and moth-eaten velvet curtains hanging at the windows.

"Hm," Flora said out loud, swivelling her gaze around the empty chamber before reversing back into the curved corridor. "Have either of you seen an elf? With very light hair and dark eyes?"

This question was directed to her Templar escorts, who both gave grunts in the negative.

Flora frowned, then set off determinedly down the corridor. She did not know exactly _where_ she was going, and had forgotten the identity of many of the chambers branching off the passageway. Ten minutes later, and she had made a complete circuit of the Circle Tower's fourth floor; ending up once again near the guest chambers.

There was a pair of Tranquil emerging from the chamber assigned to Teagan, one clutching a bundle of bedlinen and the other a crumb-scattered silver tray.

"Excuse me," said Flora, repeating the question that she had directed to a half-dozen others during her circumnavigation of the Tower. "Have you seen an elf? He is _this_ much taller than me, with stripes on his face and black eyes."

"You make me sound like a zebra, _carina."_

The low, amused voice drifted from a nearby doorway, where the elf leaned casually against the frame with a bottle of Antivan brandy clutched in his hand.

Flora beamed, delighted to have caught her quarry.

"What's a _zebra?"_

"A striped horse," Zevran replied, the bottle dangling dangerously loose from his fingertips. "Found in the Rivaini desert and the _menageries_ of Orlais."

Flora still had no idea what a _zebra_ was – or a _menagerie_ for that matter – but she was more focused on her elven companion. She padded past him into the plainer guest-chamber and sat down on the bed; relieved to take some of the weight off her feet. The Templars followed her dutifully inside, stationing themselves at either side of the doorway. Zevran continued to smile, a look of deliberate lightness writ across his features as he sauntered over to the dresser.

"I'd offer you a drink, _nena,_ but I know you don't like the taste."

He poured himself another beaker of amber-coloured liquid, proud of the apparent steadiness of his hand.

"I came here looking for you just now," Flora said, watching the muscles in the elf's throat convulse as he drained the glass. "I hadn't seen you since last night, I was worried."

The elf finished the brandy before replying, corralling his thoughts into some sort of order. He replaced the cup on the dresser, the slight clatter of glass against wood betraying the infinitesimal tremor in his fingers.

"Ah, you need not worry about me, my Rialto lily! Zevran is always well," he replied, with carefully crafted merriment. "You are aware that I often seek out companionship at night, _sí?_ And this particular companion was _most keen_ to waylay me this morning, too."

Flora was not fooled by her friend's effervescence. She made no reply, but let her pale, Waking Sea eyes settle on him, there was no reproach there, but also no gullibility. She knew full-well that her companion's humour was a front, and had a suspicion as to his true feelings; but waited for him to come to a natural confession.

Finally, the elf's ears dropped a fraction. The fixedness of his smile slackened and he let out a small sigh, returning the brandy bottle to the dresser.

"Your stare could wear boulders down to sand, given enough time," he murmured, coming to sit beside her on the bed. "Have you eaten a hearty breakfast this morning, _carina?"_

The question confirmed Flora's suspicions, and she took a deep, steadying breath before speaking.

"I'm going to be _fine,_ Zevran _,"_ she said, ignoring the manifest question and responding directly to its latent meaning. "It's not the same circumstances as with your mother, or with Alistair's. I'm going to have a midwife – probably about eighteen of them, if Alistair has his way – and healers at my side. And herbal tonics with expensive ingredients. And clean bed-linens. I promise, I'm _not_ going to die."

Saying it out loud was actually rather reassuring, and Flora found herself sitting up a little straighter.

"Eighteen midwives and clean bed-linens may not be enough, _carina,_ if your body cannot handle the exertions of labour," the elf replied, his voice indistinct. "You would not be the first queen to bleed out on expensive sheets."

"It won't happen to me," she replied, finding comfort in her own voiced certainty. "I've kept _them_ safe since Ostagar. They've got to keep _me_ safe on their… on their journey out. We've made a deal."

Despite his melancholy the elf smiled, shaking his head as he gazed down at his own elegant fingers.

"Are the little occupants of your belly aware of this deal?"

"Definitely," Flora replied, solemnly. "They've signed a legal agreement. A weever."

" _Waiver,"_ said Zevran, unable to stop himself from grinning at her. "A weever is a type of fish, as you well know, _mi amor!"_

There was silence for a moment, as Flora absentmindedly patted her swollen stomach, feeling a little nudge in response. The usual noises of the Circle echoed in the stone passageway outside; the acoustics of the Tower amplifying both muffled conversation and boot against stone.

"I am sorry for my melodramatics," the elf said suddenly, a rueful and humourless smile curving at the corner of his mouth. "The thought of your death is _anathema_ to me. This- "

He made a gesture in the air, drawing an invisible skein between them.

"This, _our friendship,_ is the healthiest relationship I've ever had. Despite… despite everything."

 _Despite the unrequited longing I still bear,_ the elf did not need to say. _In spite of the ache within my ribs._

"And because it is the healthiest, it is the most significant to me," he continued, instead. "The most important to Zevran; free man and _former_ Crow. I would not take it well if… if you were no more, _nena."_

"But that's not going to happen," Flora reminded him, sternly. "Remember the _legal weever!"_

Zevran let out a rich and full-bodied Antivan chuckle; reaching out to pat her knee companionably.

"Ah, of course, _nena._ We mustn't forget the legal weever."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I wanted to show the two different reactions of Flora's closest companions to the news that her constitution isn't as strong as it should be. Alistair freaks out, prays, then stuffs her with food. Whereas Zevran goes off to find a willing partner and gets drunk! Both men had mothers who died in childbirth (or as far as Alistair knows) and so it's a deeply personal issue.

I have evening events at work for the next two evenings, so next update will be Friday!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	116. Letters of Consequence

Chapter 116: Letters of Consequence

The letters had been taken up in a bundle to a lofty chamber on the top floor of the Tower. Once the royal couple had arrived within the designated room, it quickly became apparent why this space had been assigned for correspondence. A high, lofty aperture – some marvel of Tevinter engineering - let in a deluge of pale August sun, flooding the room in a watery, gilded light. A long telescope tucked into a corner, along with an astrolabe that stood the height of the queen, suggested that the chamber doubled as an observatory during the moonlit hours.

The letters had been neatly arranged, according to their addressee, in small piles around a polished circular table. Irving had sent up two Tranquil scholars to serve as secretaries. Since both Alistair and Teagan preferred to handwrite their letters, the two scribes were quickly sent away.

The king recalled only too well how his wife had wept over her own poor literacy the last time that they had received letters, at South Reach. Grimly determined to prevent this from happening again, he had quietly requested that Wynne position herself at Flora's side to offer timely assistance. The senior enchanter, who had no need to write a letter to Irving in their current situation, readily agreed.

Eamon's dispatches to Alistair were long and detailed; the Chancellor of Ferelden ensuring that nothing was left out of his weekly memorandums. In his neat, sloping hand, the arl discussed the progress on the city wall (the dwarven builders' guild had nearly finished repairing the west tower), the activity within the docks (thriving, since the reopening of the maritime trade routes) and the general condition of the people (well enough; most of the refugees had either departed for the Marches or joined one of the local restoration committees. The lady Anora had taken a walk around the palace grounds – under heavy escort – and had managed to keep her chamber in a relatively clean state.

Alistair wrote a response in his own neat and meticulous hand, tapping the quill on the edge of the inkwell to get rid of the excess. He asked about the progress of the restoration committees, and whether the dwarven master-builder had chosen lime or sandstone cement to repair the walls. The official coronation portrait of himself and Flora had been completed; the king agreed that it should be hung within the entrance hall, near the doorway leading to the Landsmeet chamber. Trying not to laugh, Alistair also gave his permission for cheaper copies of the portrait to be created and sold; as long as any profit made was split between the restoration committees and the remaining refugees.

To finish off his letter, the king relayed the news that Flora was expecting twins, and that he wanted the most skilled midwives in Ferelden brought to the royal palace in preparation – including the nation's most capable healers.

 _No expense is to be spared,_ he wrote, digging the nib into the parchment with his conviction. _Pay to ferry someone all the way from the Anderfels if need be._

"Sounds like Rainesfere's had a decent sprouting of grain ," Teagan murmured, melting wax carefully onto a folded scroll to seal it. "Not quite as bountiful as Redcliffe, but should be more than sufficient to see the people through the winter."

"I think there's going to be a good harvest in the autumn," Alistair replied, shaking his head in slight disbelief. "Or, that's what Eamon predicts. I can't quite believe it – the land goes through a _Blight,_ of all things, and still produces a decent reaping!"

He reached down a surreptitious hand beneath the table, caressing the small, bare toes curling in his lap.

Flora, who had her feet propped up on his thigh, peered at him beneath her eyelashes; a faint bloom of pink rising to her cheeks. She had been slightly awed at the _quantity_ of letters that she had received. There had been notes from both of her brothers, one from Leliana, another from Arl Leonas, one from the dwarven master-builder, a brief scrawl from Oghren, and a final missive from the head of the Gwaren restoration committee.

With the gentle help of Wynne initially – and then Zevran too, once the elf had decided to join them – Flora laboured her way through the creation of suitable responses. Each reply would only be a few sentences – a brief comment on the subject of the letter, followed by a _thank you_ for their endeavours. To her brothers, Leliana, Leonas and Oghren, Flora added a little postscript at the bottom of each one: _alsso i am Havvinge Twince!_

It took her the same amount of time to craft one of these brief, three sentence responses as it did Alistair to dash off a side and a half to Eamon. Yet, Flora was determined not to compare her skill to her husband, but to _herself_ from a year prior; thinking in this way, she felt a small surge of pride.

"How do you spell Lobster?" she whispered to Zevran, while mid-reply to Fergus. Her elder brother had written that the Mabari pups were growing large and _boisterous_ up at Highever – though this latter adjective had been crossed out and replaced with _loud;_ a simpler piece of vocabulary for his formerly illiterate sister.

" _L,o,b,s,t,e,r,"_ Zevran replied, trying to eavesdrop on Alistair and Teagan's murmured exchange. The king was holding a missive with the Warden seal broken on the front; the elf recognised Loghain's neat, plain handwriting.

Flora copied the spelling and then looked down at what she had written: _"lopsta."_ It looked reasonable enough to her, and so she put Fergus' reply to one side and reached for her last letter. It was written on cheap parchment, with _To Her Majesty the Queen_ written on the front in elegantly scribed calligraphy.

Flora – who had needed assistance to read the italicised hand – opened the letter and blinked at its contents. The entire sheet was filled with delicate, sloped writing; the letters immediately began to crawl all over the page like a jar of loosed spiders.

"Sweetheart, I'm finished," Alistair offered, setting aside Loghain's missive from Warden's Vigil. "Shall I read it to you?"

Flora nodded gratefully - she had as much chance of reading the ornamental handwriting as she did transforming herself into a Morrigan- _esque_ raven.

Alistair took the letter, eyes dropping to the name at the bottom.

"It's from Elder Valendrian," he said, one eyebrow rising. "The leader of the alienage."

In a quiet and clear voice, the king read out the contents of the letter. It explained that although the construction crew had not yet finished the gateway into the tidal estuary, the channel diverting the waste water away from the alienage water supply had been completed. Within mere weeks, the elder had seen a marked change in the purity of the water – provable not only by its clarity, but by the reduction of stomach complaints, choleras, and sicknesses amongst the young. The unsullied water had also allowed them to sprout seeds for the first time within the alienage's dusty soil.

"' _The alienage wishes to express its most sincere gratitude to the queen, on whose instruction the new water-channel was dug,'"_ Alistair finished, softly. _"'And I am personally in your debt. Valendrian."_

When he looked up, a sniffling Flora had her face buried in her hands. She had experienced an unexpected and powerful surge of emotion at the letter's contents, which had combined with hormonal imbalance to produce a bout of tears.

 _I helped, without magic,_ she thought wildly to herself as Alistair almost fell over his chair in his haste to get to her. _I healed, without magic!_

The king reached her side, crouching beside her chair and looking frantically about his person for scrap of cloth.

"My love," he breathed, dabbing carefully at her wet cheeks with his sleeve instead. "My own sweet wife."

"I – I.. _without my magic -!"_ she croaked in response, and Alistair could guess well enough what she meant. He took Wynne's proffered handkerchief and wiped more carefully at her face, taking a deep breath to steady himself before responding.

"My kind and compassionate girl," he murmured, leaning forwards to press his lips against her damp cheekbone. "You've done more good for those elves in two months than has been done in years."

"Decades," added Teagan, soberly. "It was a thing well done, poppet."

Slightly embarrassed, Flora sat up in the chair and scrubbed at her eyes, taking a deep, grounding breath as she reached for her ink-pen and a sheet of parchment. Slowly and carefully, she scribed out her response, biting her lip as she focused on the shapes of the letters.

Alistair, still crouched beside her chair, watched as a sentence sprouted across the paper: _thaink yeu Yeu are Walcom. florance the quene._

"Is that right?" she asked him after a moment, nudging the sheet of parchment in his direction.

"Perfect, my love," he said throatily, knowing that the elven elder would not think any less of Flora for her misspellings. "Now, I need a kiss from my beautiful wife to fortify me before I read this endless trade manifesto."

Alistair was still bravely making his way through the three-foot long scroll by the time that Flora had finished scribing the rest of her responses. Replacing her ink-pen, the queen shifted her position on the chair to better accommodate her stomach, watching Zevran make idle sketches on a spare sheet of parchment. He was in the middle of drawing a profile of Wynne, his shrewd eye and careful hand skilfully replicating the elder mage's lined, elegant features.

Wynne was oddly flattered, but hid it well. Instead, she pushed her reading-lens further up her nose and cleared her throat, half-reading a leatherbound journal.

"Keep still, Wynne," Zevran entreated as she went to take a sip of tea. "I am trying to perfectly capture the angle of your noble nose."

"Well, I didn't give you permission to capture my likeness," replied Wynne, without rancour. "I hope you don't expect me to sit here all afternoon. I shall be getting up soon."

The elf flashed her a lazy smile, eyes narrowed as he made small, precise marks on the parchment.

"Then I will have to rely upon my memory. Or, my imagination."

On Zevran's other side, Teagan raised his eyebrows in reluctant admiration as he surveyed the elf's work.

"That's very good. You've got a natural talent."

Zevran allowed himself a single moment to preen, finishing off the sketch of Wynne with a deft stroke of the ink-pen.

"I simply have a good eye and a steady hand," he replied, eyeing the completed profile in mild satisfaction. "But I thank you for your compliment. Perhaps I may become a court painter and make a fortune off wealthy patrons with heavy purses."

Teagan paused, both thoughtful and wistful at once. When he spoke next, his voice was lowered so that only the bann could hear it.

"Why not… ?"

The junior Guerrin sibling did not need to enunciate his point any more clearly; his head canted in a specific direction. The young queen of Ferelden was slumped back in her seat, one knee wedged up against the table to support the rounded weight of her stomach. Despite the careless languor of her body, her face in profile lost none of its arresting Alamarri beauty, the eyes pale as smoke, the mouth full and sulky. Thick ropes of carmine were strewn over her shoulders like strands of seaweed draped across the sand.

"I am many things, Bann Teagan, but I am no masochist," Zevran replied, quietly. "If she asks me, I will draw her; but otherwise I see no point in torturing myself- "

"Zevran?"

" _Mi sirenita?"_

"Would you draw me a lobster?" Flora implored, rousing herself from a gormless stupor.

"A lobster?"

"Mm. Then I will give it a score for aesthetic and _believeability."_

" _Claro!"_

A short while later Alistair took a brief respite from squinting down at the trade manifesto, obliging his wife's request to draw a seagull. His valiant attempt soon joined Zevran's lobster, Teagan's squid and Wynne's starfish; Flora was both fascinated and jealous of her companion's artistic abilities. Although Zevran was by far the most skilled in this area, both Wynne and Alistair had produced passable imitations.

"It's not fair that I'm the worst at writing _and_ drawing," she said, having savagely slated her own unfortunate attempt at a jellyfish in both aesthetic and _believability._ "I don't have any talents!"

"You have _innumerable_ talents," her husband piped up, loyally. "Too many to count… or, uh, name."

Flora looked dubious, but reached out regardless to pat at Alistair's elbow in appreciation.

Alistair then continued to labour his way through the trade manifesto, painstakingly squinting down at the tiny, inked lines. He and Teagan made some brief discussion before scribing a response; the bann had a good knowledge of the trade relationship between the different Marcher states and could provide an informed opinion.

"You're good at this _international relations_ stuff, uncle," Alistair offered, setting the Theirin signet he wore on his small finger into the wax to seal it. "Have you ever considered a career as a diplomat?"

Teagan snorted, wiping his ink-splattered fingers on a square of linen before taking a long gulp of ale.

"What, and be driven mad by Orlesians all day? I'm not sure if I've got the patience for it."

Alistair laughed, shooting a glance up at the high window overhead. The sun was just beginning a gentle slide towards the horizon, the August sky a watery and insipid tone of blue. The previous night had been _All Soul's Day,_ a traditional celebration where the memories of the dead – and Andraste's martyrdom – were honoured. In light of the recent tragedy at the Circle, the traditional festivities and balls were not considered appropriate; there had been a sombre Chantry service to mark the occasion instead.

"I think you'd need the patience of an Andrastrian disciple to deal with the court at Val Royeaux," the king admitted, cheerfully. "As much as I like Leliana, I don't think I could put up with four dozen versions of her all crammed into one ostentatious golden ballroom- "

As the king was speaking, he had been sorting through the last few letters. One note had not arrived with the bundled official correspondence from the palace; it had been sent separately to the Circle, and addressed simply ' _urgent_ – _for the king.'_

Yet it was not the writing on the front that had snatched the air from Alistair's lungs, but the wax seal holding fast the letter's contents. Crudely stamped and yet unmistakeable: a tiny bear, one paw lifted.

The colour simultaneously drained from and rushed to Alistair's face; red blotches of anger flaring on his cheeks even as the rest of his skin turned wan. He shoved his chair away with a scraping of wood across stone, violently enough that it clattered back onto the flagstones. The others broke off their own occupations and stared at the king in surprise; watching him stride across the room to where Irving's secretary was waiting.

"Who delivered this here?" Alistair demanded, a raw vein of outrage running through the words. "Who was it? Was it – was it a man in his third decade? With dark hair and sallow features?"

"I-I don't know," the secretary stammered, cringing in the face of such Marician anger. "All letters to the Circle are received at the Calenhad Docks before being shipped across the lake."

Teagan's eyes fell on the sealed note and he inhaled sharply, jolted by sudden understanding.

"Maker's Breath – is that from- "

" _Howe,"_ snarled the king, his hazel eyes dark and furious as he turned back towards the table. "I _knew_ it wasn't over with those base-born jackals! How many more of them are going to come crawling from the woodwork?"

He shot his wife a brief, agonised look before returning to the table, hurling his chair upright with a clatter. When he sat, it was with the trembling alertness of a Mabari poised to lunge; the note caught between rigid fingers.

"Could it be from the daughter? Delilah?" offered Wynne, tentatively.

"Doubtful," Teagan replied, his own expression grim and unamused. "She's publicly renounced her former name, she wouldn't use the Howe seal."

With a sharp intake of breath, Alistair tore the note open in a single swift jerk, splitting the wax bear in half. His eyes moved over the few lines contained within; reading them twice, then a third and fourth time. A crease worked its way into his forehead, the corner of his lip curling.

"What does it say?" Flora breathed, receiving no reply as Alistair struggled to process what he had just read.

Teagan reached out to gently pry the note from the king's fingers, clearing his throat.

"' _King Alistair,'"_ the bann read, quietly. _"'I have made a grievous error in judgement, and the life of the queen is in danger. We need to meet. Send word to the Sleeping Mabari at West Hill – I am no longer there, but it will reach me. Nathaniel Howe.'"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaaaah things were going far too smoothly! I had to throw a bit of drama into the mix. I liked this chapter for the update on the waste-water channel, where Flo realises that she's capable of 'healing without magic ' – or, in more prosaic terms, improving public health to reduce disease, haha.

Lol a bit of foreshadowing here with Teagan joking about being a foreign diplomat… sorry Teegs the hideous red and orange hat is in your future! I still can't get over TrespasserTeagan – bleeghhh

Meant to upload this yesterday but was SO knackered… literally came back from work, changed into leggings to do a quick run round the park… and instead fell asleep on the sofa in my trainers and sports bra lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	117. Flailing With a Fish Hook

Chapter 117: Flailing With a Fish-Hook

Teagan let Howe's note drop onto the table. Alistair shot the letter a single, agonised glance before his face went incandescent in anger. Reaching out, he snatched up the note and crumpled it in a fist, fury creeping in a crimson flush from his collar. The next moment his eyes fell on Flora, who had her arms crossed defensively over her stomach. Rising to his feet, Alistair covered the distance between them in a handful of strides, crouching to encompass his burgeoning family within a strong embrace.

"Don't fret, sweetheart," he said brightly with visibly forced calm, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "Don't let yourself worry for a single _heartbeat._ I'll sort this… this mess out."

Flora eyed him anxiously, tunic rippling as a knee tested the boundaries of her womb. Alistair made himself smile reassuringly back at her, leaning forward to press a kiss to the centre of her forehead.

"I give you my word, my love," he murmured, although his attempt at calm was undermined by his visible struggle to maintain composure. "No harm will come to you, or the twins."

Alistair dropped his hand to her stomach, caressing the swollen mound with paternal affection before rising to his feet.

"Right," he said darkly, managing – with superhuman effort – to keep much of the rage from his voice. "What do you recommend, uncle? I'm not taking Flo anywhere near West Hill, not if Howe's been there recently."

"I wouldn't recommend that either of you go," Teagan replied, quietly. "I'd offer to go, but- "

"No, I want you to stay with us." Alistair finished the bann's sentence, blunt and uncompromising. "You're good with a blade, and there's none more loyal. Zev, I want you to stay, too. I know you probably want to go on the hunt, but… Flo is safe when she's with you."

"As you wish," the elf replied, with a faint, glimmering veil of menace draped over the words. "Anyone who so much as _breathes_ malignly in her direction will not have an intact throat for much longer."

Flora let out a slightly miserable _huff,_ caught somewhere in the grey area between irritation and jitteriness. As one who had first been a mage, then a Warden; she had never felt _entirely_ safe at any point in her life – the exception being the last few months. Ever since Thomas Howe had been found dangling in the undercroft below Revanloch's Chantry, the queen had been lulled into a false sense of security.

 _But I was never really safe,_ Flora thought, grimly. _I won't ever be safe, not when there's a Howe out there with a grudge against me._

Alistair, muttering feverishly to Teagan while simultaneously snapping instructions to the secretary, glanced back towards his wife at the exact moment that this realisation dawned on her face. His own handsome features contorted in distress; he took one step towards her before spinning on his heel and hissing furiously in his uncle's ear.

"I won't _ever_ forgive Howe for this," he snarled, fingers clenched so hard into fists that they began to cramp. "Flo is meant to be keeping calm – she's supposed to be strengthening her constitution for the birth – and now this whoreson emerges from whatever rat-hole he's been hiding in?"

The moment this anger-fuelled rhetoric had been growled into Teagan's ear, Alistair strode back to his wife's side; crouching beside Flora and putting an arm about her shoulders once again. The king could not keep still, every muscle and sinew humming with tension.

"My love," he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you want to have a lie down? A nap? A snack?"

Flora shook her head decisively, her pale gaze sliding sideways from Alistair to where their elven companion quivered like a coiled spring.

"Zevran?"

" _Mi florita?"_

"You know when you offered to teach me how to defend myself?"

" _Sí, nena."_

"Can we have our first lesson this afternoon?"

A short time later, the royal couple returned to the wide external balcony on the east face of the tower, where the Templars had been drilling earlier. The basalt terrace was washed in watery sunlight, far emptier than it had been that morning. Only a handful of Chantry soldiers remained; two were sparring with carefully rehearsed motions and the other was beating a training dummy into submission.

Now it was Alistair's turn to sit on the stone bench beside the wall, although he brought no reading material to divert his attention. Instead, he was half-watching his wife and half-running through the contents of the letter in his head, fingers twitching on his thighs.

Flora had changed into various articles she deemed suitable for physical training – breeches, boots and one of Alistair's shirts. She had asked Alistair to tighten the strap on her knee and had tied her hair in an untidy knot on top of her head in preparation. Zevran had not needed to change his clothing; his usual garb was perfectly suited for fighting in.

The elf produced the two makeshift weapons from behind his back as Flora shifted on the flagstones before him, surreptitiously moving her weight off her weaker knee.

"Which one do you fancy starting with, _mi sirenita?"_

"The hook," Flora said after a moment, eyeing the viciously curved silver barb with incongruous fondness. "Aaah, it reminds me of this one time that my dad caught an eel the length of a _horse!_ He used a hook just like this to snare it."

Alistair eyed the vicious weapon, which Flora was grasping with – to give her credit – sound familiarity. He shifted unhappily on the stone bench, feeling oddly and unusually impotent; as though the crown atop his head and the Theirin seal on his finger lacked any real power.

 _What use is being king?_ he thought to himself, grimly. _If I can't even protect my own family._

"If you get tired, _carina,_ you must say," Zevran warned, going to retrieve one of the shorter wooden training blades used by junior Templars. "You are still sure you want to do this?"

Feeling a little wriggle inside her stomach Flora nodded determinedly, passing the hook from hand-to-hand.

"Yes!"

The elf turned towards her, the cast and mien of his body shifting into a more predatory lean. Strands of white-blond hair were pulled west by the wind, flickering in contrast against the rich umber of his skin.

"Now, _nena,"_ Zevran said, grimacing as he realised the impossibility of any would-be assassin using such a term of endearment. "I mean: now, _Florencia._ Let me see what you would do if you sensed impending danger."

Reflexively, Flora went to lift a shielding hand; arresting the movement after several inches as a fine blade of sadness inserted itself between her ribs. The elf eyed her, a flicker of sympathy in his own dark gaze.

 _Not any longer, carina. No helpful spirits will be coming to aid you from now on._

" _Alistair!"_ she squealed instead, her eyes swivelling towards where her husband had immediately scrambled to his feet. "Alistaaair!"

Zevran rolled his eyes at her while Flora looked wholly unrepentant.

"Well, that _is_ what I'd do if I was in danger!" she replied, as Alistair lowered himself to the bench once again. "It makes sense. Most of the time he's within earshot!"

"Well, this is what you can do during the rare occasions that he is _not_ within earshot," Zevran replied, lowering the wooden blade and reaching out to swivel her gently by the shoulder blades towards the training-dummy. "If there is someone in the room with you, put your back up against an object – a wall is best, not a door – but a table, or a dresser will do. We wish to cut down on the number of vulnerable sides we show to an enemy."

Flora happened to glance sideways; Alistair had his face in his hands. As she took a reflexive step towards him, Zevran reached out and swiped at her elbow gently with his fingers.

" _Focus,_ Flora _._ This is important!"

Over the next hour and a half, Zevran began to introduce Flora to the various ways in which her beloved fishing hook could be transformed into a deadly weapon. He showed her how it could be used not only to slash and cut – a type of wound which lent itself well to the panicked flailing he suspected she would resort to – but also how it could intercept a blade and yank it free of an attacker's hand with a single twist.

Flora tried her best to follow the elf's instructions. She had none of the grace or agility bestowed on a natural fighter, and she had to pause frequently to catch her breath; perspiration trickling unpleasantly down the back of her neck. Fortunately the occupants of her stomach were asleep, nestled snug against their dividing membrane.

However, _willing_ was capable of carrying one a long way, and Flora was a daughter of both Highever and Herring. Although she was unaware that Eleanor Mac Eanraig had once skilfully defended by blade the wheel of her ship from three would-be boarders; she knew well enough that women from Herring were equal counterparts in toughness to their men. Flora had seen her mother – or, the woman she _thought_ had been her mother – hurl herself bodily at wreckers on the beach, using fists, feet and _even_ teeth as weapons.

So with the legacy of both her known and unknown heritage coursing through her veins, Flora was determined to try her very best to overcome the obstacles of her burdensome body and personal inexperience.

In addition to this, Zevran proved to be an unusually tolerant instructor; more so than even Leliana or Sten. He had once been one of the Crow's most skilled children, and _patience_ was a fundamental facet of an assassin's toolkit. In addition to this natural perseverance, Zevran was determined to play his part in securing the safety of the girl who had spared his life and freed him from his bonds without hesitation or expectation.

" _Nena,_ I think that is enough for today," he observed at last, seeing a red-faced Flora reach once more for her water-pouch. "I do not wish to exhaust you, _carina."_

"You're calling me _carina_ again," said Flora, who had noticed the unusual pause in the elf's profuse shower of endearments.

"Well, I am no longer your foe," Zevran countered, flashing her a white-toothed smile as he wiped a single drop of perspiration from his forehead. "Now, I am your friend again."

"You're always my friend," she replied earnestly, putting an affectionate arm around his neck and pressing her sweaty cheek against his. " _Especially_ in doing this. Thank you."

"You are most welcome, _mi amor."_

Zevran gathered up the fishing-hook and the descaling blade, grimacing up at the gathering clouds overhead. He let out a dark mutter on the nature of Fereldan weather, vanishing inside before a drop of rain could dampen his neatly braided hair.

"Flo?"

Alistair's voice snared Flora like a hook; she swivelled obediently on the spot and turned her face towards her husband. The king covered the distance between them in a handful of strides, the determination writ raw across his handsome features. Reaching down, he cupped her face between his hands; bending to press his lips to her forehead.

"You're not worn out after all that?" he asked, anxiously. "If this is too much for you, you don't have to do it. You _know_ I'll protect you to my last breath."

Flora reached up and rested her palm on the back of his hand, feeling the calloused knuckles against her skin.

"I do know," she breathed, earnestly. "And I'm grateful for it. But I want to learn how to defend myself. I hate the thought that I'm- that I'm _vulnerable_ , now. I've never been _vulnerable._ I was better able to protect myself when I was _six_ years old!"

Alistair's face contorted once again in an involuntary grimace. Instead of replying, he pressed another quiet kiss to her forehead; determined that his wife would _never_ be put in a position where self-defence was necessary.

While Flora returned to the guest chamber for a bath and a brief nap after her exertions on the balcony, Alistair and Teagan met with Ser Gilmore. The Cousland knight had travelled across by small boat from the shore and they had conducted a brief, fervent meeting within the Circle's receiving area. Ser Gilmore had as much cause as any to retain anger against the Howe family – he had been at Highever during the arl's treachery, and had received the wound to his face in its futile defence. As Alistair had expected, the knight was outraged by the implication that the queen was in danger, readily agreeing to travel to West Hill and investigate further. Ser Gilmore was provisioned with enough food and supplies to continue his journey alone; he promised to leave at the crack of dawn.

The light in the air was beginning to fade as evening drew in on the royal company's fourth day in the Circle tower. With August's commencement, night arrived in quicker increments each day; the first pinkish-gold streaks of sunset manifesting well before dinner. Faint promises of stars lurked overhead, like the hovering ghosts of constellations awaiting nightfall.

The king offered little in the way of conversation as they climbed the steps back to the fourth floor. Teagan, well aware that his nephew was still brooding over Howe's letter, made a valiant attempt to distract him.

"It bewilders me how so many of these mages get soft around the abdomen," he commented as they embarked upon the third flight of steps. "You'd think they would be in the peak of fitness clambering around these staircases all day. I remember when you and Flora first arrived at Redcliffe; she was just a slip of a girl."

Teagan found it increasingly difficult to remember Flora's physicality _before_ the news of her child-bearing, since her figure had been disguised by loose clothing and swollen belly in turn for the past five months.

"Flo was only skinny because she went up and down to the kitchens multiple times a day," Alistair replied, half-smiling ruefully. "She told me. Instead of studying in the library, she'd trek the two hundred steps to the food cupboards. It reminded me of when I first joined the Wardens, and I had the most ridiculous appetite. I devoured food like a Mabari."

"You always had a hearty appetite, even as a boy," Teagan replied, lifting his shoulders and raising his chin in preparation for the final flight of steps.

"I was a _glutton_ after my Joining – the ritual where you become a Warden," Alistair continued, unsure how much his uncle understood of such practices. "The others used to laugh themselves hoarse at me because I'd eat a bowl of stew so ferociously that half of it would end up down my shirt. Duncan never laughed, though. I think he understood."

Teagan nodded, he had met the old, increasingly grim-faced Rivaini Warden-Commander on a number of occasions in recent years. Like most Fereldan nobility, the bann had believed Duncan to be unnecessarily scare-mongering – especially in recent years. _The Darkspawn have always seethed below the surface,_ the Fereldan lords had retorted in response to the Rivaini's warnings. _Why do you need more funds now? Why do you want permission to enforce conscription of our retainers? Of course there isn't a Blight. Why would there be a Blight in Ferelden? The Maker would surely direct such things to Val Royeaux's doorstep for the Orlesians to deal with._

 _Fortunately_ , Teagan reflected as they reached the fourth floor, _Cailan had heeded the Commander's dire warnings._ The young king had raised a tax to pay for the Wardens' newest recruitment drive, and Duncan had travelled about the land in search of those with the stomach and nerve to fight the Darkspawn.

"Speaking of Duncan," the bann said, while Alistair blinked as though rousing himself from a daydream. "The First Enchanter has got that bundle of his letters; thought you might want to keep the set for posterity. We could read them."

 _Might take your mind off Howe,_ the bann thought to himself.

Alistair gave a nod, his expression still lost in thought.

"Yes," he replied, slowly. "It'd be nice to… to have something of Duncan's, to remember him by. _After_ dinner, though. I'm going to stuff my wife's sweet little face with food until her cheeks stick out like a squirrel."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Flo isn't wrong when she says that she was better able to defend herself as a six year old, which is a bit pathetic! How can you spend almost a year in the company of some of the best fighters in Thedas, and have literally learnt NOTHING? Oh well, at least she's got the familiar fish-hook and descaling knife to practice with.

Alistair is NOT dealing well with the prospect of his wife being in danger though, which is actually fair enough, haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	118. The Last Letters of Duncan

Chapter 118: The Last Letters of Duncan

Alistair had not been speaking in jest. King, queen and company dined within the bedchamber ascribed to the royal couple, which was naturally the largest. A round wooden table had been brought in and set up with chairs, then covered with a myriad of bowls, platters and tureens. A thick stew made from market vegetables was crowded beside a tray of meats, pates and cheeses, a giant butternut squash had been roasted and filled with a savoury casserole; for dessert, there was a vast and impossibly rich fruit pie oozing with cream.

The king eagerly tucked in – he had not lost his voracious appetite with the removal of the taint – but interrupted his own consumption by adding extra spoonfuls to Flora's plate. Every time she glanced away, Alistair would surreptitiously pile another fork-load of root vegetable pie atop her boiled potatoes, or beguile her into eating a plum tomato from his fingers.

"I can see what you're doing!" she mumbled indignantly through a mouthful of mashed swede, immediately receiving a look of reprimand from Wynne.

"What?" asked Alistair, tapping his wife gently on the cheek to pop another slice of cinnamon-speckled banana between her lips. "Darling, I don't know _what_ you're talking about."

"My food is _multiploxing_ on my plate," she retorted, duly swallowing the banana. "I only had three boiled potatoes on there just now, and now there are… _tweleven."_

"'Multiploxing'? 'Tweleven?'" Teagan mouthed to Wynne; the senior enchanter snorted and shrugged.

"Perhaps your potatoes are _breeding,"_ Zevran suggested, with a sly grin and a wink at Alistair. "Ah, _look!_ A flying fish!"

The elf shot an urgent tattooed finger towards the window. Flora's head immediately swivelled, eyes widening as she squinted between the half-closed curtains.

"Whaa?! _Where?_ "

"Oh, you missed it, _nena,"_ Zevran crooned, pulling a sympathetic face. "Never mind."

Flora looked back down at her plate, and her jaw dropped. Half of the butternut squash had materialised before her, balanced precariously on top of the pile of potatoes. She shot a suspicious look at Alistair, who assumed an expression of innocence.

"What's wrong, my love?"

"Shenanigans!" the queen replied, indignantly. "I've eaten half of the food on this table already."

"You're eating for _three,_ " Alistair reminded her, sternly. "I'm going to fatten you up like a prize pig before you give birth, darling. I want you nice and plump."

 _And strong,_ the king thought grimly to himself as he watched Flora valiantly fork up a mouthful of roasted squash. _And with the constitution of an ox._

Despite her misgivings, Flora managed to make her way through the pile of food, wondering idly if she might actually _split her leggings._ Already it took her and Alistair a concerted and coordinated effort to force the leather trousers on every morning – she was not yet ready to admit defeat and resort to one of the dreaded _gowns_ that Leliana had ambitiously packed.

After they had finished off the rich, Fereldan-fruit pie, Teagan headed down the corridor to fetch the bundle of correspondence from Irving's study. A small handful of Tranquil servants entered to clear away the empty bowls, tureens and platters; balancing the silverware precariously on trays.

Zevran wandered across to the window, leaning against the stone and fiddling idly with the frayed tie bundling the curtain back. Alistair was still plying his wife with food, a bowl of sugared almonds set on the table between them. He was trying to come up with increasingly creative ways to beguile her into eating; finally resorting to plain bribery.

"For every question you get right, you can have an almond," he said, then noticed that Flora was busy gnawing on the wooden spoon. _"_ Are you listening, my little beaver?"

"Mm," she mumbled, unable to ignore the strange cravings of her body. "I'm not very good at giving answers. Or, _correct_ answers, anyway."

"What's the name of the leader of Orlais?"

"Um. _Ceiling."_ replied Flora vaguely, distracted by thoughts of flying fish.

Alistair let out a delighted bark of laughter, the green flecks in his hazel irises standing out bright. His wife smiled vaguely at him, aware that she had probably got the answer wrong but pleased at provoking such a reaction.

"Well, I can't wait for our first diplomatic meeting with Empress Ceiling," he announced, sliding the bowl of almonds towards her. "You get as many as you like for that little gem."

"I feel as though such a meeting might end up in the resumption of Orlo-Fereldan hostilities," Wynne murmured to Zevran, who gave a snort.

"Alistair, my dear," the elf continued, pushing himself elegantly away from the window frame. "What exactly are these letters from your old commander supposed to contain?"

Alistair's face immediately fell into a more serious cast, his eyes darkening.

"I don't know anything about their _actual_ contents," he replied, quietly. "I know that Duncan was writing to different Warden-Commanders – including to Weisshaupt – while we were at Ostagar. Apparently, some of the correspondence between himself and the Marches Commander survived."

Zevran returned to his seat at the table, giving a soft murmur of thanks in Antivan to an utterly unconcerned Tranquil with a wine-jug. Once the Tranquil had departed and the company was alone in the chamber the elf picked up the thread of his thought.

"It is a shame that the other commanders did not send their own forces to bolster the Fereldan Wardens at Ostagar," he said, lifting the wine cup to his lips. After taking a sip, he immediately grimaced and delicately replaced the cup on the table.

Alistair's shoulder rose and fell in a rueful shrug, a shadow firmly in place across his face.

"I imagine for the same reasons that Cailan wouldn't countenance the conscription of the mages, dwarves and elves," the king replied, softly. "Glory doesn't shine as brightly when it's spread too thin."

"Which makes no sense," Zevran observed, arch as ever. "Since gold leaf is just as brilliant as solid gold. Cailan would not be the first king whose pride led to his downfall. The kings of Antiva seem to be making it a _habit."_

"Why would the Marches commander send their letters back to Ferelden?" spoke up Flora, suddenly. "A letter is meant to be private, and read only by the person it's addressed to. If _I_ had letters from Duncan, I wouldn't give them up for anything!"

Zevran, who had intercepted his fair share of correspondence over the years, bit back a giggle.

"Well, I imagine the Marches commander thought that the letters might hold some historic significance," Wynne interjected, lowering her journal and tapping her ink-pen against its pot. "I assume that both you and Alistair are mentioned within their contents."

The king and queen shared a quick glance; his eyebrows rising and her eyes widening. Almost without realising, Alistair sat up a little straighter in his seat, swallowing. He reached out a hand towards Flora, who anchored his fingers tightly against her palm.

Zevran smiled, a curious light flickering within his dark pupils as he watched them.

"Like two Mabari pups eager for a scrap of meat," he observed, not unkindly. "This Duncan must have meant a great deal to both of you."

Alistair thought for a moment before responding, his handsome brow furrowing. Since becoming king he had outgrown the habit of opening his mouth, pausing and then blinking as he waited for words to come – now, Alistair paused to gather his thoughts in precedence to his response.

"Duncan was my mentor," he said eventually, a distant timbre to his voice. "He could have recruited any junior Templar, but… he chose _me._ Even though I wasn't the most skilled, or the quickest on my feet. And then he put me in charge of taking out the new recruits into the Wilds. I know it doesn't sound like much, but it – it was the first time that anyone had ever trusted me – _me!-_ with anything important."

There was a short pause after Alistair finished speaking. Flora knew that the elf was looking at her, waiting for her to add her own reflections on the significance of Duncan. Two months prior, she would have been able to give a coherent answer; but with her body in a state of physical and emotional flux, she did not quite know how to shape a response. Suddenly, she thought that she might cry.

Fortunately, Alistair – who had spotted the slight tremor in his wife's nail-bitten fingers – spoke up in her stead.

"Nobody at the Circle ever realised how Flo's magic worked," he offered quietly, placing a surreptitious hand on her knee beneath the table. "They all thought she was a bit – a bit, well, _useless_. Duncan was the first to recognise that she was a spirit healer – and a very _good_ one. He never saw her restricted abilities as a limitation."

"The Warden-Commander was from Rivain," Wynne added, quietly unscrewing the components of her ink-pen and replacing them in their leather pouch. "They don't follow the Andrastrian faith that far north, and mages are far more integrated into society. Those who correspond with the spirits are _revered,_ rather than feared. Duncan would have been familiar with the signs."

Flora bit at her lip; the senior enchanter had hit the nail precisely on the head. The Rivaini native had spent time with the desert tribes of the north, where wise women convened with the denizens of the Fade on regular intervals. Duncan had noticed Flora's frequent pauses before her actions; the periods of silence where she tilted her head to the side as though listening to some surreptitious whisper; the times when she had referred to her ability in the plural: _We can do it. We aren't tired._ He had also observed her seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy – her shields had not wavered in potency even after being assaulted over prolonged periods – and realised quickly that she was acting as a conduit for some greater force; rather than independently drawing power through the Veil.

 _You are a spirit healer,_ he had once said to her, on the mist-covered ramparts of decrepit Ostagar. _I'd bet my last gold diram on it, Flora of Herring_

 _I knew I'd made a sound choice when I recruited you. You have a rare and fortuitous gift, young sister._

Just then, the door swung open and Teagan made his entrance, a polished wooden box positioned carefully in his arms. Alistair sat bolt upright as though somebody had jabbed an elbow into his ribs; his eyes immediately settling on the case.

"Is that – is it- "

"Aye," replied the bann, advancing towards the table as Zevran brought over several more candlesticks from the mantle.

Alistair hastily reached out and brushed away the crumbs left in the wake of dinner, his hazel stare fixed on the case's gleaming wooden lid. There had been nothing left of Duncan after the Darkspawn had overrun their defences in the valley; no remains to immortalise in burial or encase in memorial. These letters, written in Duncan's own hand, took on an especial significance for the two who had been – for a short time – the _only_ Grey Wardens left in Ferelden.

The bann set the box down in the centre of the table. A quick glance sideways confirmed to the king that Flora too was gazing wordlessly at it. Her aloof and lovely face betrayed little visible emotion, but her eyes were wide with tremulous anticipation.

"The First Enchanter says that they're in dated order," Teagan explained, taking a seat as Alistair almost reached for the box and then hesitated. "And that, despite representing only Duncan's side of the exchange, their message is still intelligible."

Alistair nodded and swallowed, suddenly and irrationally nervous. He reached out and flicked up the brass clasp with a finger, revealing a wedge of letters placed neatly within. He inhaled sharply, immediately recognising Duncan's plain, austere hand; the language terse and economical, the hand of a man with little time. Alistair was more familiar with Duncan's handwriting – having often been the recipient of various notes and messages while they were stationed at Ostagar. Flora, on the other hand, had never seen it before. Duncan was aware that his new healer was illiterate, and so messages were passed on to her either verbally – or in person.

Without a word, the king lifted the letters out and spread them over the table, handling each as though it were made of spiderwebs. There were some longer missives, alongside briefly scrawled notes and the occasional annotated map; most letters were a single small sheet of parchment. A handful were torn at the edge, many were splattered by rain from a Fereldan autumn.

A Tranquil entered unobtrusively to add more cedar logs to the hearth. Evening had truly drawn in by this point, yet those gathered at the table paid no heed to the damp and cold surroundings. A half-dozen candlesticks illuminated the polished wood; casting a warm and flickering light over the sole remaining material presence of the old Warden-Commander.

Alistair reached out for the first letter, a nondescript square of parchment. Clearing his throat and wetting his lips with his tongue, he read it aloud. The language, reflecting the character of the author, was mostly perfunctory and dry – yet there were occasional flashes of wry wit; the odd dry comment or glimpse of humour. It was, after all, extracts from the _personal_ correspondence between the two Warden-Commanders.

"' _Two more regiments of the Royal Army arrived today. There's no more room within the fortress, they've been sent down to the lower slopes to make camp. The General returned with them from Denerim. I've yet to see Loghain's face set in anything other than a scowl.'"_

Despite the poignancy of the circumstances Alistair smiled; perfectly able to envision his old mentor articulating such a statement. He swallowed hard and then kept reading, the faintest tremor in his voice.

"' _A regiment of Surface dwarves arrived to set up siege weaponry on the lower ramparts. I've requested that Cailan use the Warden treaties to summon aid from the dwarves of Orzammar, as well as our other allies – as you well know, they're duty-bound to come to our assistance. He refuses. I shall ask him once again once youthful pride tempers into mature reason.'"_

The king grimaced involuntarily, not wanting to speak ill of the dead but unable to stop the frustration from flickering across his face.

"If only- " he started, and then trailed off, glancing over at his wife. "If the Blight had been stopped at Ostagar and the Darkspawn defeated, how many lives would have been saved? How many _towns?_ Lothering? South Reach?"

A grave-eyed Flora gazed back at him, then reached out a hand silently across the table. Alistair took it, clasping their fingers together and kissing her knuckles, keeping their hands entwined as he followed his thoughts to their logical conclusion.

"I mean, Duncan would still be dead," he said, heavily. "If the Archdemon was slain at Ostagar, he would have taken the final blow. He still wouldn't be here."

Alistair allowed himself a single, bittersweet moment of uchronic fantasy; envisioning Duncan alive and well as the leader of the Fereldan Wardens in a post-Blight world.

"Right," he then said briskly, clearing his mind of wistful conjecture. "What's in this next one?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Oozing is probably one of my least favourite words – I'm not a huge fan of onomatopoeic words ( _BANG!_ Really?!), I hate it almost as much as MOIST. I get a bit obsessed over linguistics – I was reading a label on my (100% polyester) coat to someone at work and was like "DO YOU KNOW that inflammable and flammable both mean the same because inflammable is related to the old word inflame – or enflame - which means to catch fire. And they literally were like STFU who cares. I felt like saying WELL WHO CARES about the history of WOOL?! (his specialism is the history of textile manufacturing, and his thesis is actually super interesting, haha).

OK so here's a word that I love but that spellcheck doesn't acknowledge … uchronic! It sort of means 'alternate history' but without putting a specific time period/context on it. I couldn't resist sneaking in a few more Flo-isms (the baby brain is coming on strong in this last few weeks haha). MULTIPLOXING and TWELEVEN.

Anyway, I really liked writing this interlude with Duncan's letters – more to come in the next chapter! I love Duncan as a character (as anyone who also reads me on AO3 will know ho ho ho) and I don't need much excuse to jam him back into my story!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!

*UPDATE- IN WALES UNTIL SUNDAY!*


	119. More Correspondence From Duncan

Chapter 119: More Correspondence From Duncan

The next set of Duncan's correspondence ran along similar themes – detailing the construction of the defences at Ostagar, the arrival of various regiments of the Royal Army, and the refusal of Cailan to utilise the old treaties. There was a strong undercurrent of frustration running through the senior commander's words, measured and articulate as they were. In response to what must have been the Marcher commander's suggestion that he summon the armies regardless of the king's wishes, Duncan reminded the other man of the fragile relationship between Ferelden's kings and its Wardens.

"' _It's not been long since Maric and the Wardens reconciled,'"_ Alistair read, deliberately neutral. _"'There are many who still think that the Order are traitors; I'd not add fuel to the fire.'"_

A short while later, Teagan made a soft exclamation; his bruised-leaf green eyes focused on the page before him.

"Here's mention of you, Alistair."

Alistair's head snapped upright, indescribable emotion flaring across his face.

"What – what did he say?" he asked, with mingled anticipation and trepidation.

"' _My junior officer Alistair showed great bravery in the Wilds today with the Dalish recruits, though I still believe he is holding back a part of his strength. I don't know whether it's through over-caution, or years of formal Templar drill – I need him to unshackle the bindings of his own restraint. The Darkspawn fight brutally and without inhibition; he must do the same.'"_

Teagan's eyes moved to a second letter, which was clearly a reply to an enquiry from the Marcher commander.

"' _You know I can't disclose his identity through here – I'm sure that General Mac Tir intercepts my letters. It's enough for you to know that he's the son of someone significant; important enough that I intend to keep him safe. The others believe that I favour the lad, and they treat him the worse for it. Still, despite their jibes, Alistair is always the one they want at their back when they go into the Wilds.'"_

"That one is from August, a year ago," Alistair said, leaning across to point at the date. "Right before we went on the last tour of recruitment."

Flora had spotted one letter with a familiar ink-stamp in one corner; a blotchy wreath of laurel. She reached for it, gripping the letter delicately between fingertips that were almost reverent; not wanting to smudge her old commander's meticulously scribed words.

"Is this one from Highever?"

Alistair took it, clearing his throat as he prepared to read.

"' _Cousland has been a gracious host, but can spare neither of his sons to the cause. The elder has already set off to join the Royal Army, and the younger is studying in Orlais (for some reason). The teyrn made the joke that if he were ten years younger, he would take the oath himself. This did not go down well with the teyrna, who suggested that her husband had been too much at the ale.'"_

Once again, Flora felt the peculiar pang in her chest that always rose when her birth-parents were mentioned. Despite her memories of Highever being newly uncovered, she still had scant recollection of them – blurred glimpses of faces, a deep belly-laugh, a smell of oakwood perfume. She half-remembered riding before someone on a saddle, through a town filled with staring faces.

"Are there any letters from when Duncan went to the Circle?" she asked, in swift self-diversion.

"Not from the Circle itself, but there's a note here which mentions the new recruits gained during Kingsway," Teagan offered, almost reflexively sliding the paper across the table before realising that she couldn't read it. "Ahem- this is what it says. ' _Two of my senior officers, Elwin and Ogsmir, found a good recruit in the city of Orzammar. A dwarf from their lower caste; the fight runs in his veins like iron in the blood. Name of Brosca. He takes on the Darkspawn like he's got an age-old grudge against them._

 _One of the men from the Royal Army was caught trying to desert. The General was ready to execute him, but I recruited him into the Wardens at the last moment. Loghain was none too happy, but the right of conscription trumps his own authority. I don't think the man will survive the Joining, his disposition seems the nervous sort.'"_

Teagan paused for a moment, drawing the attention of the others. Flora stared at him, her breath caught on a baithook; waiting for her mention in Duncan's own hand.

"' _Finally, I've saved my most curious acquisition 'til last,'"_ the bann read, softly. _"'A mage from the Circle; young, and yet I believe she shows great promise. She breathes magic as easy and natural as air. Never more have I regretted the moth-holes in my memory; her countenance reminds me of something and yet I cannot retrieve it from my mind. Still, it won't be any hardship to gaze at that comely face while I try and remember."_

The bann read the last sentence while maintaining a carefully neutral expression. Alistair's face had settled into a vaguely startled indignation; he had to physically stop himself from putting a possessive and _entirely irrational_ hand on Flora's knee.

Flora, meanwhile, was enchanted by Duncan's remark that she _breathed magic as easy and natural as air._

"That's nice," she said wistfully, loosening her hair from its plump, untidy braid. "He writes – wrote - a lot more _eloquack_ than he ever spoke."

" _Eloquent,"_ corrected Wynne, her tone brisk. "And Alistair, you look like a rabbit come face to face with a Mabari. Surely it's not a shock that a grown man found your former sister-warden attractive?"

"Of course not," retorted Alistair, reclaiming his composure. "I'm used to it. I just – I just thought Duncan would be immune to that sort of thing. Since he had the _Blight_ to worry about."

"I'm not sure you can become immune to _that,"_ Zevran murmured, canting his head sideways to where Flora was sitting. "If you discover a way, kindly inform me."

Duncan's _curious acquisition_ was languid in her chair, absentmindedly combing out a tangle with her fingers. Despite the smudge of ink on her cheek and the prominent swell of her stomach, there was something oddly beguiling about her grave-faced, full-lipped contemplation. Her eyes, pale as smoke, were caught in daydreams; a curling strand of oxblood drifting against the naked contour of her collarbone.

"I need the privy," Flora then announced, heaving herself gracelessly to her feet. "I think five times in an hour is a new _record."_

Alistair's head swivelled as she passed; he reached out to touch her trailing fingers with a brief possessiveness. She smiled down at him, her cheeks flushed from sitting beside the hearth.

"Here's one where Duncan speaks plainly on Cailan," Wynne offered, her eyes fixed on a grubby-edged sheet of parchment. "If Loghain _was_ intercepting the messages, I wonder what he made of such blunt comment on his son-in-law. Listen to this: _There are rumours running wild in the camp. An Orlesian ambassador was sighted leaving the king's tent, and the soldiers are full of speculation. I don't give a shit if Orlais sends a legion across the border, as long as they come to aid the efforts against the Blight. If there's any truth in the rumour, I won't hold back on summoning the armies within Ferelden that owe allegiance to the Wardens. To the fel with the king's pride; if he's willing to share his victory with Orlesians, he'll have to share it with elves, dwarves and mages too. I've tolerated his vanity too long.'"_

There was a silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Teagan grimaced, summoning the memory of his sister's feckless and bold-hearted son. He had not spent a great deal of time with his nephew – Rainesfere had required close oversight over the past few years due to a persistent banditry problem – and suddenly he regretted not coming to Denerim more often.

Alistair, Zevran and Wynne shared a quick glance – they had, after all, seen Cailan's intentions with their own eyes; the king's overture to the Empress Celene written in his impatient, scrawling hand. The letters which they had retrieved from Ostagar had been given to Eamon for safekeeping. Nobody wanted Cailan's secret intentions to be made public – although Maric's eldest son was ten months dead, the news that he had been parlaying with Orlais might well reopen old wounds.

A servant entered unobtrusively to add another handful of logs to the hearth. Alistair swivelled his head the moment that the door swung open; deflating visibly on seeing that it was not his wife. Although Flora had been escorted to the privy by one of the grim-faced Templar, this was not enough to entirely assuage his concerns.

"Alistair," Zevran offered, sliding a scroll across the table with an elegantly, faintly tattooed finger. "Here is another mention of you."

As the elf had hoped, Alistair was temporarily distracted from his own worry; drawing the letter closer and gazing down at it.

"' _As I hoped, pairing my new mage with my over-cautious junior officer has been a triumph, even if I say so myself. With her shield at his back, Alistair unleashes the coarse edge of his rage in battle; finally, the lad is using his instinct. He's got great potential.'"_

Even ten months after his death, Duncan's praise still had the ability to bring a flush of quiet delight to its recipient's face. Alistair inhaled unsteadily, his eyes moving over that final sentence scribed in the Warden-Commander's own hand. He read it several times to himself, mouthing the words like a benediction.

"I never knew he wrote about me," he said quietly at last, only the faintest vein of unsteadiness running through the words. "At the time. He sounds as though he was – he was _proud_ of me."

"Why wouldn't he have been?" countered Wynne, gently. "You always try your best at everything you put your hand to, Alistair. It's one of your greatest qualities."

Alistair was unable to stop himself from grinning, a faint flush warming the cool olive tones of his cheeks.

"Stop, or I won't be able to fit my head through the door," he said hastily, taking a gulp of ale. "They'll need to remove the window-frame and lower me down on the winch. Is there any other mention of Flo?"

Teagan, who had been reading a note with a slightly odd expression, cleared his throat; gesturing to the parchment before him.

"' _Anyway, the girl's abilities may be limited but they make up for in potency what they lack in range. She inhaled the taint from the poor sod and he was hale by evening watch. I've never seen anything like it, my friend. Think of what it could mean for our order. Though if you write to Weisshaupt on the matter before me, I'll swim the Waking Sea and cut your balls off myself.'_ Sorry, Wynne."

The old mage snorted and waved a hand, while a nosy Zevran craned his neck to read over Teagan's shoulder.

"You missed out the first part of the note!" he observed, beadily.

"Ah – I don't think that's necessary for Alistair to hear- "

"Eh?" said Alistair, ears pricking. "What?"

"' _I haven't, you old lecher, and I don't intend to either,'"_ read out the elf in gleeful tones. _"'Though if she were a decade older, aye, I'd gladly invite her into my tent.'"_

Zevran giggled as the corner of Alistair's mouth twisted; one eye twitching as he processed this startling new information.

"Well," the king offered at last, coughing and shifting in his seat. "Flo… Flo's gorgeous. It's not surprising that he… that Duncan might have… _anyway."_

There was a pause and then he spoke again, a fraction more firmly.

"Let's not mention this to her, though. She hero-worships our old commander, and I don't… I don't want her to feel oddly about it."

"Oddly about what?" asked Flora, padding back into the room with a yawn. "Sorry I was ages, I got stuck in the privy. They don't size them for people about to give birth."

"Nothing, darling," Alistair replied hastily, as Zevran let out a wicked cackle. "Right, I think it's about time for evening snacks. What do you fancy, my love: an entire wheel of cheese or a foot-long loaf of bread?"

"Um," said Flora, with slight trepidation. "The cheese."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I'm back! Had a public visitation evening at work on Thursday (that genuinely sounds like I work in a prison, hahaha) and then I went back to Wales on Friday! It was my best friend's birthday, and I also went to the rugby… Wales versus the All-Blacks! We lost (30 straight defeats in 64 years) but it was SUCH AN AMAZING GAME! Anyway, have two chapters for the price of one to make up for the dearth of them recently XD


	120. Muscular Aches and Maternal Woes

Chapter 120: Muscular Aches and Maternal Woes

Once the queen had eaten as much bread and cheese as her belly could hold, she and the king retired early. They would be leaving the Circle tower at dawn the next morning, _en route_ to their penultimate destination – the tiny fishing village of Herring. It would take three days of journeying; possibly two, if the weather was favourable.

Both Flora and Alistair were suffering from indigestion- she, due to pressure from outside the walls of her gut, and he due to pressure from within. To encourage Flora to eat as much as possible, Alistair had boldly declared that he too would _eat for two –_ and take a double mouthful for every one of hers.

In addition, the queen had a pain in her back that brought her to the verge of tears. She had learnt to live with the constant dull ache in the base of her spine; but tonight it felt as though each muscle and sinew was being yanked in different directions. Flora could not work out what had caused the usual ache to take on such a ferocious edge that evening; regardless, there was no respite from the discomfort. She had soaked herself in warm bathwater, limped back and forth before the hearth to work the muscles, sat as close to the hearth as she could bear. Alistair had tried to rub her back as best he was able; but he was more accustomed to easing the tension in her knee, and did not know the techniques that would help.

Nothing _had_ helped, and so now a thoroughly miserable Flora lay curled in a foetal position around her stomach, the blankets tangled about her legs. One advantage of Flora's former abilities had been that no injury or ache ever lasted longer than a few minutes – her body had been naturally self-anaesthetising, and a quick touch of her fingers was all that was required to instantly alleviate any ailment. Now, she was thoroughly helpless in the face of her own body's torments.

Alistair, who had thrust his own digestive discomfort to one side, was not coping well either with the concept of his wife in pain. His heart beat a rapid staccato against his chest; he had paced the room like a caged lion and snapped at the nonchalant Tranquil as they restocked the hearth. Turning back towards the bed, he was horrified to see tears sliding down his wife's face, trickling onto the fold of blanket beneath her cheek.

"Sweetheart," he breathed in distress, leaping across the rug-covered flagstones and crouching at her side. "What can I do to help you? It kills me to see you hurting."

"Nothing, nothing," Flora croaked back, melodramatically. "Nobody can help me. Only my spirits, and they're _gone."_

She closed her eyes tightly, feeling hot liquid seep out from beneath her eyelashes. A moment later, Flora heard Alistair push himself to his feet; the thud of his boots resonating against the flagstones. This was followed by the creak of the door opening, then low, whispered conversation between king and the Templar standing guard.

Flora stopped paying attention shortly afterwards, turning her cheek into the blanket and feeling thoroughly sorry for herself. One of the twins gave a tentative prod from within her belly, and despite her resentment, she reached down to pat the mound of flesh. The movement sent another jolt of pain down her spine and she went rigid mid-pat, vaguely nauseous by the pervasive ache. Tears filled her eyes once more, refracting the light from the hearth into bright pinpricks across her blurred vision; she sniffled, feeling suddenly very sorry for herself.

An indeterminate amount of time passed and then she became aware of a gentle pressure against her cheek; a slender, nut-brown finger tenderly stroking the blotchy skin.

"So, at _long_ _last_ you have taken me up on my offer, _nena_ ," murmured a dry and accented voice from somewhere above her. "I admit, I did not quite envision _these_ circumstances, but far be it from me to complain."

Flora, vaguely confused, opened an eye to see Zevran's lean, leather-clad thigh several inches away. She heard anxious footsteps approach, and then a hushed, half-intelligible exchange of conversation. The next moment, she felt the mattress dip and then the familiar grip of her husband's strong arms; easing her upright as she instinctively slid her arms around his neck.

"Come on, my love," Alistair murmured in his limp and miserable wife's ear, leaning back against the cushions as he arranged her legs to either side of his thighs. "Lean forward against me, sweetheart, rest your head on my shoulder."

A sniffing Flora duly slumped against his chest, with her upper body bowed helplessly forward over the swell of her stomach. The king ran his hand up and down the length of her bare calf as it rested alongside his thigh; then reached around her shoulders to tug at the fastenings of her nightgown. She was too sore and miserable to question his actions, wordlessly allowing him unfasten the bindings of the silk tunic.

Alistair twisted his neck to kiss the top of her head, manoeuvring her arms one at a time from the voluminous sleeves. Flora complied without protest, letting her husband ease the garment away from her body until she was hunched before him clad only in her smalls.

She felt the mattress dip behind her as somebody sat amidst the blankets, crossing their legs elegantly beneath them and leaning forwards to croon in her ear.

"Breathe deeply, _carina._ Do so, and the battle is half-won."

Flora obediently took a gulp of air, the sound muffled as she bowed her forehead to Alistair's shoulder. The king raised his gaze over the top of her head, the green flecks within his hazel irises standing out starkly as he shot the elf an imploring glance.

Zevran flashed him a brilliant, white-toothed smile in response, then returned his attention to the girl slumped miserably before him. Her hair was half-caught in a plump braid; most of it fell in a deep crimson mass to her waist. He gathered it up, twisting deftly as he did so; pushing the bundle over her shoulder to rest on her breast.

With the fall of hair gone, the elf surveyed the queen's slender, naked back. The skin was as clear and unblemished as Orlesian porcelain, save for the mark left by the Archdemon's soul between her shoulder-blades. The milk-white scar had obliterated the _Peraquialus_ constellation of freckles; one silvery arc stretching up to touch the nape of her neck.

He reached out to slide his thumb down the line of her spine, allowing himself the swiftest of moments to appreciate the situation.

"Which part aches, _nena?"_

"Everything, everything," croaked Flora into Alistair's shoulder, her fingers curling limply into fists. "Everything hurts!"

"Then which part aches _most?"_

She flailed a hand somewhere near the base of her spine, not bothering to raise her head.

Zevran hummed quietly under his breath, uncorking a slender-necked vial with a thumb and tipping out a sweet smelling liquid into the palm of his hand. Letting the heat of his skin warm the oil, he lifted his dark irises to meet Alistair's anxious, slightly wary stare.

"You have made the right choice, _mi rey_ ," the elf said, rubbing his palms together and inhaling the sweet apricot scent that rose from between them. "I know most husbands would not countenance another man rubbing oil into the naked flesh of their wife- "

"Flo's in pain," interrupted Alistair, a raw edge to his reply. "And all I want is for her to feel better."

Zevran nodded, his gaze softening as he returned it to Flora's slumped shoulders.

"Alright, _mi sirenita,"_ he murmured, parting his slick, heated palms and flexing his fingers. "Let me loose on these aches and pains. I will melt them away like ice."

Beginning with the base of the queen's narrow back, Zevran began to smooth his palms in gentle sweeping motions over her sore muscles; gradually increasing the pressure with each pass until his thumbs were driving into muscle and sinew. It was not the erotic type of massage used as a precursor to other bedroom activities, but a purposeful, therapeutic manipulation designed to alleviate tension. With the same deft and smoothly controlled motions normally displayed on the battlefield, the elf smoothed out the knots in sinew and muscle, his breath warming her back as he leaned forwards.

"Is it making any difference, _carina?"_ he asked softly, squeezing her shoulders rhythmically between finger and thumb.

"Mm," she croaked, unable to stop a little whimper of relief from escaping her throat. "It's helping."

Zevran was not as professional as Flora had once been in her capacity as a healer; when she had ignored the body of a man in order to focus on the mending required. Despite the underlying therapeutic purpose of the massage, the general context remained the same. The girl - whom he had several variants of inappropriate feeling for - was sat on the bed before him. She was clad only in her smallclothes, a breast pale and curved as a goose-egg emerging from the mass of oxblood hair, and he was rubbing oil into her warm, naked flesh. Despite the fact that she was swollen with another man's child – and that the man himself was holding his wife upright – Zevran was unable to entirely stifle his own rampart desires. He took several unsteady breaths to focus himself, forcing his racing heart to ease as he ground his knuckles in slow, deep circles into her lumbar muscle.

Alistair, who had been half-expecting the elf to make a series of lewd comments, was impressed by his restraint. He could see beads of perspiration rising to Zevran's smooth, nut-brown forehead, a barely discernible tremble to his wrists before confident and unfaltering fingers made contact with sore muscle. The king suddenly felt an incongruous twinge of guilt – he had been so focused on obtaining some relief for Flora that he had not considered how it would feel for the elf to be in such intimate proximity to the object of his unfulfilled desires.

He tried to catch the elf's eye to mutter his thanks, but was distracted by a sudden heavy pressure against his chest. Flora had at last fallen asleep, her forehead resting on his shoulder and her fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt; soothed into oblivion by the expert movement of the elf's fingers.

Alistair inhaled tremulously – _if Flora had fallen asleep, it meant that the pain had abated –_ a sudden and potent gratitude suffusing his features. He cupped the back of Flora's head as she snored against his shoulder, at last oblivious to the sore protests of her aching body.

"Thank you," he breathed, barely daring to raise his voice above a whisper. "Thank you, Zev."

Zevran raised his hands from her slowly, lifting a fingertip at a time to prolong the contact between them. He gave a silent nod in response, not yet trusting himself to give a verbal response. Instead of speaking, he leaned forward and pressed his lips between Flora's naked shoulder-blades; directly over the silvered, arcing scar left by the Archdemon.

"I was glad to offer my assistance," he murmured at last, softly. "You know where I am, if such aid is required over the next few weeks."

Alistair nodded, watching the elf rise to his feet with feline grace. Instead of padding across to the door, Zevran wandered towards the window and angled his gaze down through the leaded panes. _Toth_ hung suspended in the ink-blue sky overhead, a half-dozen celestial lanterns suspended on skeins of atmospheric effulgence. The constellation was reflected on the mirrored surface of Lake Calenhad; so precisely that it seemed as though part of the sky lay submerged within the still waters.

When Zevran looked back towards the bed, Alistair was just easing his snoring wife backwards amidst the cushions, tucking the blankets around her like a defensive wall. Before positioning the final blanket, the king bent forward to murmur something soft and unintelligible to the swell of Flora's stomach; pressing his lips briefly to the mound of flesh before moving the blanket into place.

"Are you looking forward to fatherhood, _mi rey_?" the elf asked, leaning against the window frame and keeping his tone deliberately light. "You are very young to become a _papa_ of two."

Alistair could not stop pride from suffusing his features, his eyes softening into bruised apple-brown tenderness as he glanced towards his sleeping queen.

"It puts everything else into perspective," he said, quiet and earnest. "My whole world is tucked into those blankets. I never thought I'd even be lucky enough to get married, let alone have _children."_

The elf's grin became a fraction fixed, and he hastily glanced downwards to adjust the buckle of his wrist-brace; busying himself with metal and leather.

"You are a fortunate man," agreed Zevran, with a barely perceptible sigh. "A gorgeous wife who adores you, and two healthy babes ready to be born."

"Hopefully not _quite_ ready, yet," replied Alistair, unable to stop a beam from creeping across his face. "If they could hold off until after we return to Denerim, that would be… well. That would be ideal."

He reached out in a reflexive, protective gesture; touching the top of Flora's head as she slumped against the cushions, snoring softly.

"Do you think there's anything to this threat from Nathaniel Howe?" Alistair asked after a moment, his tone carefully even to avoid waking his wife. "The note we got today was a little confusing. What does he mean, _he's made an error in judgement?_ It makes no sense."

It was clear that this was a question that the king had been brooding over for hours, a crease folding itself into his smooth, olive brow. Zevran spared the glittering surface of the lake one final glance, then wandered back across the room; matching the king's light, deliberate timbre of voice.

"I have no answers that would satisfy you, Alistair. Ser Gilmore will write when he obtains any news; we must wait until then."

The corner of Alistair's mouth curled with disgust; for a moment, the handsome and open face was transformed into a cruel, doom-laden cipher.

"When I get my hands on him," he started and then half-laughed with no humour, shaking his head. "Maker's Breath. I won't even _speak_ of what I'm going to have done to him. Even the name _Howe_ makes my blood boil. How _dare_ he make threats against my wife? Against my _children?"_

Alistair's voice rose in a sudden wave of outrage; Zevran raised slender tan fingers to hush him but it was too late. Flora yawned and rubbed a sleepy hand over her face, pushing herself up against the cushions. The blankets settled around the swell of her waist, thick ropes of oxblood hair falling over her breasts.

"Eeeh- " she mumbled, and Alistair immediately grimaced in contrition.

"Darling, I'm sorry. How is your back feeling?"

"Much better," Flora replied sleepily, her head swivelling to scan the room.

Once she laid eyes on Zevran, who was lingering near the hearth, she stretched out a hand. He responded to her silent entreaty like a fish reeled in on the line, advancing across the room and perching neatly on the edge of the mattress. Flora leaned forwards as best she was able considering the size of her stomach, put an arm around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you," she said, earnestly. "My back feels so much better. I appreciate it _a_ _lot."_

The elf patted the queen gently on her bare shoulder; in an unusual and touching show of respect, he kept his eyes fixed firmly above her neckline.

"Anytime, _mi sirenita,"_ he murmured, the words emerging quiet and amused. "As always, I am delighted to help."

Flora smiled sleepily at him, leaning back against the cushions and fiddling with a strand of hair.

"We'll be in Herring in three days," she said, solemnly. "Are you both looking forward to it?"

Both men froze, considering the ethics of _lying_ to a heavily-pregnant national hero. From what Alistair understood of Herring, it was a grim and utterly joyless blot upon the landscape from which the sea plucked victims at random, plagued by wreckers, smugglers and the occasional _giant._ The comments that Flora had made about the men and women of Herring beating each other in equal measure – and the remark that Flora's own adoptive father had made to Alistair about _not raising a hand to her without cause_ did not lend the village any additional charm. Privately – although he would never admit it – Alistair thought that Flora was far better off well-away from the isolated little village of her childhood.

"I am looking forward to meeting lots of burly fishermen with big arms," Zevran offered instead, also attempting to be tactful.

Flora beamed, pleating the blanket absentmindedly between her fingers as she leaned back against the cushions.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the Waking Sea," she offered, brightly. "And visiting my dad. And to eating oysters – wait, the babies don't like shellfish. Eating broiled squid, then. And to seeing the Hag's Teeth in person!"

Alistair opened his mouth, closed it, and then decided to plough on regardless; to voice a question which had lingered on his mind for months, but which he had never quite dared to ask.

"And – your mother? Or," he amended hastily. "The woman who raised you. Pel's wife. Are you looking towards to seeing her?"

Zevran rolled his eyes at Alistair's clumsy wording, though his ears were pricked in anticipation of her answer.

Flora paused – just for a moment, but it stood out stark against her earlier enthusiasm.

"Yes," she said a moment later, her shoulders slumping as the excitement drained from her. "Yes, of – of course. Mama, too. Of _course_ I'm looking forward to seeing her."

She dropped her eyes to the blanket, pleating it with fingers that were a fraction more unsteady than they had been moments prior.

Alistair felt cold dismay trickle down his spine as he and Zevran shared a quick, startled glance. Used to Flora spouting effusive praise on every aspect of Herring, it was unusual to hear her sound anything less than enthusiastic. With a sudden twist of his gut, the king realised that Flora had loudly sung the virtues of the man who had raised her – her adoptive father, Pel – but she barely mentioned the other person who had shared their little hut for a decade.

"Lo?" Alistair asked after a moment, trying unsuccessfully to inject casualness into his tone. "Don't – don't you get on with your – your Herring-mother?"

He borrowed the vernacular that she herself used to refer to Pel. Flora opened her mouth, then closed it again; not quite sure how to respond.

"I – _mama_ never got over the death of her son," the queen said eventually, in a small, matter-of-fact voice that she made no attempt to disguise. "He died the year before I – before I came to Herring. The sea took him, and I…. I think that's why my dad took me in. To try and make her feel better. It didn't work. I think it made her feel worse, actually."

Alistair gazed at his wife in mild alarm, not expecting to have uncovered such a startling revelation from an unremarkable query. He reached out and fingered a strand of her thick blood-red hair, curling it affectionately around his finger.

"You evaded my question like a slippery fish, my darling," he murmured, softly. "Don't you and she get on?"

Instead of responding, Flora squirmed free and clumsily reached for the crumpled pile of mustard wool at the bottom of the bed; shrugging it on.

"I need the privy," she announced, hair hanging loose to her waist. "Excuse me."

Alistair watched his wife disappear through the doorway, his eyebrows wedged firmly in his hairline.

"Maker's Breath," he commented, dismayed. "I'm such a fool. I knew she always spoke highly of her Herring-father while never mentioning her mother, but I didn't realise that it was because – because of _that._ I don't understand how anybody could _not_ get on with Flo. Maker, Zev - what if this, this _woman_ is cruel to her? I can't have her getting upset, not when she's meant to be keeping calm until the birth."

The elf gave a shrug, his dark eyes quietly troubled.

"Even if this woman once treated our _carina_ less-than-well, I doubt she would dare do so before the _King of Ferelden._ Not now that _nena_ is widely acknowledged as a _hero."_

"I'm not sure how much stock Herring folk place in titles," the king himself replied, remembering how Pel had merely scratched his beard in vague perplexion on finding out Alistair's royal status. "The more I find out about the place, the less I look forward to going there."

As Flora returned to the bedchamber - slightly embarrassed at using the privy as such a blatant diversionary tactic – she passed Zevran in the corridor. The elf slowed as she approached; Flora reached out to anchor his fingers, giving them a brief squeeze of gratitude before letting go.

"Thank you for helping my back," she said, hoping that he would not bring up the spectre of her Herring-mother. "It barely aches now."

" _Carina,_ it was my pleasure to play a small part in easing your pain," he replied, tapping a slender olive finger affectionately on the end of her nose. "And rubbing oil into your naked body was just a _delightful_ bonus."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aahh this was a fun chapter to write! Although I felt a little bit mean at torturing Zevran, lol. Anyway, I wanted to start off with physical pain - Flo's back aching, which isn't anything sinister – just the weight of twins on a petite and narrow frame – and then finish off with this more emotional hurt. Flora's relationship with her Herring father was a key motif (lol at using literary terms for my crap story haha) throughout the original, and I just wanted to revisit that –the reason why Flora never mentioned her Herring mother was because the woman was abusive in all sorts of nasty ways. It was important to me not to romanticise Herring – I didn't want to turn it into some naff, twee little storybook fishing village – it's a grim and gritty 'blot on the landscape' full of people hardened by a hard life.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	121. Farewell to the Circle

Chapter 121: Farewell to the Circle

Flora returned to the royal bedchamber with a vague sense of trepidation, wondering if she was about to be interrogated on her past familial relationships. The dynamic between her and her adoptive mother – whom she had believed to be her _birth_ mother for a decade – was a complex and multi-faceted one, and she was reasonably sure that she did not have the intellectual capacity to explain it.

Instead - to her relief - she was greeted with a shadowed chamber lit only by the gently smouldering hearth. Alistair was already in bed, leaning back against the cushions with firelight caressing the firm contours of his muscled chest. He stretched out a hand towards Flora as soon as he set eyes on her, pushing himself further upright.

"Come to bed, sweet wife," he instructed, each word suffused with affection. "I want you right _here_."

Alistair made a gesture to a spot on his chest, just next to the crook of his shoulder. Flora beamed, letting the mustard dressing robe slide down her arms and fall in a puddle of lurid wool on the flagstones, padding herself and the burden of her belly across the room.

As she climbed into bed Alistair made a small sound of approval, immediately drawing her into his arms and pulling the blankets up around them. She let out a sigh of relief against the hard muscle of his chest, feeling him wrap a protective embrace around her.

"I don't want you to leave my arms until morning, darling," he murmured into her hair, feeling the squirming of a child between them. "I want to keep you, _just like this,_ with me."

"Mm," mumbled Flora, pressing her cheek against his collarbone. "That sounds nice. I need to warn you, though – I needed to get up for the privy _five times_ last night."

"It was actually _six,_ my love."

"Oh no! Well, my bladder is feeling equally headstrong tonight."

The next day saw the reconvening of the _Council of the Bedchamber;_ whereby the companions of the royal couple decided to make an unannounced early entrance. This gamble was safer in recent weeks, when the queen had less energy for morning ardour. When they entered on the morning of their departure from the Circle, they came across a scene of minor trauma. Items of clothing were strewn across the room – clearly in the midst of being packed away – and the various fortifying tonics were scattered over the table. A poker-faced Tranquil was placing the glass vials within a selection of velvet pouches, his slender fingers moving deftly.

Meanwhile, Flora was lying on her side on the bed, tears of misery streaming down her blotchy face and heartbroken sobs escaping her throat. She was clad in the mustard yellow dressing-robe, hair tangled in skeins down her back. Alistair was sitting beside her, packing away his shaving-apparatus as best he could with one hand while patting her back with the other. He was clearly trying not to laugh, the corner of his mouth quivering as though being tugged by a fishing line.

Teagan and Zevran stopped short in astonishment, their eyebrows rising simultaneously into their hairlines.

"What - "

" _Nena!"_

"Good morning," said Wynne, nudging her way past the two men and smiling her greeting at the king. "What's triggered this particular bout of maternal despair?"

Alistair swallowed a grin, stroking his sobbing wife's head while awkwardly fastening the buckle on a leather pouch.

"Unfortunately," he explained, canting his head towards the uncaring Tranquil. "Remus didn't put equal amounts of vials into each carrying pouch when he was packing them. Flo has been _devastated_ about it for the past half-candle."

"Some – _some!-_ pouches had four vials," Flora whimpered, tears trickling down her nose. "And some… they only, they only… had _three! THREE!"_

Alistair leaned over and kissed his beleaguered wife on the forehead to hide his laughter, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

"It's been a traumatic morning," he murmured, the leather pouch sliding from his knee onto the floor. "We had hysterics when the pillows accidentally fell off the bed earlier."

Flora dragged a palm over her face, humiliated by her own unstable emotions.

"I can't believe I'm being like this," she whispered, as a tear dripped from the end of her nose. "I'm going to get dismembered if I act so – so _dramatical_ in Herring."

" _Disowned_ ," corrected Wynne briskly, producing a handkerchief and striding forwards. "Unless the residents of Herring are more bloodthirsty than I was aware of."

A short time later, bags had been packed, transported down five flights of curving stairs and loaded onto the small boats; ready to be ferried back to the mainland. Within the vaulted lobby on the ground, the royal party and their companions said their farewells to Kinloch Hold. Irving, Knight-Commander Greagoir and several senior enchanters had come down to see them off.

Alistair looked suitably regal in fur-trimmed leathers; a faint sheen of sweat decorating his forehead after carrying his wife down from the upper reaches of the tower. Flora had gathered herself together, clawing back some measure of composure in order to stand at her husband's side without dissolving into another wellspring of emotion. Clad in a deep Highever navy tunic with her hair neatly restrained with a matching ribbon, she stood quietly at Alistair's right elbow; a faint blotchiness of the cheeks the only clue as to her earlier histrionics.

Alistair thanked Irving politely for his hospitality, expressing gladness that the Circle had recovered from the terrible events of the autumn. After continuing in such a vein for several minutes, he cleared his throat; his words becoming a fraction more pointed.

"I'm looking forward to seeing how the scheme that Wynne came up with – senior mages mentoring apprentices – works out," he said quietly, his fingers reflexively brushing Flora's elbow. "I think it's an excellent idea. The queen should never have been allowed to slip through the cracks during her time here. Her magic saved Ferelden, after all."

 _My spirits,_ thought Flora to herself, wistfully. _Silver Knight and Golden Lady. I miss you every day._

Irving nodded, thumbs running in idle patterns over the insides of his draped sleeves. He opened his mouth to speak, but Alistair had not finished. The king continued, voicing an idea that he had conceived the previous evening.

"I also intend to strengthen ties between Denerim and Kinloch Hold. There needs to be greater coordination between the Circle, the Chantry and the crown. I'm going to create an independent subdivision of the king's council; whose job will be to monitor the wellbeing of the mages within Ferelden's Circles. They'll not only serve as an additional channel of communication, but also as an investigative body – they'll carry out several unannounced inspections a year. To check that the mages are following correct safety precautions to avoid a repeat of the abomination crisis, and to ensure that the Templars are upholding their correct duty of care towards their wards."

None present within the lobby were ignorant as to the mistreatment of mages in other Circles within Thedas – Kirkwall's Circle was notorious for the level of abuse. Wynne shot the king a glance of quiet approval from beneath her eyelashes, while Teagan felt a small swell of pride at the royal prerogative in his nephew's tone. Alistair sounded wholly different from when he had arrived at Redcliffe with Flora ten months earlier; the hesitant unassuming youth transformed into a assured and authoritative leader.

Alistair finished speaking with a nod, the steely determination in his voice softening a fraction as he glanced once more down at Flora. She had been very quiet throughout his declaration; the Hero of Ferelden taking a metaphorical step back to allow the King of Ferelden to assume a natural precedence.

"My – my wife has agreed to be part of the committee," he said softly, stopping himself just in time from calling her _my_ _sweet wife,_ as was his custom. "Naturally, she won't be assuming her role for a while- " the king gestured wryly towards Flora's stomach," – but she has a keen interest in the wellbeing of the Circle, for obvious reasons."

Flora gave a little, solemn-faced nod. They had talked about the creation of such a committee in bed that morning; before the cushions had tumbled to the flagstones and triggered a torrent of tears.

"The senior enchanters need to be held accountable for keeping the younger apprentices safe," she offered, in her soft, hoarse northerner's tone. "Likewise, the Templars are accountable for the wellbeing and protection of the Circle. The Knight-Commander supervises his soldiers very well at the moment, but a future commander might not be so diligent. It's important to set up this safeguarding now so that it becomes a natural part of the system in time."

Careless of their surroundings and audience, a proud Alistair reached out for his queen's hand; clasping their fingers together and giving them a squeeze. Nobody would have guessed that only a half-candle earlier, Flora had been sobbing maniacally over the 'wrong' numbers of vials placed within their velvet pouches.

As they prepared to leave the Circle, travelling cloaks and packs readied, Irving stepped forward to bid Wynne an individual goodbye, promising his old friend that he would endeavour to respond in timely fashion to her letters. Once this necessary farewell was made, Ferelden's First Enchanter shuffled his way across to Flora. The queen was waiting patiently beside the door, one hand resting on her squirming stomach.

"This is the third time you've departed from Kinloch Hold," he said, quietly. "And I don't think you'll return for quite some time. I hope your stay here was not _all_ bad, your majesty."

Flora's Herring bluntness was overruled by her natural instinct to be kind; she could see the anxiety flickering in the old man's eyes.

"It… it wasn't all bad," she offered, after thinking for a moment. "It was nice to have a proper meal every day. And the dampness of the dormitories reminded me of Herring."

The First Enchanter smiled ruefully, aware that the queen had meant this as a compliment.

"Farewell then, 'Flora Cove'," he murmured, using the name that she had borne on her arrival at the Circle. "And best of luck to you on this next phase of your life's journey."

The weather was soft and balmy, although there was a biting edge to the breeze that could be interpreted either as a portent to autumn or as reflective of their northern location. The sky was a streaky, washed-out blue like a painter's over-diluted palette; the first coppery signs of summer's decline were starting to speckle the leaves of the trees.

They took the small ferry across the lake, leaving the Circle Tower in their wake. When glimpsed over the shoulder, the basalt structure resembled a tall, chiding finger oddly reminiscent of the Grand Chantry in Denerim. At the dock, they were greeted by the rest of their party- overexcited Mabari, the scouts and the Royal Guardsmen, accompanied by the horses and wagons. Conspicuously absent was Ser Gilmore, who had travelled onwards to West Hill to investigate the circumstances of Nathaniel Howe's letter.

Despite the fact that they had been at the Circle Tower for only a week, the prospect of getting back on a horse seemed suddenly indescribably more daunting for Flora. Alistair's bay mare towered upwards like a behemoth above her; with power radiating from each well-hewn muscle, and hooves the size of round cheese-platters.

While Alistair was overseeing the loading of the bags onto the carts – ensuring that the vials containing his wife's fortifying tonics were placed near the top – Flora tried to swallow her nerves.

 _Moira the Rebel Queen rode horses until the day she gave birth to Maric,_ she thought determinedly to herself, recalling the fact from one of the children's books that she had read with Wynne. _She had armour custom-made to fit over her stomach. If she can do it, I can do it._

Just then, Flora felt a soft, velvety nuzzle into the back of her head. The mare had nudged its nose against her ear, hot air from its nostrils riffling the loose strands of hair. She tilted her head to peer up at it, her pale, apprehensive stare meeting the dark, liquidous reassurance of the mare's limpid eyes.

 _I carried you safely atop a crumbling city wall with an Archdemon's breath singeing the stone behind us,_ the horse's gaze seemed to say. _I'll not let harm come to you now._

She reached up and scratched her bitten fingernails gently along the mare's long, velvet nose; tracing the white blaze that broke the rich coffee coat. The mare gave a low whicker, brushing the dusty ground lightly with a hoof.

"If you want, darling, you can ride in the cart. I know it's not ideal to be in the saddle when you're _great with child."_

Alistair's voice came from somewhere above and behind Flora. The king had come to stand at her back, one arm curling protectively around her waist.

 _When the Templars carried me away from Herring, they took me in a cart. I don't want to return the same way._

"In the _cart?"_ she replied, with mock indignation. "Like a clothes-trunk or a sack of turnips? The Queen of Ferelden is not _carted like baggage!"_

Alistair let out a low laugh, kissing the top of Flora's head while simultaneously scratching the mare affectionately behind her ear.

"Of course not, my love. Anyway, this beauty won't let us down, she's the _sturdiest_ ride in Ferelden."

"What a dubious compliment!" chimed in an eavesdropping Zevran, with a little malicious cackle. _"'The sturdiest ride.'"_

Alistair rolled his eyes, reaching up with an experienced hand to adjust the mare's bridle.

"This mare is the finest horse I've ever ridden," he murmured. "I think we should try and breed her in the spring. Teagan has got some fine stallions."

"Aye," added the bann, whose ears had pricked at the mention. "I've got a pair of prime purebred Forders who are ready to stud."

"Only if she _wants_ it," insisted the horrified Flora, patting the mare's nose protectively. "You can't just… _assault_ her."

"Don't worry, petal," interjected Teagan, hiding a smile. "There's no covering a mare that doesn't want to be covered. She'd kick the poor stallion's manhood in."

"Covered? Covered with what?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Covered is the term used for when a stallion is deliberately bred with a mare… I don't know much about horse breeding etc lol but my dad's friend owns a training yard and they do all that kind of thing up there!

Anyway, it's goodbye to the Circle Tower! Feels quite bittersweet as that's where Flo's story began MANY LIGHT YEARS AGO haha (although I think light years is actually distance?). And now…. It's off to the hideous little blot on the landscape that is HERRING! Off to Flora-country, lol. Literally no one is looking forward to it apart from her, hehehe

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	122. The Road to the Storm Coast

Chapter 122: The Road to the Storm Coast

The Royal company set out on the northern road shortly afterwards in a small procession of horses and carts. There was no grand Tevinter-built highway that led to Ferelden's dampest coast, only a winding trail that was little more than an earthen track just wide enough for a single wagon.

The landscape was also markedly different from the forested valleys and undulating farmland they had passed through on their journey west. A vast moorland bordered the northern coast, high and exposed; unbroken save for the occasional moss-covered crag or granite outcrop. The grass was bent sideways by a perpetual wind blowing south from the Waking Sea, and there was no growth of vegetation taller than waist-height. There were also precious few signs of civilisation on this exposed stretch of scrubland, the moss and heather was punctuated on occasion by the remnants of a crumbling stone wall. The distant northern horizon was shrouded in a faint miasma of grey cloud.

It took nearly half of the day for the company to ascend onto the high, rocky moor; their progress hindered by a broken cart wheel several hours into the journey. By the time that repairs had been carried out, it was past midday and a light drizzle had begun to fall. They set out once more on the gently sloping track, the landscape growing increasingly bleak and desolate around them.

"I believe this is a portent – a preview – of the weather for the next _fortnight_ of our journey," Zevran announced out loud, the self-pity evident in his tone as he wiped a strand of damp hair from his eyes. _"Mi sirenita_ has long warned us of the climatic conditions of the northern coast."

"I wasn't _warning_ you about them," Flora protested immediately, twisting in the saddle as much as Alistair's firm grip would allow. "I was saying how nice and refreshing they were!"

"Wet, windy, cold," Zevran retorted, counting off each climatic sin on his fingers. "Perpetually soggy, even in summer. Do you ever get _warm_ days this far north?"

"No," said Flora, a wistful note in her words. "It's always damp. I once had a wool jumper which had so much mildew on it that everyone thought it was _green_ , rather than white. And they made fun of me for owning fancy dyed clothes. Except, it wasn't dyed. It was MOULD!"

Alistair's eyes bulged; Herring lowering itself even further in his estimation. The elf, who took meticulous care of his own oiled leathers, also looked momentarily horrified.

"Ah, if you could only experience an Antivan summer, _carina,"_ he said, equally misty with reminiscence. "I remember an August that was so hot, the very _air_ scorched one's throat as one inhaled."

"I'd love to spend an afternoon wandering around the market in Antiva City," chimed in Wynne, wistfully. "I've read that all the spices in Thedas can be found within its labyrinthine stalls. Is that true, Zevran?"

"There are hundreds of varieties for sale, _sí,"_ confirmed Zevran, idly running his finger along the leather strap of the reins. "I do not know whether _all_ the spices in Thedas can be found there, but I'd wager that the majority of them could be."

"Salt is the only spice a true Fereldan citizen needs," offered Alistair, keeping one eye on the track ahead to watch for potholes. "Anything else just detracts from the simple, hearty flavour of the meat!"

The elf let out a deep sigh, drawing up his hood against the incessant pattering of drizzle.

"My dear boy, salt is not a _spice._ It is a _mineral._ And the less said about the bland and tasteless fare that passes for Fereldan 'cuisine', the better!"

They stopped for lunch near the only cover provided by the moors – an abrupt protrusion of bluff that rose like a tumour from the tangled grass. The drizzle had eased off, but the promise of future precipitation lingered in the heavy air. With every mile they covered, the blue in the sky faded into a miasmic and indescribable non-colour; a greyish white that seemed one unbroken mass of cloud.

The temperature also dropped in slow increments as they sat beneath the rough stone; causing members of the company to button up tunics and pull travel cloaks tighter. All did this save for their two native northerners – Flora, and a Highever scout. Unfortunately, the former soon found herself also being bundled up in a thick blanket; Alistair was determined that neither his wife nor his unborn children should catch chill.

"I'm _sweating_ ," his queen complained, wriggling an arm free to retrieve a boiled potato. "I feel like a griddled haddock."

"Good," retorted Alistair, as he buttered a slice of bread. "The hotter you are, the _healthier_ you are!"

Flora, with her fifteen years of experience as a healer, shot him a dubious look. Before she could protest, Teagan had unfolded the map across a convenient flat stone, pointing to a spot an inch south-east of West Hill.

"We've made good time," he said, brushing a grasshopper from the faded parchment. "I'd estimate that we're about _here."_

Alistair's face darkened as he focused on the name _West Hill,_ from which Nathaniel Howe's letter had originated.

"Flo, I want you to practice with Zevran again after lunch," he said, suddenly. "It'll be too dark after we make camp, the nights are drawing in quick now that we're in August."

The elf bowed his head in ready acquiescence, blowing Flora a kiss through the air.

For the rest of the meal, Alistair kept shooting malevolent glances in the direction of West Hill, which was little more than a faint elevated smudge on the horizon. Once the others had finished their food, they occupied themselves with packs, possessions, or – in Wynne's case – a new ream of parchment. Teagan once more bent over the map with Alistair; the two men conferring on how they could further shorten their route in order to arrive at Denerim in good time for the birth.

Zevran, casting a stern eye up at the massing cloud overhead, rose elegantly to his feet and crooked an imperious finger towards his unlikely student.

"Come on, _nena._ Do you need a hand to ascend?"

" _No!"_ retorted Flora witheringly from where she was sitting cross-legged on the grass. "I can _get up_ on my own."

The queen then realised that this was easier said than done, and it had been a week since she had sat on anything other than chairs, beds or benches. Still, determined to prove her capability, she rolled over onto her hands and knees and heaved herself upwards like a camel; in possibly the least elegant manoeuvre ever witnessed in Thedas.

Zevran managed not to make a comment, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Alright, _mi sirenita,"_ he murmured, gesturing her to a patch of tufty grass that received marginally more sunlight than the base of the rocky outcrop. "Let us begin. _No_ , we are not starting with these today."

This was in response to Flora reaching out for the descaling blade and fish-hook, both of which hung at the elf's belt. She shot him a quizzical look and the elf smiled.

"We are going to begin by reminding ourselves of the best places to _strike_ ," he said quietly, circling her at a measured, feline pace. "Remember when you were a healer, and could see the nooks and crannies of the inner body with your mind's eye?"

Flora nodded wistfully, recalling how she had let her gaze blur; slipping beneath the skin of her patient and refocusing within flesh and sinew.

"Tell me what you remember, _carina._ Where are the most vital – and _vulnerable –_ places in the body? The ones that lack the defence of bone or muscle? Show me, _cara."_

The queen grimaced, not used to thinking in such terms. Still, after a moment, Flora reached up to touch her throat, then down to her inner thigh. She was just gesturing to her armpit, when her face contorted and took on a petulant cast.

"I don't _like_ this!"

"I know, I know," crooned the elf as he continued to circle, reaching out to pat her gently on the cheek with slender, olive fingers. "Humour me a little longer, _mija_. Where else?"

With her lips still sulkily curled, Flora pointed to the back of her neck. Zevran nodded, returning to face her with a smile of approval.

"Of course, the _root_ of the brain. Instant death, when severed. Since you do not have much energy, _amor,_ you must aim to end any engagement within seconds."

"I don't like- !"

" _Sí, sí,"_ he soothed, reaching down to unbuckle the fish-hook from his belt. "It is not very nice; and yet the prospect of Nathaniel Howe lurking somewhere out there is even _less nice, eh?"_

The elf gestured for her to aim at the vulnerable spots she had identified. The former Crow was agile enough to avoid the piercing end of the hook as it cut through the air, darting out of reach at the last minute. Flora was slow and graceless, but at least – he reasoned – she was less clumsy with these familiar 'weapons' than she was with their more traditional counterparts.

"But," piped up the breathless queen a short while later, grasping the fish hook expertly by the wooden handle. _"But,_ in that note from him, he didn't sound as though he wanted me dead. He said he'd made a mistake- "

" – and _now_ your life was in danger," finished Zevran, patiently. "See: the same outcome."

" _Flora!"_

There was a raw edge to Alistair's plea as it rang out across the damp scrubland. Flora blinked; she was unused to her husband taking such a stern tone with her.

"Please, my love," the king continued, making an effort to soften the harsh timbre of his voice as he saw her confusion. "I know that you see the best in people – it's one of your most endearing qualities, sweetheart – but I don't want your naivety to get you hurt… or _worse_. Nathaniel Howe is evil, right down to the bone. Their family emblem ought to be a snake, not a bear."

Flora looked down at her feet in chagrin. She was well-aware that she could be too quick to trust at times – a product of her sheltered, isolated upbringing and her inherently kind nature – but to have it so explicitly stated as a fault was a little embarrassing.

Alistair seemed to realise that his reproach had been delivered abruptly and without warning. He strode across the tangled heather towards his new bride – whose lower lip now jutted obstinately outwards even further than was customary.

"My sweet wife," he beseeched Flora, taking her into his arms with proprietary tenderness. "Please, listen to what I'm saying. I can't risk anything happening to you, my love: my whole sanity rests on your safety."

Flora was still somewhat perturbed, but understood that her husband's words came from a place of concern. She pressed a grumpy kiss to Alistair's bearded cheek as he nuzzled his face into her shoulder, feeling his grip tighten around her.

They continued to follow the scrubland trail north, as the clouded sky overhead grew darker and the threat of rain more manifest. The coast was still a day's ride away – then it would be another day's ride eastwards towards Herring – and yet the Waking Sea seemed oddly present; casting out a long, seaweed-draped arm to darken the sky and fling salt into the wind.

Flora, still brooding quietly over Alistair's implication that she was too hasty to trust, distracted herself with these portents of home. Like a compass, her body had always subtly aligned itself to the north; now, as their surroundings began to take on the harsher geography of the Storm Coast, the queen found herself tensing like a Mabari scenting prey. She found that she could not sit still on the saddle, Alistair had to tighten his grip around her waist as she fidgeted and squirmed. He could feel her heart drumming a rapid staccato within her ribcage, her pulse throbbing with increased rapidity.

"Darling," he said in her ear as the company rounded a rocky outcrop, beginning to make their way across a stretch of flat moor dotted with butter-yellow gorse. "My love, _deep breaths._ You know you mustn't get overexcited."

Flora let out a little grunt in response, her eyes fixated on the flat grey line of the northern horizon. She had received her last glimpse of the Waking Sea from between the bars of a Templar's prison- wagon; she had been bound into a mage-cage and it had toppled sideways as they headed down the southern track. She had only a brief sighting of the fretful waves before the cage had rolled over and she had spent the next six hours staring at a Templar's boots.

Teagan decided that it would probably _not_ be wise for them to camp within sight of West Hill, in case Alistair decided to engage on a one-man mission to track down Nathaniel Howe. Instead, they stopped for the evening beneath a bluff of flat, wide rocks piled atop one another like coins. The structure appeared precarious, yet the unbroken green spread of moss coating each tabular boulder suggested that there had been no movement for generations.

"Like a giant's dinner plates piled up for washing," Alistair commented, placing his wife on a mound of soft moss and heading towards the cart to retrieve the tent.

Flora almost replied that the sea-giants did not wander this far from the coast, then remembered that she was still in a sulk. She made a brief attempt to pull off her boots – her strapped knee was chafing at the confines of the leather - but was impeded by the ungainly mound of her stomach.

While the others set up a ring of tents around a spot marked for a fire, the queen busied herself with a needle and thread in the last of the light; deftly mending tears in canvas and adding patches to worn-out travel packs. She was no longer able to help with the physical construction of camp, but her skill with a needle – honed by years of mending nets – was equally valued.

The horses were set loose to graze and drink from the nearby spring; they were highly-trained Royal steeds that would not wander far. The Mabari kept an eye on them, sprawled on the tufty grass and snapping their jaws idly at hovering midges.

Once the tents and campfire had been constructed, one of the scouts wandered off across the heather-strewn scrubland with bow and arrow in hand. The lay of the land was so flat and unbroken by obstacle that those at the camp could spy his silhouette even a mile away; a slight figure creeping amidst the tangled mosses and ferns in hunt of prey.

The company were also able to see a horseman approaching from a good distance. The twilight had just deepened enough to de-saturate colour, obscuring the livery that the rider sported. He carried a torch aloft in one hand, a pinprick of bright orange against the growing mass of shadow.

Teagan glanced at Alistair, who gave a small half-nod; identical thoughts writ across his face.

"Lo," the king said, with a careful casualness to his tone. "Can you sit yourself in our tent for a moment, my darling? Just until we find out who this rider is."

* * *

OOC Author Note: OK, so the terrain they are riding through was inspired by Bodmin Moor, this gorgeous, bleak and rugged stretch of granite moor in Cornwall; if you google image it, that's literally the backdrop! It's one of these locations that has so much rich lore behind it – there's a pond there which is supposed to be the one where Excalibur was hidden in Arthurian tradition; it's supposed to be roamed by a mythological Beast of Bodmin; one of Britain's most notorious Victorian prisons – Bodmin Gaol – is there. Daphne du Maurier's Jamaica Inn novel, about smugglers, is set on Bodmin… it's one of the most atmospheric and creepy geographical expanses in the UK. Anyway, it's how I envision the northern part of Ferelden to look, before they reach the coastline. The Storm Coast in game has this stunning, dramatic granite-looking rock formations that I think would be quite a natural transition – Land's End coastline in Cornwall looks quite similar. GEOGRAPHY HEADCANON!

Flora is literally the only person looking forward to visiting the northern coast, hahaha. Everyone else is already in an _awrghhh, fuck this place_ mood, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	123. Dwarves With Ill Intent

Chapter 123: Dwarves With Ill Intent

Flora, who had been valiantly using the last of the light to repair a frayed saddle-strap, uttered a disgruntled mumble. Usually she would have offered some sort of protest, but she was too tangled up with emotion to think rationally. Instead, she crawled within the tent and sat alongside their baggage and bedrolls, feeling equally burdensome.

A shadow shifted before the entrance and Flora looked up to see Zevran elegantly reclining in the canvas doorway; somehow both relaxed and utterly alert. She glimpsed a sheen of silver at his belt, where a long, wicked-edged blade was tucked surreptitiously within reach.

The elf caught the direction of her stare and shot her a wry half-smile, keeping one eye on the torchlight of the approaching rider.

"If you ever fancy an upgrade from the descaling blade and fishhook, _nena,"_ he murmured, softly. "You need only say the word."

Flora shook her head, fiddling with the loose end of the leather strap around her knee. The dull thud of the horse's hoofbeats sounded ever-louder against the earthen trail; the moorland was so still and silent that the echo resonated for a substantial distance. Outside the tent, she could hear the others quietly readying themselves; taking up a position so familiar to Flora that she could picture it vividly within her own head.

 _Wynne will be near the back, leaning on her staff as though it's a walking-stick. Bann Teagan will have a hand on the hilt of his blade, he's too tactful to have it drawn._

 _Alistair won't be tactful, he'll have his sword in hand._

A man's voice rang in a shouted greeting through the darkness; a voice that Flora recognised. Teagan gave a responding hail, and there was the sound of someone – Alistair – sheathing their sword.

"That's Ser Gilmore," Flora said to Zevran, recognising the northern tones. "You can let me out of the tent now, prison guard!"

Zevran obligingly withdrew, rising elegantly to his feet in the damp grass. Flora followed with far less grace, padding around the smouldering remains of the campfire to greet the Cousland retainer as he drew his horse to a halt.

"Your majesty," the knight said, bowing atop the saddle towards Alistair before hastily dismounting. "And my lady Cousland."

One of the scouts came forward to take the horse, leading the mare over to the spring and lifting the saddle from its back. Alistair clearly wanted to begin interrogating Gilmore immediately, but just about managed to restrain himself, gesturing to the remnants of dinner in still-warm copper pans.

"Do you need something to eat after your journey?" he asked, biting back his demand for news on Howe. "There's still some beans left, and a bit of sausage."

Ser Gilmore shook his head, dark bruises of tiredness shadowing the underneath of his eyes. The livid scar across his cheek – a legacy of the attack on Highever – seemed to stand out more puckered and raw against his weary features.

"I ate at the inn in West Hill before leaving," he explained, shifting from one saddle-sore foot to another. "Though I thank you for your consideration, King Alistair."

Alistair realised after a moment that the knight was waiting for him and Flora to sit down. Hastily, he lowered himself to the grass and reached up an arm towards Flora, steadying her awkward descent onto a hastily retrieved blanket.

Once the royal couple were reposed, Ser Gilmore took a seat on the same flat boulder that Teagan had spread the map over earlier, stifling a faint sigh of relief.

"I met with Bann Franderal as soon as I arrived within the town," the Cousland retainer explained, peeling his riding gloves off a finger at a time. "He offered me lodgings within his fortress, but I declined – I wanted to stay at the inn where Howe had written the note, ask a few questions and see if I could find anything out."

"In Herring, they say that the castle at West Hill is meant to be _haunted,"_ offered Flora, and was ignored by everyone.

Alistair's face had taken on a stern, rigid cast that made him appear years older. He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Ser Gilmore; listening to every word with the keenness of a Mabari scenting the wind.

"And?" he demanded, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.

"Franderal had no idea that Howe had been staying within the town – seems like he'd kept a low profile. I asked a few questions at the inn, and the tavern-keeper was equally useless."

The king's shoulders slumped, predicting that Gilmore would now announce a dead end in enquiries.

"Fortunately," the knight continued, brightly. "The tavern-keeper's _wife_ is far nosier with regard to their guests. When I described Howe – or at least, as best as I could remember, it's been years since he visited Highever – she recognised him immediately."

"Does he look like his father?" Flora interrupted, unable to repress a little shiver as she recalled the sallow, weak-chinned and narrow features of the elder Howe.

Gilmore paused and narrowed his eyes as he thought about the question, uncorking a flagon of ale handed to him by Teagan.

"In some ways," he said at last, softly. "His face hangs on bones that are the same shape. But his hair is darker, and his jaw stronger. And he's got the eyes of his mother, Eliane Bryland."

"Arl Leonas' sister," replied Flora, recalling the familial connection. "I remember him mentioning it."

"Aye. So he's been residing at the inn since mid-Solace, but kept mostly to himself. No visitors – but he did write a handful of letters."

"Nobody came to visit him? You're sure?" asked Alistair, one hand placed firm and protective on Flora's strapped knee.

Gilmore was about to shake his head, and then caught himself at the last moment, turning the negative into a nod.

"There was a dwarf who visited just over a week ago. According to the tavern-keeper's wife, they didn't talk long. She said that the dwarf didn't seem happy."

"The letter to the Circle was dated just over a week ago," murmured Teagan. The bann had focused on the note's more informative details – as opposed to Alistair's fixation on its inflammatory contents.

"A _dwarf?"_ repeated Alistair, his brow furrowed. "Why would Howe meet with a dwarf?"

"A mercenary? Or Carta involvement?"

Zevran's voice wound soft and sylph-like from the shadows, the elf leaning against the nearby tabular formation of boulders.

"The latter would make more sense," Wynne murmured, clicking her fingers at the hearth to revive the dying flame. "Did you not drive them topside during your time in Orzammar?"

Alistair gave an involuntary grimace, his fingers tightening on Flora's sore knee. She yelped, and he immediately shot her an apologetic glance.

"We did destroy their headquarters," he said, with slow recollection. "And Sten killed their leader, Jarvia. Maker's Breath, you think they've come up to the surface?"

"It is a possibility," replied Zevran, quietly. "They will be looking to claim territory elsewhere. Extend their reach."

" _Not_ in Ferelden," Alistair retorted, a flush of anger rising to his cheeks. "I'll write to Leliana tonight, get her to investigate. And if it's _true,_ they'll be driven out of my country by year's end. Let the Orlesians deal with them, or the Marchers. Preferably the former."

"A dwarven guild would make more sense than topside assassins," Teagan said, warming to the theory. "I can't see anyone who lives above ground wanting to hurt the _Hero of Ferelden._ She's just saved the land from a Blight, of all things!"

"Which begs the question, why haven't they struck yet? Sorry, _nena,"_ Zevran interjected, as both king and queen flinched. "Assassins can be patient, but not for _this_ long."

"Perhaps they don't wish to harm a woman big-bellied with babe," Wynne suggested, with dogged optimism. "Maybe it's put them off."

"Well," countered Zevran, with a reluctant twitch of his jaw muscle that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If so, they may be waiting until _mi florita_ is no longer with child, which is now only weeks away."

Alistair let out a soft and utterly humourless snort, one protective palm lingering on Flora's thigh.

"They could try," he promised, each word laced with uncharacteristic malice. "I'll tear _anyone_ who lays a hand on the mother of my children limb from limb, I swear to the Maker."

Flora shot him an anxious glance, unused to such vitriol uttered from the lips of her generally kind-hearted husband. Alistair made himself smile back at her, forcing his voice into a more soothing timbre.

"I don't want you to worry for a single moment, my love," he said, rubbing his thumb in a slow circle against her thigh. "Not even for a heart-beat. Did the tavern-keeper's wife notice anything else about Howe?"

Ser Gilmore re-corked the bottle, pushing the stopper in place with a calloused thumb.

"She said that his demeanour was twitchy, nervous. That it was what first drew her attention – she suspected him of being a thief. When he left, he paid in silver and copper coins, and didn't clear his debt at the bar."

"So he's running short on funds," Teagan replied, thoughtfully. "Which makes sense, seeing that the Howe estates in Amaranthine have been granted to your brother, Flora."

"Good," retorted Alistair, harshly. "With any luck, if he _was_ in co-horts with the Carta, he can't grant them their fees and they'll take his manhood – if he _has_ one – in lieu of payment."

"It makes you wonder how much Nathaniel Howe truly understood of the situation before journeying here," Wynne said, her brow creased in thought. "Perhaps he has only just become enlightened as to the _true_ circumstances surrounding his father's death."

There was a silence around the campfire, broken only by the gentle hiss and spit of ejected sparks. The orange flame was the sole source of manmade light for miles; a raw, burning pinprick against the shadowed moorland. Those gathered about it glanced at each other, their faces fixed between anger and deep thought, mulling over Wynne's suggestion.

"That could account for Howe's change in mind," Teagan said, slowly. "The north is proud of their homegrown Hero, and the Bann of West Hill supported the Wardens' cause against Loghain at the Landsmeet. If Howe made enquiries within the town, he'd get very favourable reports on the queen – and your abduction by Rendon Howe is now common knowledge, petal."

Flora pulled a face, not wanting to resurrect old memories. She found it hard to believe that those events had transpired only five months prior. Her time with Howe was shrouded in a delicate veil of obscuration; courtesy of her spirits.

Alistair shot her a sideways glance, and decided abruptly that enough was enough for one night.

"I don't care if he's had a change of heart, or _seen the light,"_ he announced into the darkness. "He's still going to find himself on the sharp end of my blade the moment I set eyes on him. Come on, darling, bedtime."

"Alistair! _Do_ restrain yourself in public," the elf retorted, quick as a whip. "I'll be in later, _amor."_

The light-hearted comment helped to dissipate the tension, and the company parted for their separate tents shortly afterwards. The Mabari, Zevran, Teagan and the scouts had resumed their system of keeping watch. The king no longer participated in the rota; choosing instead to keep his own private and personal watch over his wife.

The only difference of note between the Royal tent and those belonging to others in the company was the status of its occupants. It was a fraction bigger, but after six weeks on the road; the canvas was equally damp-stained and patched. Fortunately, Alistair had used the royal purse to purchase new bedding for everybody from the Circle; replacing mildewed bedrolls, fraying blankets and flattened cushions.

There was so much new bedding within the Royal tent – including, somewhat incongruously, _silk sheets_ – that there was less room to manoeuvre. Getting undressed and changed within a tent was not straightforward at the best of times; even less so when the occupants consisted of one six foot and three inch tall, man, and his heavily pregnant wife.

Flora ran out of energy half-way through clambering into her nightgown, sprawling back on the cushions with the linen shirt over her head, one arm wedged helplessly up like a flag; entirely naked from the waist down with her stomach jutting out into the shadow.

"Help, help," she complained into the material, the plea emerging muffled. "I'm stuck."

"One moment, my love!"

Alistair had finally taken his sleep-trousers outside to change into, after checking that Wynne had retired to her own tent. Once he had finished changing – accompanied by an admiring whistle from Zevran - he ducked back through the canvas entrance flap and immediately stifled a chuckle.

"Don't laugh at me!" yowled a hormonal Flora. "It's not funny! I'm tangled up like a lobster in a fishing net."

"I'm not laughing," lied Alistair, grateful that the material was obscuring her face.

Flora, much to her shame, passed a deeply uncomfortable night on the bedroll. Now too unwieldy to sprawl on Alistair's chest, she had found the lumpen mattress a far less comfortable place to rest. The twins, to their credit, had not shifted too vigorously – they only just had enough room to squirm, and now spent much of their time sleeping in preparation for the birth. Yet the rest of Flora's body seemed to conspire against her. Her back ached, her feet were swollen and sore; her insides wracked by simultaneous indigestion and heartburn.

At one point in the deepest part of the night Flora woke up, still tucked tightly into the wedge of Alistair's arm. She could feel a sweat rising on her forehead, stray hairs plastered to the skin. For one terrifying moment she thought that she might have a _fever –_ then realised, in relief, that it was a standard hot flush.

Every part of her body throbbed as the new queen sat up, slow as a woman several decades older. As she began to heave herself down the bedroll towards the tent entrance, Flora felt a sharp tug from somewhere behind her ear. She reached up, feeling a loose skein of hair pulled strangely taut; moments later, Alistair woke with a particularly loud snort, blinking blearily into the darkness.

"You've tied a line on me," Flora whispered as her husband reached out a hand for her, revealing that he had knotted one end of a long, dark red skein around his thumb.

"Well, you _are_ my catch of a lifetime," he replied, unravelling the strand of hair. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you have a habit of _nocturnal wandering._ You can wander all you like, but I'm coming with you."

Flora settled back down and rested her cheek in her palm, feeling a sleepy nudge against her hip.

"Do you think I'm going to get into trouble out on the moorland?" she whispered, fixing her pale, rain-grey eyes on her husband's face. "That I might trust a rabbit too hastily and fall down its hole? Or get kidnapped by shrews after offering them help?"

Alistair grimaced, sensing the mild reproach in her tone. Flora had clearly not forgotten his sharp words from earlier, when he had berated her for suggesting that Howe no longer had revenge on his mind. The king reached out, touching the fine bone of her cheek with a gentle thumb.

"My love, I was wrong," he murmured back, softly. "I didn't mean to make your kindness and sweet heart sound like flaws. They've kept me _sane,_ all these months. When you first met me, I know I came off as a half-wit joker, but… I had this frustration, and- and _bitterness_ inside me. I was angry with Eamon for sending me away, and I was resentful of a heritage I didn't want. But then I saw how nice you were, and how you thought the best of everyone, despite the way that people treated you. It made me realise that it wasn't a weakness to be kind."

Flora curled the corner of her mouth towards him and he smiled back, their heads inches apart on the pillow they shared.

"Now I'm king, I have to be a strong leader," Alistair continued, quiet and earnest. "I have to be stern, and resolute… and sometimes, I'll have to make hard decisions. But I know that I won't ever become cruel, or tyrannical, because of what I've learnt from you."

As he spoke she mirrored his gesture, tracing the angles of the handsome, deceptively arrogant face with the back of her fingertip.

"So, darling," Alistair finished, and there was a firmness to his words countered by the tenderness in his eyes. "You can be as trusting and kind-hearted as you like – offer help to strangers, believe whatever you're told, always think the best of people - because it's my job to keep you safe. And if your _niceness_ puts you at risk… it means that I'm not doing a good enough job, so I need to do better."

Flora smiled at him wistfully, brushing back the rumpled hair at the front of Alistair's forehead; a tuft that always seemed to spring up no matter how he much slicked it down with water.

"Thank you," she whispered, stifling a yawn. "I'm still going to keep learning how to defend myself with Zevran, though. I think I'm getting better!"

"You definitely are," the loyal Alistair replied, indulgently. "Once you stop trying to block things with your _face,_ my love, you'll be a formidable opponent!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Flora is definitely someone who would spend hours looking to see if the word _gullible_ was in the dictionary or not – and it would literally take her hours, since there's no way she's spelling that, hahaha. On that note, I thought that it was quite poignant when she was sitting in the tent, while her companions readied themselves outside. In the past, she would have been hovering in the rear of the party with her hands up, preparing to shield her friends; now, as she gloomily observes, she's as much of a burden as the baggage and bedrolls around her.

Anyway, this chapter contains some hints as to where I'm taking the arc with Nathaniel Howe, since I didn't want his part to just be a repeat of his younger brother, Thomas. Since he would have very little allies or resources due to the attainder on his family name, I envisioned him as enlisting the help of what remains of the Carta. The dwarven mafia have been driven to the Surface, part because of Alistair and Sten's destruction of their headquarters back in the Lion and the Light, and part because the new king Harrowmont has had a huge clampdown on crime in Dust Town. So Nathaniel Howe comes ashore in Ferelden and makes an impulsive bargain with them. Unfortunately, while he's hiding out in the north, Nathaniel has begun to hear the true story of what happened between Flora and Rendon Howe – which he initially dismisses, and then gradually begins to realise that it's true – that his father had engineered the massacre of the Couslands and then abducted Flora with a view to illegally Tranquilise her, and that his younger brother Thomas had also had nefarious intentions. So he's a bit like OH SHIT and is trying to get out of the contract – which is when he sends the warning note to the Circle. Unfortunately, the Carta are not going to let him – or Flo – off quite so lightly, lol. So keep an eye out for dwarves with sinister intentions in upcoming chapters!

Obviously all that is just pure headcanon, hahaha, but I've tried to put a new spin on the game lore that fits in with my original story.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	124. Wet, Cold and Rejected!

Chapter 124: Wet, Cold and Rejected!

The king and queen lay huddled together with their heads on the same pillow; her cheek against his shoulder and his arm coiled around her back.

"What were you getting up for, Flo?" Alistair asked eventually, rousing himself from a doze.

"I was going to fetch a drink," Flora replied, stifling a yawn. "My throat is as dry as a cuttlefish shell."

He reached out to cup the back of her neck with a sleep-clumsy hand, brief and affectionate.

"My love, I'll get it for you."

Alistair clambered out of the tent, muttering a curse under his breath as several drops of icy condensation fell down his neck. Flora lay for several minutes amidst the tangle of blankets, then impulsively rolled over into the warm hollow left by her husband's broad, muscled frame. For a single, fleeting moment, she thought longingly of the bed in the Royal Bedchamber – wide, overstuffed and heated with hot coals in warm pans.

 _You little shrimp,_ Flora chided herself, reprovingly. _Missing warm beds and feather mattresses? Call yourself a Herring girl?_

When Alistair returned a short while later, Flora obligingly went to move back over onto her side of the bedroll. He put out an arm to stop her, offering a tin cup that smelt warm and aromatic.

"Stay there, baby. I made you your tea."

"Peppermint!"

"Mm. Careful, it's hot. Ugh, it smells like liquid grass!"

Flora reached out to grasp the tin vessel, grateful for its warmth. As she hunched over her stomach, Alistair settled down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.

"I felt you fidgeting earlier, pumpkin. Couldn't you sleep?"

Flora thought about offering a reassuring lie – Herring girls did not complain! – but ultimately, she was too weary to summon a cheery denial.

"I have indigestion again," she confessed, shamefully. "My feet hurt, my back hurts. _Everything_ is sore."

Alistair's mouth turned down in slow increments as the litany of ailments continued, even as his eyebrows rose.

"Darling," he said in distress, leaning forward to kiss the side of her sweaty forehead. "My poor girl. I'm going to have some _stern words_ with these little infants when they finally emerge. They've made you feel rotten for _months."_

The thought of Alistair wagging his finger at two squirming and oblivious newborns made Flora smile.

"You're going to tell them off?"

"Yes," he murmured, sliding a strong palm downwards to rub the base of her spine in the same way that Zevran had done the night before. "Exercise my kingly discipline."

" _I_ miss your kingly discipline," she mumbled into the darkness, ducking her head as he eased the knots from her stuff joints with capable fingers. "Hmph."

Alistair shot her a quick, darting glance from the corner of his eye, his mouth tugging upwards in an involuntary smile.

"You do, baby?"

Flora nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Mm," she said wistfully, exhaling in relief as the tension in her back eased. "You don't throw me onto the bed anymore. Or take me up against a wall. Or in the stables, or on the grass outside. We don't do… _you know…_ anymore."

Alistair had to bite back his laugh, a grin spreading across his handsome face.

"My love, you're almost _eight months_ grown with child. Some things just aren't… physically practical anymore."

Flora let out a disgruntled grumble, heaving herself onto her side and glowering at the tent wall. There was a patch of mildew that looked almost exactly like Ferelden, and she reached out to touch it; feeling a pang of affection for the country she had spent the past year travelling around. It was almost the anniversary of when Duncan had plucked her from the Circle, his dark Rivaini eyes settling on her and changing the course of her life – and Ferelden's future – forever.

As she bit thoughtfully at her thumbnail, she felt Alistair rearrange himself around her; one arm circling beneath her stomach to support its weight.

"Darling," he murmured, brushing a cloud of dark red hair aside to press his lips to the back of her neck. "My sweet and gorgeous girl. I fully intend on _ravaging_ you as soon as you're fit and well after the birth. It won't be long."

Flora pressed herself against him hopefully, wanting something to distract her from the maladies of her own body. Instead, her husband encompassed her in a comforting and wholly _unsexual_ cuddle, fitting his powerful frame neatly around her swollen shape. In one last ditch attempt to provoke his interest, she nudged her rear against his pelvis; a ploy that had never failed in the past.

In response Alistair kissed the top of her head in a gesture both chaste and tender, murmuring kind endearments into her ear.

"My little red lobster," he breathed, inhaling the warm, wood-fire scent of her hair. "There's nothing I wouldn't give you."

 _Except yourself,_ Flora thought in an increasingly melodramatic spiral of gloomy thoughts. _You've never turned me down before, never, ever! And now you don't want to lie with me…_

 _Because I'm hideous!_

 _Yes! That's it! He finds my physical body so physically repulsive that he can't bear the thought of doing anything to it._

 _Oh, no!_

This hypothesis was founded on nothing but hormonal paranoia, bearing in mind that the newlyweds had made love only two nights prior. Yet Flora was not thinking entirely rationally, the physical discomfort of her body fuelling the emotional imbalance of her mind.

She turned her face into the pillow, feeling it grow damp against her skin as a succession of tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

Thus the king passed a comfortable night tucked protectively around his fat-bellied wife, while the queen lay quietly in the grips of physical and mental turmoil. She pictured herself as so vast and bloated that she could barely fit within the tent, one foot sticking out between the entrance flaps and her stomach distorting the canvas. These macabre visions were fuelled solely from her own imagination; and yet in the soft, muffled darkness of a Ferelden late summer night, they were easy to conjure.

As they broke their fast and packed up camp the next morning, everybody was especially kind to the red-eyed and miserable queen, who had clearly passed a restless night within the tent. Wynne did not engage in her usual practice of demanding the _spellings_ of breakfast foods before handing them over – Flora had mastered _eggs_ but not _tomatoes_. One of the scouts, unprompted, made up some of the ginger tea that settled nausea.

Teagan took the noblest blow of all and bravely asked about fishing practises on the northern coast. This had the desired effect; the queen perked up a fraction and regaled the unfortunate bann with tedious minutiae for the next candle-length. He bore it manfully, asking the occasional question while distracting himself by gazing at the queen's grave and lovely face as it droned on about tedious marine trivia.

Once the camp had been packed up, the company set out once more on the road to the north. The moorland took on an increasingly coarse edge with each hour passed; the landscape cut more ruggedly and the vegetation sparser. This was the effect of the coastal winds, which tore their way inland with a ferocity that only waned after many miles. The trees were all bent backwards, forced into a bow in the face of such unyielding pressure.

The wind had also begun to take on a coastal undertone; a salty dash to the air that left a tingle on the tongue and dried out the skin. The Waking Sea was still two dozen leagues to the north, and yet it was beginning to make its presence known. The Royal party picked their way over the moorland, following a trail that was bumpy and uneven, and often half-buried by scrub or heather. Less pleasant to ride through were the gorse bushes, with their butter-yellow residue and deceptively sharp thorns. Teagan's pale calfskin breeches were soon covered in pale, pungent pollen. Flora, who had taken her boots off to relieve the pressure on her sore feet, hastily put them back on again.

Alistair, usually at complete ease within the saddle, sat poker-straight and taut. He was plagued with visions of Carta dwarves springing up from the heather; obsidian blades directed towards his dozing, plump-bellied wife. His hand – the one not clasped about her waist – kept moving compulsively to the hilt of his sword to check that it was still easily within reach.

"Peace," whispered an Antivan-accented voice from behind; Zevran riding up alongside the king with a soft nudge to his horse's flank. "Your sword has not fallen into the undergrowth. Although it may if you keep fiddling with it."

"I can't help it," Alistair retorted, eyes flickering back and forth. "I'm seeing enemies lurking everywhere! I thought the Mabari's shadow was a dwarf just now, I almost swung for it."

"Alistair, Alistair," crooned the elf, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards. "My gaze is _everywhere._ Besides, there is nothing but spiked bushes and granite for miles around. Trust me, for I speak from experience – there is no spot suitable to lay an ambush here."

Alistair fell silent for a moment, letting the reins slacken against the saddle. Far over their heads some predatory bird gave a mournful cry while circling high above the scrubland; a yellow eye focused on any slight movement within the undergrowth.

"I know," he said softly, reaching up to caress his snoring queen's throat as she rested her head on his shoulder. "I know I'm being paranoid. But, Zev, if _you_ were in my position, if you had a wife eight months heavy with babe – _two_ _babes –_ and there were assassins lurking somewhere with her name on their blade, how would you react?"

Alistair had not meant to be cruel with this tantalising fantasy, but the former Crow flinched regardless. Zevran's smile faltered for the briefest fraction of a second, but he made a valiant recovery moments later.

"Honestly?"

"Mm."

"I would put her in a small room with no windows, and guard the door like a lion."

Alistair grimaced, his brow furrowed as he picked up the reins once more.

"Eamon suggested that Flo go into confinement, like Isolde," he said, quietly. "I said no. I wanted her on the progress with me, and I didn't want her to feel trapped again – she'd already spent a month locked up in Revanloch. I swear to the Maker, if I've made a mistake- if I've made her _vulnerable_ by taking her out of the city _\- "_

"Do not torture yourself, _mi rey. Carina_ has more eyes on her than a spider."

The moors had begun to slope gently upwards, the trail climbing gradually towards a high and exposed plain. Overhead, the clouds took on a more sinister darkness, bloated and a rich pewter grey; full of the promise of rain. The temperature dropped a half-dozen degrees over the course of three hours.

As a light drizzle started to fall – a preview of what was to come - Teagan and the scout spent several minutes pouring over the map in the shelter of an overhanging crag of rock. They found an inn marked in faded ink only a half-candle in deviance from their route; Alistair agreed that they should aim to reach there before nightfall. He was eager for Flora to spend a night beneath a solid roof, in a warm bed – as opposed to under soggy and mildewed canvas.

Flora, like the occupants of her stomach, had spent much of the day sleeping. Trusting in Alistair to keep her securely on the saddle, she had hunched against his chest and snored solidly in dreamless slumber from midday to sunset. Even the increasing strength of the rain did not rouse her; nor did the stiffening wind.

Alistair, for his part, had done his best to shield his best friend from the inclement conditions. He had even wrapped his own travel cloak around Flora, in addition to her own.

"Uncle," he called through the waning light, raising his voice above the complaining wind. "Uncle!"

Teagan drew his horse up, swivelling in the saddle to squint at Alistair through the darkness. The trail was slowly ascending around a rocky crag, the moorland beyond temporarily hidden.

"Alistair?"

"My wife is _wet,"_ the king replied, with a note of distress in his voice. "She's wet, and _cold._ Where's this blasted tavern?"

"Your Majesty!" called one of the scouts from further ahead, his torch casting dizzying patterns across the towering granite rock formation. "I can see it!"

The Bronze Flagon stood out like a blister upon the open moorland; a low, stone-walled building tucked around a cobbled courtyard. The roof was constructed from grey tile, though several shingles had been stolen by the turbulent air. A wooden sign had been nailed flush beside the oak-barred door - the usual hanging sign would not have fared well in the constant winds – and the name of the tavern was painted in fading italics. Around the back of the building, a set of sprawling stables had been constructed, protected from the climatic conditions.

The innkeeper – a stout woman with a no-nonsense manner – took the news of the Royal company's arrival with remarkable stoicism. Within ten minutes of the dripping scout running inside to announce the arrival of the _King of Ferelden_ , the horses had been stabled and towelled dry, the company's baggage taken to guestrooms, and the company themselves seated around a gnarled pinewood table before a roaring fireplace.

Alistair had placed his yawning wife on a stool before the hearth, peeled off the damp woollen cloaks, and then left her to warm up while he investigated the other occupants of the tavern. A drunken elf snored away in a corner booth, a tankard precariously grasped between slender fingertips. Nearby, a man with a tangled beard and rheumy eyes spooned beef stew into his mouth, a half-breed Mabari lying across his worn boots. Neither man showed much interest in the new arrivals, to Alistair's relief.

"We want to stay as discreet as possible," he murmured to the innkeeper, who gave a grunt of agreement. "Who else is staying in the tavern tonight?"

"Just me own family," replied the woman in a thick northern brogue, wiping the inside of a tankard with a grimy cloth. "Me 'usband an' our boys. An elf lad who we took in, years ago. And me blasted father-in-law. If yeh hear groanin' during the night, it'll be him. He's dyin'."

"What's wrong with him?" asked Alistair in mild alarm, envisioning some exotic and highly contagious disease.

The tavern-keeper snorted, following the king's glance towards his damp-haired wife.

"Years on the ale," she replied, wryly. "His insides are shot, poor sod'll be dead in months. Don't feel sorry for the old bugger, he's a foul-mouthed git."

"Right," said Alistair, blinking. "Ah, thank you. I'd like a warm bath brought to our chamber, as soon as possible. Thank you."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I am definitely not a camper, and I can't imagine the horrors of camping while heavily pregnant, lol. But it'll be good for Flo to spend the night in a tavern. She is definitely being highly paranoid re Alistair not wanting her – has he _ever_ been reluctant to shag her before? Haha! Never! But he's also never turned down her advances before, which is a bit of a shock for poor old Flo, lol.

Anyway, here's a useful tool for anyone who writes – the donjon tavern generator. It creates a randomised tavern (you can set it to common, good or fancy) with a physical description, a name, a menu and a variety of predetermined guests – I've used it lots for whenever I write about an inn! Just google "donjon tavern generator".

So close to the northern coast now! I'm loving writing all this stuff, hehehe

Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	125. A Difference of Opinion

Chapter 125: A Difference of Opinion

Flora followed Alistair down the wood-panelled corridor of the tavern, oblivious to the faded décor and moth-eaten rugs. With the prospect of a _bath,_ she was also determined to lure her husband into her arms; based on precedent, the king found it near-impossible to resist the charms of his wet, soap-covered wife.

"I'm feeling very _incriminated_ tonight," she announced, batting her eyelashes at Alistair's back.

"Incriminated?" he replied, shooting her a glance with brows raised. "Why's that, darling? Who's been accusing you? I'll have them thrown into the dungeons!"

 _Accusing me?_ Flora thought in perplexion as the tavern-keeper showed them into a large, fire-lit chamber with exposed wooden beams and a worn tartan rug on the flagstones.

 _Accusing me of what?_

 _Oh, I said incriminated. I meant to say stimulated._

The tavern-keeper gave them a brief 'tour' of the room facilities – which took less than a minute – and then took her leave, promising a warm bath in moments.

As the door shut with a creak of ill-fitting wood, Alistair placed their travel packs on the low chest at the foot of the bed. The king then turned his attentions to the hearth, advancing on the dying flames with poker in hand.

Flora made a brief and ill-advised attempt to pull off her boots from a standing position. After almost losing her balance, she gave up on removing the boots and instead sprawled back - in what she hoped was a seductive manner - on the mattress.

"My goal, sweetheart," announced Alistair, turning away from the flames with poker in hand. "Is for you to spend _every night_ in a bed, under a solid roof, between now and the birth. I don't want you to have another interrupted sleep, my love."

Dusting cinders from his breeches, he replaced the poker and turned his attention to his queen. On the bed, a pair of legs protruded at odd angles from a high, swollen stomach; nothing else of Flora was visible.

"Are you aroused?" came the indignant demand from the stomach. "Are you?"

Alistair blinked in confusion, his brow furrowing.

"Wha-?"

"Are," repeated Flora, slightly breathless from the weight of her own belly. "You. AROUSED?"

Alistair opened his mouth to respond, and then the door opened with a shove to overcome the sticky jamb. The innkeeper and her husband manhandled in a copper bathtub, accidentally sloshing half of the contents over the flagstones as they deposited it in the centre of the room.

"There you go, your majesties," announced the innkeeper, tucking grey-brown curls behind her ears. "One hot bath. Sorry we ain't got no fancy oils, jus' sheep-grease soap. Does the queen need any assistance?"

"Perfect," breathed Alistair, more concerned with the temperature than the accompanying toiletries. "And no, I'll help my wife to bathe. Thank you."

Flora pushed herself upright on the blankets with a little grunt of effort, her eyes fixed on her husband rather than on the steaming bath.

"Maker's Breath," the king commented, rolling up sleeves over muscular arms. "I can't say I'm a fan of your northern drizzle, darling. I'm soaked through!"

Flora reached up to unlace her tunic as he came over to help her disrobe, first kneeling at her feet and turning his attention to her boots.

"Well, I _like_ getting wet," she whispered down at him, in her best semblance of a seductive purr. "It makes me want to… take off my clothes."

"We do need to get these wet things off, baby," the oblivious Alistair agreed, massaging his thumbs into the sore balls of her feet. "I won't have you catching a cold."

Flora, slightly grumpily, raised her arms above her head and allowed him to remove the tunic. It took a more concerted effort to squirm free of her breeches – they were now _exceptionally_ tight – and when she was finally naked, they found that the seams had left red imprints on her thighs.

"It may be time for Leliana's robes, pumpkin," Alistair murmured, keeping an iron grip on his wife as she lowered herself into the bath. "Those leather trousers can't be comfortable anymore."

Flora grimaced, sinking into the warm water up to her chin and furrowing her brow.

"I feel most comfortable in my _bare, naked skin,"_ she offered, eyeing Alistair hopefully as he retrieved the sheep-fat soap.

"Time to grease you up like a little sausage going into the pan," he announced, rubbing his hands into a rapid lather.

 _In the past, he's never been able to resist jumping into the bath once he's oiled me up with Leliana's stinking bath perfumes,_ Flora thought to herself, reclining back against the rim of the bath and thrusting her breasts above the waterline.

Unfortunately, Alistair swooped forward with the gusto of a shepherd scrubbing clean a mud-covered lamb; rubbing her hair into a soapy mass between brisk palms. Flora immediately closed her eyes and spat out a mouthful of suds, feeling greasy liquid streaming in rivulets down her face.

"My love," he said, as she hunched forwards and gasped for air. "It's a shame that the babies don't like meat. This inn offers the most gorgeous smelling veal stew."

"E-eel stew?"

"No, my dear – _veal_ stew."

"What's a veal?"

"A calf."

"Oh dear," said Flora, determinedly not thinking too much on this in case it triggered another emotional outburst. "I'm sure they've got a vegetable version. Or a proper eel version! We are near the Waking Sea, after all."

She allowed herself a small squirm of excitement, for tomorrow they would be in _Herring –_ her home of ten years, which she had not seen in fully half that time; a place which had carved itself indelibly on her soul while shaping her character far more than any noble heritage.

Alistair cupped his hands together to gather up a palmful of warm water, tipping it over Flora's sudsy head. Flora blinked at him through tendrils of damp hair; he smiled down at her, the green flecks in his eyes softening with a tender regard. Letting the soap drop to the bottom of the tub, he reached out and smoothed a hand around her hairline, tracing the high contour of her brow with a thumb.

"Maker's Breath, my pretty girl," he said, quietly. "You have my whole heart and soul, my love."

"I love you," she replied, equally solemn.

The king leaned forward with a hand on the edge of the bath, kissing her on the side of the head. Flora eyed him a moment, and then decided to try her luck.

"Would you like to come in the bath with me?" she asked, hearing the hope raw in her own voice. "We used to bathe together all the time, remember."

"Sweetheart, I'm not sure there'd be enough room!" Alistair replied, entirely without thinking. "Not with _four_ of us."

Flora sunk down amidst the greasy bubbles, feeling a hollow scrape of sadness in her belly. Alistair had never rejected her advances before – and now he had done so _three times_ since the previous night. A tear ran down her cheek, but it melted into the remnants of soapy bubbles and was undetectable.

There was a knock at the door, and moments later Zevran curled his head around the frame; blowing a kiss to the miserable Flora before turning his gaze on Alistair.

"They are bringing out the food, _mi rey._ Will you grace us with your royal presence, or do you plan on staying in the company of your delightfully unclothed wife?"

Flora bit back a grumpy comment, clawing her way to her feet in a graceless lumber with her hair plastered to her breasts.

"I'm starving! I want eel stew! Not veal."

The tavern-keeper's family had rallied around in the kitchen, producing a surprisingly substantial spread for the Royal party with only short notice. Braised hare with mustard and leeks was served alongside a rich beef pottage, with lavender-infused biscuits for dessert. For Flora, whose tastes narrowed with every month that she bore her children, there was a large platter of millet bread and curd cheese, accompanied by a roasted artichoke stew.

Alistair and the others devoured their food, made hungry by a long day of journeying. Even Wynne abandoned her usual delicate table manners, forsaking cutting the hare into smaller parts in favour of lifting pieces directly to her mouth.

Flora was still sulking from being thrice-rejected in the bedroom. She had decided to ask Zevran for some _seduction advice_ when the elf had a spare moment – he was currently busy beating one of the scouts at Wicked Grace.

"Alistair, have you thought on what your priorities are going to be for your first year as king?" the senior enchanter asked suddenly, lowering her tankard to the ring-stained wooden table. "Once you've returned to Denerim."

Alistair swallowed a mournful of braised hare and nodded, leaning back in his chair. The other patrons had made a hasty departure, intimidated by the guards and the glittering dark eyes of the elf; they were alone within the main room of the tavern. The tavern-keeper stood behind the counter wiping ale-stains from tankards with a rag; she had perfected a barkeep's disinterested stare.

"I've thought about it a lot while we've been travelling," he replied, earnestly. "I may not have wanted the throne at first, but… but now that I'm _on_ it, there's a lot that I want to do. Eamon was right; I can be Ferelden's most dedicated servant as its king."

"And what _do_ you wish to do?" Wynne continued quietly, folding her napkin into small, even folds.

"Well, my first priority is Flo and our children," Alistair said, to nobody's surprise. "I won't resume official business until she's fit and well after the twins are born, however long it takes. And then – I'm not sure how it's going to work, yet. I want to keep my family close to me even when I return to the country's affairs."

"I'll bring them to council meetings," Flora replied, immediately. "Babies sleep a lot, and I can feed them there. I don't think anyone would mind."

Teagan, glancing sideways at the young and pretty queen, bit back his agreement – he was certain that nobody would mind in the least if she gave a babe the breast at the table.

"You're the Hero of Ferelden, and those infants have been through more than most men," he replied, mildly. "Who would protest?"

Alistair reached beneath the table and squeezed Flora's thigh affectionately, flashing her a brief, wistful smile.

"Anyway," the king continued, forcing himself to think of a priority that was not solely involving his own burgeoning family. "I want to see that the restoration committees are all provisioned well for the winter. And that there are no refugees left on the docks – either they return to their homes and join the rebuilding efforts, or we pay for their passage to the Marches. I don't want to encourage vagrancy in Denerim. I also want to strengthen the Royal Army – it's all very well relying on the elves, mages and dwarves when there's a Blight; but the men and women of Ferelden need to be able to defend the nation under any circumstance. I know we can't afford a professional, full time army like Orlais – though a Fereldan foot-soldier is worth three _chevaliers –_ but I wonder if there's a way to keep the men trained even when they're decommissioned?"

"In Ansburg, there's a compulsory drill week every three months," offered Teagan, thoughtfully. "Hosted by the Margravaine. It does a reasonable job of keeping the fighting instinct fresh in the minds of men."

Alistair gave a slow nod, his eyes darkening as he mulled this over.

"That might be an idea," he replied, drumming his fingers on the table. "Anyway, those are my two priorities. I suppose we'll have to meet with bloody Orlais at some point, too."

Zevran took advantage of the pause to crow a victory, turning over his cards to reveal a winning hand. The scout, grumbling heartily, turned out his pockets to pay the elf his prize.

"What about you, Florence?" asked Wynne, turning her attention to the quiet, brooding queen. "Do you have things which you wish to do as queen? Or will you focus on raising the children?"

"No, I have things," replied Flora immediately, lifting her pale eyes from her half-demolished aubergine. "I can raise the children _and_ do them. I want to help Gwaren to recover. I want to improve conditions in the alienage. And I want to make sure that life in the Circle is… well. As tolerable for mages as possible. Leliana told me about a priestess who might be able to help, a lady from an Orlesian Chantry called Dorothea. She seems a bit more – tolerant."

Alistair shot his wife a swift, sideways smile.

"My beautiful queen," he said, with no qualms in openly expressing his adoration for her. "There's no one I'd rather have on the throne at my side."

"And yet," Zevran murmured into Wynne's ear, taking advantage of the front door swinging open to disguise his words. "I'd still place coin on the wager that they would rather live a quiet life in some little tucked-away village, free of the crown's burden. Free to raise their new family in rural, domestic bliss."

Wynne's mouth curved upwards in a rueful smile; she had thought long and hard on this issue over the past few months. Her conscience did not sit easy with the thought of two young people forced into a lifetime commitment that they did not truly want – especially two people who had done Ferelden immeasurable service. However, in recent weeks she had begun to change her mind; after both conversation _with_ and observation _of_ the new royals.

"I'm not sure," she replied, letting the howl of the wind beyond the stone walls disguise her words. "I think Alistair truly wants the throne now – he's grown enough to realise that he could make a good job of it. And Flora _needs_ it; it's a distraction from the grief of losing her spirits and a way for her to continue helping people even with the severance of her magic."

Zevran mused on the senior enchanter's words, his head dropping in a slow nod.

"You are a wise woman, Wynne," he said after a moment, seeing the reason in her words. "I wonder which of us comes closer to the truth?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Last night was the last late night Thursday work thing for six weeks, yaaaaay! So glad all that is over. Historians are not meant to interact with the public, we are meant to be locked away in dusty archives, lol. Or at least, offices at the end of little-used corridors XD

Anyway, this was a fun chapter to write – poor old Flo! Rejected in the bedroom! Aside from being almost eight months pregnant, she's not very good at _active seduction;_ she had always just relied on her looks to lure Alistair into bed. The thought of her trying to arrange herself alluringly in the bathwater – and then him swooping forward to lather up her entire head in an entirely unsexy manner with sheep-fat soap – actually makes me laugh, hahaha.

I also thought it was an interesting point at the end – having these two different theories about what Alistair and Flora would prefer. Zevran's suggestion that they would be happiest living with the twins in a little village, far from courtly intrigue and politics, is an interesting one. But so is Wynne's theory – her point about Flora needing a new focus in the wake of her magic-loss is persuasive; and there's a piece of dialogue in game where a hardened Alistair admits that he _does_ want the throne after all. I've left it deliberately ambiguous so people can make up their own mind ;)

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	126. If Loveliness Were Water

Chapter 126: If Loveliness Were Water, You'd Be the Ocean

The arrival at the door had been the tavern-keeper's son, who performed the role of stable-hand as well as pot-washer and linen-scrubber. He hesitantly approached the royal company with the news that one of the horses had an awkwardly shaped stone stuck in its shoe, and he couldn't get it out. The horse had grown testy, and refused to let him touch the hoof.

Teagan and Alistair, the most experienced in dealing with horses, immediately rose to their feet and followed the lad outside. Wynne decided to retire to her assigned chamber for the night; she had another few inches that she wished to add onto her letter to Irving.

The tavern-keeper slung several more logs onto the fire – the wind outside was picking up in ferocity, rattling windows in their panes and seeking out cracks in the walls. Small draughts flickered candles, and blew dried autumnal leaves across the flagstones.

Left with a yawning scout and her elven companion, Flora leaned forward and tapped her fingers imperatively against the latter's coffee-coloured wrist.

"Zevran, Zevran!"

" _Amor, amor!"_

"I need advice," she continued, wide-eyed and earnest. "On an _unguent_ matter."

"Ah, if it is an _unguent_ matter, I will devote my entire attention to it," Zevran said, kindly. _"Urgent_ matters, I am slower to attend to."

Flora let out a little impatient huff, continuing to tap her nail-bitten fingers against the tendons of his wrist.

"I need help in seducing my husband," she breathed, solemnly. "Now that I am a _whale-human hybrid_ , he no longer finds me attractive. Instead, he sees me as a…a… a misshapen beast of yore!"

"As a _beast of yore?"_ Zevran repeated, trying his hardest not to laugh in the face of Flora's distress. " _Carina,_ surely this is a jest. Alistair cannot keep his hands off you. He touches you nonstop when you are together; it is both sweet and vaguely nauseating to watch."

"But he doesn't want to _lie_ with me anymore," Flora interrupted, melodramatically. She had forgotten about the presence of the scout, who had gone the colour of a beetroot. "He's rejected me _three times_ in a row. He doesn't find me attractive!"

Flora wore the faintly outraged expression of one who was _used_ to being desired. She had always been aware of the fact that she was an attractive girl – it was an accident of birth that had given her no advantage in either Herring or the Circle, where brawn and brains respectively were prized far more.

Alistair had certainly never been resistant to her looks before – he had confessed that when they had first met, he acted aloof because he had been intimidated by her cold-eyed, full-lipped beauty. When they became lovers three months later, all it took to draw her brother-warden's attention was a darting little glance from beneath her lashes, or a swift bite of a lower lip, or the nudge of a finger against her mouth. Now, it seemed, he had become immune.

"Impossible," Zevran replied bluntly, his dark eyes meandering over her finely-hewn features. "If loveliness were water, _nena,_ you would be the entire ocean. When you look into the sea, the fish forget how to _swim_ because of your beauty and they sink to the sandy bottom."

Although the words were lyrical and poetic, they were uttered without artifice. Flora chewed miserably on her thumbnail, brooding.

"But nothing has worked," she complained, keeping an eye on the door. "None of my usual tricks. When I licked my lips, he asked if I wanted a _snack!"_

Zevran felt an odd wrangling of emotion within his gut – on the one hand, he was dying to giggle at Flora's overly dramatic complaints. On the other, he was uncomfortably aware that there was little he would not give to be in Alistair's position.

"Perhaps he worries that he might hurt you, or the babes," the elf said instead, trying to keep his response relatively neutral. "We both know that he can be a little _over-enthusiastic_ at times between the sheets."

"He's been gentler recently," Flora corrected, grumpily. "Ugh! You shouldn't call me your _little mermaid_ anymore. You should call me your _sea monster._ How do you say _sea monster_ in Antivan?"

" _Monstruo marino,"_ Zevran said, biting back a grin. "But, _carina,_ I shall do nothing of the sort. You will always be _mi pequeña sirena."_

Flora curved the corner of her mouth ruefully at him, resting her chin in her hand.

"Do you really think it's... it's just because he's worried, and not because he thinks I'm repulsive _?"_

"I am certain, _nena,"_ Zevran replied firmly, fixing his dark stare to his own. "Anyway, he is… he is a fool if he turns you down."

Flora impulsively touched her fingers to her lips, reaching out to press the kiss against her friend's tattooed cheek.

"And he's not a fool," she replied, withdrawing her hand and smiling at him. _"_ Hm, alright. I will need to _subtly communicate_ to him that he's not going to hurt me by bedding me."

Zevran eyed her; if there was one characteristic that he would _not_ use to describe their northern queen, it was _subtle._

When Teagan and Alistair returned shortly afterwards, the elf could see Flora squirming in her seat, her thoughts writ visibly across her face. Alistair let his arm fall over her shoulder as he sat, inching his chair closer to hers.

"Is the mare's hoof well?" enquired Zevran, eyes flashing over the rim of his glass. "What a lucky creature to receive the attentions of _two_ handsome men!"

"The stone is out," the king replied, idly fingering a strand of his wife's thick hair. "All it took was a hoof-pick and a bit of patience."

Teagan nodded, leaning back in his seat and sweeping a scrutinising eye around the tavern. The other patrons had stumbled out into the night – back to shepherd's huts and stone shelters – and they were alone within the fire-lit chamber. There were no other travellers staying within the tavern itself; which was fortunate, since their party took up the entirety of the eight chambers ascribed for guests.

"Good that it's been seen to," the bann added, softly. "I've seen horses go lame due to ill-maintained shoes. Shall I get another round?"

Zevran, who always appreciated another man's offer to pay, gave an eager nod. Alistair shook his head; he already felt the evening's earlier ale blurring the edge of his thoughts. He did not want to meet Flora's Herring-father - nor the mysterious spectre of her Herring- _mother -_ with a sore head.

"Do you want anything, poppet?" the bann asked Flora, rising to his feet. "I can get one of those grass teas made up for you."

Flora shook her head, tugging a loose thread on the sleeve of her jumper. After Teagan had gone to speak with the innkeeper, she brushed her fingers against Alistair's elbow as he leaned forward on the table. He reached out to catch the fingers against his palm, bringing her hand to his lips to press a soft kiss to her knuckles.

"Alistair?"

"Yes, my love?"

"I feel very _sturdy_ tonight," she said, peering at him with limpid eyes from beneath her eyelashes. "And durable. And the babies are asleep. Do you want to… get an early night with me?"

Zevran snorted at her lack of subtlety, his gaze swivelling towards Alistair. The king, unfortunately, seemed oblivious to his wife's latent meaning.

"That's a good idea, sweetheart," he agreed, nodding. "I want you to get at _least_ eight hours sleep every night between now and the birth. Ideally, nine or ten!"

Flora's lower lip wobbled, a sudden brightness to her pale irises. Before she could protest, one of the scouts entered the main tavern with a rolled-up scroll in his fist.

"Your majesty," he announced, the thick Denerim accent sounding oddly out of place within Ferelden's northern reaches. "I've a message from the sheriff of Pendle, a village ten leagues south. Says he thinks Howe passed through there."

Alistair's face contracted with a brief flicker of rage; merely the mention of the man's name was enough to ignite the king's ire. Teagan was already moving, retrieving a map from his travel-pack and sweeping aside the other detritus on the table to spread it flat.

"I'm going to bed," Flora announced, not wanting the tears gathered at the roots of her eyelashes to spill over.

Alistair grimaced for a second, performing a mental assessment of the building's security. Fortunately, the tavern followed the custom of most isolated and vulnerable dwellings by minimising the possible points of entry. There was only one entrance into the squat, stone building; and it was the doorway that opened into the main tavern. The windows were tightly shuttered from inside, bolstered by wooden bars and rusting iron latches.

"I'll be in as soon as I've read this report," he promised his gloomy wife, nuzzling his face against her small, curling fingers. "Get some rest, my love."

Zevran shot Flora a sympathetic glance as she passed; taking advantage of the others' distraction to murmur quietly to her.

"I'll speak with him at an opportune moment, _nena."_

"No, no," she mouthed back, feeling an unhappy flush rise to her cheeks. "It's _embarrassing."_

Flora did not particularly care for the contents of the report from Pendle; she trusted in her companions to keep her safe and reasoned that the less she knew, the less anxious she would be. She shuffled down the corridor, passing the chambers assigned to her companions, until she reached the bedroom assigned to the royal couple.

The room itself was almost stiflingly hot and pungently aromatic; an abundance of smouldering gorse piled onto the hearth. With little in the way of trees on the moorland, those that dwelt upon it made use of the resources they had in natural abundance. Feeling several beads of sweat rise to her forehead, Flora changed into a pair of cream and pale blue striped pyjamas, with the Theirin crest sewn above the breast. One of the Mabari had clearly been at the shirt – one sleeve was ragged and chewed almost up to the elbow. Flora, for whom such things did not matter, put the pyjamas on regardless.

The queen was not particularly tired, and so – feeling virtuous and wishing that Wynne was there to witness her – she decided to practice her literacy. She had finished the second volume of _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ during their stay at the Circle, and now she had a choice as to which book to embark upon next. There was the _Child's Illustrated History of Ferelden_ that Wynne had given her; alternately, a slender tome of translated Antivan poetry from Zevran.

The latter had a naked woman inscribed on the leatherbound cover. Flora eyed it dubiously for a moment, then opened the book at random and gazed at the words scribed elegantly across the page. Unfortunately, the language was explicit enough that Flora had no idea what anything meant – even when she checked the handwritten dictionary that Alistair had created for her on a string-bound sheaf of parchment, the meaning of certain words was nowhere to be found.

Sighing, Flora closed the poetry book and replaced it alongside its more cerebral companion. Tucking several loose ropes of hair back into her braid, she sat down on the edge of the bed and blew out her cheeks, grumpily.

Just then, from somewhere outside the half-ajar door, there came the distinct sound of a groan.

Flora blinked, sitting up straighter as she felt one of the babies squirm within her stomach.

"Wha- " she whispered out loud into the gorse-scented gloom, wondering if she had imagined the peculiar sound.

The groan came again- a pitiful sound, miserable and weak as a kitten.

Flora pushed herself to her feet, feeling another little wriggle from her abdomen as the squirming twin woke up its sibling.

Crossing the chamber, she paused in the open doorway, tilting her head to one side. At the far end of the gloom-shrouded corridor, she could hear the faint murmur of conversation echoing from the tavern – Alistair and the others no doubt discussing the news from Pendle.

 _Did I just imagine the other sound?_ Flora thought to herself, perplexed. _It sounded like a –_

A moment later, the groan came again; wending its way through the candle-lit corridor from the opposite end. Flora stood for a moment, frozen in indecision – _she was no longer a healer, she couldn't mend anyone –_ but the instinct to respond was too powerful to ignore.

She shuffled down the corridor, past the last of the rooms assigned to the royal company. At the far end, one of the doors embedded into the stone was on the jar – the faintest thread of light creeping from beneath the wood.

Clad in socks and pyjamas, Flora rapped her knuckles gently against the frame.

"Go'way, Myra," came the reply, weak and shrivelled. "Don't… don't need yer 'elp."

It was a northerner's voice like Flora's own; one also made husky by the abrasive winds and incessant rains of the Storm Coast.

"I'm not Myra," she replied, putting her mouth to the gap in the door. "Do you need some help?"

There was silence for a few moments, and then the unmistakable sound of somebody being sick. This was a summons that Flora had never been able to ignore, and she pushed open the door, stepping inside the room.

The chamber was small, crowded and swathed in shadow. As well as a bedroom, it was clearly used as a place for storage – around a narrow bed, boxes and crates had been piled almost as high as the ceiling. One anaemic candle burnt in a dish; two more candlesticks had toppled over and lay extinguished. The only other light came from a narrow window, through which shone a thin sliver of moon.

The room smelt of human suffering; the sour odour of stale and fresh vomit mingling with unwashed flesh and the general decay of the dying. A man lay within the stained bedsheets, tangled grey hair matted over his bare shoulders. Even in the dim light, the jaundiced tone of abscess-riddled skin was visible, and his abdomen was swollen.

"Ah," he slurred, each word laboured out in an effort. "Sorry, lass. Thought you was me daughter-in-law."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Poor old Flo, lol! Instead of shenanigans with her handsome king, she's ended up in the company of a dying alcoholic northerner. Alistair is still very much in dad-mode, as opposed to husband-mode. Oh well, at least she had the good intention of studying before bed. Ha ha at Zevran giving her a book of erotic Antivan poetry as practice reading – I'm not sure how much academic value she's going to get out of that!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	127. The Dying Captain

Chapter 127: The Dying Captain 

Flora had paused in the doorway just long enough to ascertain that the man was not suffering from potentially communicable disease. Once she had spotted the yellowed tones of his skin, she recognised his condition as _ale-bowel;_ a deterioration of the organs as a result of too much hard drinking. From the palsy in the man's fingers and the swelling of his stomach, he clearly did not have much longer to live. There were abscesses on his skin where the flesh had rotted, foul-stinking black pustules clustered near his arm-pits and elbows.

With a healer's immunity to the fetid smell, Flora entered the room and turned the toppled candlesticks upright, touching the remaining candle to each wick in turn. A little more light now flooded the room, illuminating the sea of empty bottles littering the floor.

"Why are you so fat?" the man croaked in a slur, narrowing failing eyes at her through the dimly-lit shadow.

"I'm not fat, I'm having twins," retorted Flora, matching his northern bluntness. "In about a month's time."

 _And no sooner,_ she thought sternly to her own abdomen. _Stay in there until we get to Denerim, please._

 _Actually, no 'pleases'. That is your first instruction from your mother, an inviolable rule!_

"Huh," replied the man, letting his head drop listlessly to one side. He was not asleep, but stared into the darkness with resignation, fingers trembling on the stained sheets. The pungent smell of the unwashed rose from his yellowed flesh; he had not been bathed in some time.

Flora looked around for some spare sheets and could see none. There was an odd array of items stacked around them – a broken cart-wheel propped against the wall, a shovel, a roll of moth-eaten curtains.

"I'll be back in a moment," she said impulsively, reversing back into the corridor.

Three trips between her chamber and the man's sickroom later, Flora had brought in the sheets from her and Alistair's bed, a bowl and ewer of fire-heated water, and several squares of stiff, white linen. Puffing slightly, she had also retrieved the low three-legged stool from beside the hearth, which she now dropped with a weary clatter onto the floorboards.

The man eyed Flora in wary suspicion as she carefully removed the stained sheets, bundling them together and putting them to one side.

It took a little more effort to replace them with clean linens – everything took a little more effort in her current condition – and she was breathless by the time that she had finished.

Needing to rest for a moment, Ferelden's new queen dragged the stool to the bedside and sat down on it with a little grunt, reaching awkwardly to rub her bound knee through her pyjamas. For a moment there was silence, save for the drizzle against the window-pane and the man's laboured breathing.

"Myra says I brought this death on meself," the man said at last, with a reedy grunt that was perhaps meant to be a chuckle. "Took too much solace in the bottle over the years."

Flora gazed solemnly down at her own bitten-nailed fingers. There had been those who had taken to the bottle within Herring – especially those whom the sea had been cruel to over the years, snatching away more than its fair share of family.

"I ain't got much longer left," he said, with the soft acceptance of the slowly dying. "I won't make it to year's end. I welcome it: I'll be with me men again."

"Your men?" Flora asked, raising her pale, curious gaze to rest on his sallow face.

The man nodded, a wistful flicker of reminiscence passing through his own clouded irises.

"I was the captain of the Denerim Forward Sixth," he said, softly. "Fought in the rebellion against Orlais, under the banner of Maric the Saviour."

"You fought against Orlais?"

"That's what I said, ain't it?" he retorted, then quietened a fraction. "Aye, lass. We fought at Southron against the _chevvy-leers_ – that were a great one, that battle."

" Southron?" asked Flora, her interest piqued. "Did you ever go to Ostagar?"

"The old Vint ruin? No, girl. We was followin' the command of the lady Guerrin. She led us on horseback straight into the flanks of the Orlesian general's army – brave woman, she were. Stood as tall as a man, and rode twice as good as any."

Flora's face contorted – for a moment, she thought that the old veteran was talking about _Isolde._ Shortly afterwards, she realised that he was referring to the _lady Guerrin_ of the previous generation, Eamon and Teagan's sister, Rowan.

"And your company fought well?" she asked, testing the temperature of the water in the bowl with her wrist.

The veteran broke into a coughing fit instead of responding, discoloured spittle dribbling down his chin. Flora busied herself with soaking the corner of a linen square in the bowl, waiting for him to resume speaking.

"Lass, you never seen anything like it," the dying man croaked, once he had regained some composure. There was a flicker of animation across his sallow features; for a moment, the handsome man he must once have been was briefly visible. "My men fought in those hills like they was defendin' the Maker's throne from demons. Old Geraint even claimed for months after that he'd been the one to strike the first blow into the Orlesian commander, Felix. The lady Guerrin herself praised our valour once the day was won."

As the man spoke, Flora began to daub gently at his jaundiced chest with the damp linen, cleaning away several days of dried sweat and bile from the matted grey hair. She had never put much stock in the belief that _pus_ was beneficial to the mending of a wound, and so wiped all that she could see away from the abscesses.

"Did you fight in any other battles against the Orlesians?" she enquired, leaning forward on the stool to reach across the old soldier's sunken ribcage.

"Aye," he said quietly into the shadows, his eyes distant and shrouded with memory. "We took part in the ambush of the _chevvy-leers_ at Gwaren. It was the idea of the Royal Commander, Loghain Mac Tir – though he weren't so much as a lowly captain back then. Do you know who Loghain Mac Tir is, lass?"

Flora nodded in silent confirmation; she did _indeed_ know who Loghain Mac Tir was. Instead of elaborating, she wrung out the linen cloth and submerged it in the warm water once more.

"The Denerim Sixth hid in the ruins of an old warehouse," the soldier reminisced, softly. "We was there for a day and a night before the Orlesians arrived."

"Why were you hiding?" Flora asked, feeling a squirm in her stomach as one infant tested the boundaries of its confines with a foot. Giving it a quick pat, she leaned forwards and continued to dab at the man's soiled flesh.

"'Cause they outnumbered us," he retorted, with a grunt. "Two to one. Didn't make a difference to my company; we leapt out and cut them to ribbons. The alleyways ran crimson that night."

Flora just about managed to stifle a grimace; she had to remind herself that – in this instance – _'them'_ had been Orlesian chevaliers, the _enemy,_ the ones who had occupied Ferelden for decades.

The soldier caught the tail end of her expression and gave a rueful snort, his bloodshot eyes focusing on her with some difficulty.

"Eh, lass? Did I offend your delicate sensibilities? I bet you never seen a fight to the death in your life."

Flora almost dropped the bowl of water but managed to bite back her cackle, letting out a noncommittal grunt as she soaked the cloth once again.

There was silence for a few moments; broken only by the dripping of the water back into the bowl. The dying soldier leaned back against the threadbare cushion, regret creasing itself across his face.

"It didn't go well for us rebels at the Battle of West Hill," he continued, quietly. "I – I made a bad call. Sent my company into a death trap. Only three of them made it out. Afterwards, they… they blamed me."

Flora let her pale eyes settle curiously on him as she dabbed gently at the protruding ribs, wiping away week-old sweat. The soldier looked up at the ceiling with failing vision, squinting as though he could see the faces of his dead comrades etched into the plaster.

"Have you got any dead, lass?"

Flora nodded; she had dozens.

"How… how do you honour 'em?"

"I light candles," she replied quietly, thinking on her blazing concentric arcs of remembrance. "In their memory."

The man nodded, his eyes sliding sideways to the bottles littering the floor. For the briefest moment, regret flickered across his haggard and prematurely lined face, the corner of his mouth twisting.

"Better call than the one I made," he muttered, rueful and sad. "Ah, well. At least I'll see my men again soon. Though I doubt they'll be eager to see me."

Flora let the linen cloth rest in the bowl, reaching down to turn some of the toppled bottles upright. A spider scuttled out from one and she caught it on a finger, letting it dangle as she pushed herself to her feet.

The dying veteran watched her as she shuffled across the room, unlatched the narrow window and let the spider drop gently free. After nudging the window-lock back into place, Flora used her elbow to rub away the layer of dust and grime coating the glass. A thin shaft of moonlight now shone into the sick man's chamber, falling onto the bed with silver-edged radiance.

"I don't think spirits hold grudges," she replied, padding back across the room and easing herself onto the stool. "I wouldn't worry."

Flora picked up the damp cloth once again, reaching out to take the old soldier's hand. As she turned her attention to the grubby palm and yellowed fingers, he let out another hollow, grating cough.

"It hurts when I piss – sorry, _pass water_. That ain't good, is it, lass?"

"Not particularly," she replied with northern bluntness, relieved that the woken twin had gone back to sleep within her. "Would you like me to fetch you something to drink? Some _water."_

The man let out a grunt in the negative, eyeing her.

"Eh, did you hear about the Blight in the south?" he asked, assuming from her accent that she lived locally. "Apparently it's been ended now, by the new Theirin on the throne. And by some mage who ain't a mage no more. Maker took her magic as a reward for her services, apparently."

"Hm," said Flora, rubbing the damp cloth up the length of his arm. "I did hear about the Blight, actually."

"Nasty business that, eh? Ah, well. Least it's over now."

"Mm," continued the queen, noncommittally. "Here, give me your other hand."

In the main tavern, those gathered around the note from Pendle had finally finished their discussions. Unfortunately, the sheriff from Pendle had not thought to detain the man he believed to be Howe for further questioning – Alistair had wanted to ride out to the small village that night and interrogate the man personally. Teagan had managed to detract him from his pointless endeavour, skilfully realigning the king back to the task at hand.

Now, they sat around the table before the dying embers of the hearth, each nursing a final flagon of ale. The yawning tavern keeper, eager to lock up for the night, kept jangling her keys pointedly. Like most northerners, she was not overly cowed by nobility.

"We've an early start in the morning," Teagan reminded Alistair quietly, his pale green eyes appearing almost hazel in the muted firelight. "We should retire for the night."

Alistair nodded distractedly as he took a sip of his ale, a crease of thought embedded across his brow.

"Mm."

"Right, then" murmured Zevran, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. "If you'll excuse me, _caballeros,_ I'm going to go and make love to the queen."

The mouthful of ale that Alistair had just taken was rapidly ejected across the table. He spluttered out foam and liquid, eyes widening accusatorially as they focused on the elf.

" _Whaa-?!"_

Zevran shrugged an elegant shoulder, lifting his dark gaze languidly to meet the king's.

"Do you have an issue with this, _mi rey?"_

"Flo is _my_ wife," Alistair retorted, indignantly. _"I'm_ her husband. _I_ get to _make love_ to her."

He held up his hand as if to prove it, showing off the twisted golden strand of the wedding ring.

"Then _be_ a husband to her," replied Zevran, equally quick. "The poor girl is desperate for some distraction from the aches and pains of childbearing, and she feels as though you no longer desire her."

Teagan coughed to hide his discomfort, determinedly taking a sip of wine. _She's like your niece,_ he thought firmly to himself; attempting to force his affections into a more familial mould. _Alistair calls you uncle; ergo, she's your niece. Family._

Meanwhile Alistair's jaw had dropped in dismay, his eyes darkening to the shade of bruised apples.

"'No longer _desire_ her'?" he breathed, incredulous. "Maker, I still have to remind myself to _breathe_ when Flo walks into the room. I just don't want to – to hurt her, or the babies."

"Well, I have no _personal_ experience, but I was raised in a brothel," the elf replied, wryly. "Where babies were born every season. Their mothers took clients nearly up to the day of birth itself, with no harm done."

Alistair stood up with ungainly haste, colliding with the table and knocking over several tankards.

"I have to find my wife," he said, horrified at the notion that Flora had thought herself unappealing to him. "I have to bed her, _right now."_

"That's the spirit!" replied Zevran, with a dazzlingly white-toothed smile that was only a fraction forced. "I… I shall reserve my services for another time, then."

Unfortunately, the king soon found that the bedchamber assigned to the Royal couple was conspicuously empty. The bed had been stripped of its sheets, the stool from beside the hearth was missing, as were several other odds and ends. The fire itself had died down to embers, the room bathed in cold, anonymous shadow. Alistair came to an abrupt halt in the doorway as he set eyes on the unoccupied bed; the corners of his mouth turning down with almost comedic rapidity.

"Where – where's Flo?" he said into the gloom, a plaintive note to his tone. "I thought she'd gone to bed. She's not here! Where _is_ she?!"

"There's only one entrance to this inn," Teagan hastened to reassure him. "And it was directly behind your left shoulder while we were in the tavern. Nobody passed in or out, Alistair. She's somewhere nearby."

Alistair nodded, reversing back into the corridor and swivelling his head from side to side. The corridor was shrouded and gloomy; a thread of hearth-light creeping from beneath Wynne's door.

Just then, the grey-haired tavern keeper and one of her adolescent sons emerged from a narrow side passage with several bundles of linen and a crate of dirty plates between them.

"Have you seen the queen?" Alistair demanded immediately, striding towards them. "My wife?"

The woman – Myra – shook her head, a crease of bemusement folding itself across her brow.

"I ain't seen her, your majesty," she replied, with a northerner's practicality. "But she'll be here somewhere. No way in or out of this place, save for the front door."

Those gathered in the corridor fell silent for several moments. Simultaneously, there came a brief pause in the wind harassing the window-frames; as the ill weather took a moment to realign itself over the moors. This few seconds of respite allowed them to hear the soft sound of a hoarse male voice, drifting from the far end of the corridor.

"That's my father-in-law," the innkeeper said, startled. "The one dyin' of ale-belly I told you 'bout. Who's he talkin' to?"

Relief suffused Alistair's features; he had a good idea as to the invalid's audience. He led the way down the passage with rapid strides, anxious to find his best friend and take her in his arms.

* * *

OOC Author Note: So instead of sexy time with the husband, it's sickly, sweaty, stained-sheets time! Not exactly how Flora envisioned spending her night, but – let's face it – she's been taking care of the sick far longer than she's been sleeping with Alistair; and despite her healing ability being gone, the intrinsic impulse to look after the ill is still very much there. It's part of her general niceness – a way of making up for the lack of brains, wit or sense of humour – poor old Flo isn't the sharpest bait-hook in the tackle-box, but she's very empathetic.

It was nice to incorporate a bit more of Ferelden's history into the story too! I have to actually read the books one of these days, lol, rather than just relying on DA wikia. I need primary source material! Lol at Flo being like hmmm yes I did hear that there was a Blight, haha

At least Alistair is aware of his wife's feelings now – got to love Zevran's way of bringing the issue to his attention, hahaha XD

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	128. Husband and Wife, Reacquainted

Chapter 128: Husband and Wife, Reacquainted

The door at the end of the inn's corridor was slightly ajar, the thin words of a damaged throat creeping out around the jamb.

"We made camp right up in the Hinterlands, lass, near this settlement named the Crossroads. The Orlesians held the village, and we got this plan to seize it back – we were goin' to lure out the _chevaliers_ with a distraction, and then send our men in by the water-mill- "

"How did you distract them?"

Alistair inhaled at the sound of his wife's voice, striding forward and pushing open the door.

The jaundiced veteran on the narrow bed looked up at the new arrival. Sunken eyes widened and he flinched in shock, taking in the broad six foot and several inch frame that dominated the doorway; the handsome, olive features; the traditionally gilded Theirin colouring.

"Maric?" he croaked, the pupils shrinking with disbelief. "King Maric?"

Alistair's gaze moved over the man to his queen, who was perched on a small stool at the invalid's bedside. Flora was clad in socks and crumpled pyjamas, more hair hanging free from her braid than contained within it. The man's scrawny arm rested across her stomach; she was scrubbing at a particularly stubborn patch of dirt on his elbow. The old, sweaty and bile-stained blankets were bundled at the foot of the bed; replaced with linens that Alistair recognised from their own chamber. She looked tired, but was making an effort to listen diligently, biting back her yawn.

"Maric's dead," the dying man corrected himself, awestruck. "But you must be his kin. You're the spit of the man."

"This is King Alistair," his daughter-in-law breathed, mildly perturbed at how her neglect of her sick relative had been so exposed.

The old captain's jaw dropped, a faint cast of shock settling over his jaundiced features.

" _King Alistair,"_ he repeated, in wonder. "Maker's Breath. What're you doin' here? Thought you'd be in the big city celebratin' the end of the Blight."

"We're on progress," Alistair replied softly, his eyes not leaving Flora's rumpled, hunched-over figure. "But I'm _here_ to collect my wife."

He had taken in the bowl of water and linen flannels in an instant, had realised what his best friend had spent the past hour doing, and his heart throbbed now almost _painfully_ in his chest.

The dying man's astonished gaze slid from the king to the girl sat at his own side, who was currently eking out foulness from the cracks between his wizened fingers. For the first time, he noticed the bright gold of the ring on Flora's finger, accompanied by a plump, gleaming pearl that was quite evidently worth more than the tavern around them. The final clue to her identity was the Theirin crest sewn onto the breast of the striped pyjamas, though these were now stained and crumpled.

"That's _the queen,_ pa!" hissed the tavern-keeper, horrified. _"_ You know, _Florence the Fair._ The Hero of Ferelden!"

The man's eyebrows shot into his receded hairline, almost comical surprise writ across his face. Still, he was a northerner, and they tended to recover their equilibrium quickly.

"I saw she was bonny," he said at last, the disbelief raw. "But I didn't – I didn't realise... eh, _yer majesty,_ sorry for chewin' your ear off 'bout the war! You should've put me in my place."

The man stared down at his washed body, the clean sheets, the relit candles and the bowl of soapy water – then swivelled his gaze back across to the girl sitting on the stool. To his disbelief, he saw that she had been made grubby by taking care of him – there were stains of various sorts on the Theirin-crested pyjamas. He did not know what to say, a sudden flush rising to his jaundiced cheeks.

Flora paid no heed to the stains on the fine linen of her pyjamas; in keeping with her old calling as a healer, she had never been bothered by the discharges of a sick body. She shot the dying veteran a rare public smile, feeling one of the infants wriggling drowsily within her stomach.

"Well, the place for a soldier who fought for Ferelden's freedom is a high one," Flora replied, gently. "Thank you for sharing your story with me. I'll look up the service record of the Denerim Sixth when we get back to the city."

 _And get someone to read it to me,_ she thought to herself. _Since it probably contains lots of complicated words that I can't spell. Like manoeuvre. Or… squodrin. Squidron? Squad iron?_

"I look forward to hearing all about your _squid team,"_ she finished triumphantly, and was met with a bemused stare.

"Excuse us," Alistair said suddenly, not taking his own eyes off her. "My wife needs to rest. And… could we have a fresh bath brought to our room, please?"

He edged around the narrow bed – there was barely any space to move, let alone for a man of Alistair's broad and muscular dimensions – and went to his queen, reaching down a strong hand to support her elbow as she heaved herself to her feet.

While the innkeeper scuttled off to organise the bath, Alistair kept his grip on Flora's arm, his hazel eyes searching her face intently. Flora peered back up at him from beneath several stray strands of hair. Her first instinct was to smile, and then she remembered how he had gently ignored each one of her tentative invitations to bed her.

 _And now I'm covered in dried vomit and stale sweat,_ she realised, gloomily. _What an alluring sight! What man could resist?!_

Flora dropped her gaze miserably to her feet – or more accurately to her belly, since she had not been able to see her feet in _months_. Alistair, who knew his wife's face better than anybody, could see the embarrassment writ naked across her fine-boned features. He flinched as though somebody had slapped him, horrified at the idea that she thought herself unattractive to him in her childbearing state.

"Oh, my love," he breathed, keeping his hand possessively resting on her elbow. "My sweet and beautiful wife."

The royal couple was not left alone for the next twenty minutes; they were followed by a small crowd back into the guest bedchamber. New sheets were found and made up, the next day's route was clarified with Teagan, and finally, the copper bathtub was brought in once more, filled to the brim with steaming water.

At last the others departed, the door closing in the tavern-keeper's wake. Flora stood before the hearth, still self-conscious in the stained pyjamas, fiddling with the end of her untidy braid. Alistair had gone to the window and drawn the curtains; a strange, determined light illuminating his handsome features.

"Have you heard of the Denerim Sixth?" she asked, impulsively. "The captain and his _squid-team_ did a lot of heroic things in the rebellion."

Although he was only a few metres away, Alistair gave no sign of having heard her. Instead, he crossed the floorboards to stand before Flora, the light from the smouldering hearth warming the handsome, olive skinned features to the shade of steeped tea. As she reached up to unfasten her pyjama shirt, he intercepted her hand with a gentle, yet firm clamping of fingers around her wrist.

"Isn't it a husband's privilege to undress his wife?" he murmured, returning her hand to her side. "You wouldn't deprive me of that pleasure, now, would you?"

His words flowed over her like honey; rich and full of promise. Flora peered up through the foot of thin air between herself and her best friend's purposeful face, feeling a sprig of tentative hope uncurl within her belly. As she shook her head, Alistair circled to stand behind her, close enough that she could feel the hard, muscled torso of his chest against the back of her head. He reached around her, fingers seeking out the buttons of the pyjama shirt; unfastening the stained tunic as reverently as he would a garment cut from raw Nevarran silk.

Inch by inch, he revealed her pregnancy-swollen body, the once-pert breasts now full and rounded, the neatly curved mound of her stomach resting heavily above her hips. Flora caught a glimpse of herself in the dusty full-length mirror and flinched, unable to comprehend how _different_ she looked. She had always been a slight girl, slender hipped and flat-bellied; now, her body was unrecognisable.

Alistair felt her shrink, and inhaled in sharp dismay. He removed the pyjama jacket and slid the striped trousers over her thighs, crouching down so that she could rest a hand on his shoulder while stepping out of them.

Once Flora was naked, she shuffled towards the bathtub and then was promptly intercepted by Alistair; who gripped her by the shoulders and steered her purposefully back across to the mirror.

"Oh dear," Flora mumbled with forced cheerfulness, properly eyeing her full-length reflection for the first time since they had left Denerim. "I wouldn't be able to outrun any Darkspawn in this state. Out- _roll_ them, maybe."

Alistair was too tall for the mirror, and she could not see his face, just the close proximity of his body as he stood behind her. She could feel his breath rifling the stray strands of hair atop her head; his inhalations were shallow and oddly uneven.

"You never ran from Darkspawn, my love," he murmured, letting his fingers wander down her arm and admiring the contrast between his olive and her fair complexion. "Maker's Breath, your skin is so soft. It feels like cream."

The glum Flora was not convinced, and her expression reflected her dubiousness. Alistair's hand moved to cup her breast, weighing the ripe mound of flesh with an admiring hand.

"You're so gorgeous, Flo. I'm the luckiest man in Thedas."

She was unable to stop herself from letting out a grunt of disbelief. As he pressed tender lips to her ear, Flora reached up to pull several long, dark red ropes of hair over her shoulders in an attempt to distract from her much-changed shape. Alistair promptly moved them back again, nuzzling his face into her neck with a small growl of displeasure.

"Darling, don't you dare try and hide yourself from me."

"But I'm like a body bloated in the ocean for three days," Flora said, with typical northern fatalism. "If I laid down on the sand, someone would assume I had _beached_ myself and would try and push me out to sea!"

Although she was exaggerating for humour's sake, there was a sharp kernel of truth within the words. Alistair turned his wife in his arms, tilting her chin upwards so that she could not look away.

"Sweetheart," he said, very soft and with utter seriousness. "Remember when you used to channel energy from the Fade, and golden light shone from your flesh like a great torch?"

Flora nodded, of course she remembered. She had once stood high on the city walls, blazing away as would a beacon – or _bait –_ as the Archdemon winged its way with slow and deadly purpose towards her.

"Well, darling," Alistair continued, quiet and earnest. "That pales in comparison to how you look _right now,_ standing before me. I've never seen you look more radiant."

Flora, shy and swollen-bellied, gazed up at her husband with transfixed hope; a sudden, liquid gleam adding lustre to her pale eyes. He caught sight of the unshed tears clinging to her lashes, and reached up to brush them away with a gentle thumb.

The thumb then dropped to Flora's lower lip, lingering there to test the plumpness of her full mouth. She stayed very still, barely daring to breathe; lips slightly parted as he felt their ripe promise.

"There should be poetry written about this gorgeous mouth of yours, baby," her husband said, a hoarse edge to his voice as he forgot to moisten his own dry throat before speaking. "I wish I was creative enough to do it myself."

Flora was relatively certain that the explicit version of _Warden Flora –_ an anthem inspired by the legendary bedroom activities of the lady Cousland and the Theirin prince – contained a verse solely dedicated to her mouth. However, she decided that now was probably not the best time to remind him of this.

Instead, she smiled back up at him, feeling his calloused thumb follow the upturned curve of her lip. The king did not smile, but continued to gaze back down at her with Marician intensity; the world outside the door to their chamber now utterly irrelevant. His fingers slid back to cup the side of her face, cradling her cheek against his palm.

Without warning, Alistair drew his former sister-warden close and bent his head over her, closing the foot of air between them in a second as he pressed his lips to hers. It was a deep and uncompromising kiss, its purpose to obliterate any notion that he did not _want_ her. When they parted, they were both breathless; eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

"Come on, my love," Alistair said throatily, suddenly remembering the purpose of the bath. "Let's get you clean. My kind and sweet-hearted girl."

He lifted her with an ease granted from collective years of training; Flora put her arms around his neck with sheer relief.

The atmosphere of this bath was wholly different to the one from earlier in the evening. Alistair did not soap his queen's entire head into a vigorous lather; he did not refer to her as _my little sausage;_ nor did he bring up the contents of the inn's hand-scrawled menu.

In fact, the king did not speak at all, except to murmur something about his shirt getting wet, which was only an excuse to remove it. Each time he touched his wife was a barely-disguised caress, his fingers leaving faint smears of soap across her breasts, her throat, trailing down her arms. He did not use the jug provided to rinse her, but cupped water in his palm and let it dribble over the fair, augmented curves of her body.

Flora responded to his touch like a neglected Mabari pup, pushing herself clumsily into his caresses and reaching up to stroke the back of his large knuckles with her fingertips. She did not invite him to join her in the bath again – to her slight embarrassment, she realised how _impractical_ this was in her current state – but did not try to disguise her arousal; peering at him through heavy lidded eyes and biting her lower lip.

As Alistair found an excuse to rinse off her breasts for a third time, the edge of his little finger brushed against a hardened nipple. Since the water was pleasantly warm; there was no alternative explanation save for the obvious – his queen was desperate to be bedded.

Reaching down over Flora's shoulders, he cupped both breasts gently and lifted them above the waterline; so that she was faced with the stiff, sensitive evidence of her own arousal.

"Do you need me to relieve your tension, baby?" he murmured in her ear, thumbing her nipple tenderly. "Do you want me to - "

He lowered his voice and breathed something lewd; she went pink but nodded rapidly.

At her eager, wordless agreement, Alistair reached down into the bathtub and lifted his wife into his arms. In a handful of strides he had brought her to the bed, lowering her naked and dripping to the sheets before clambering onto the mattress beside her. She gazed across at him in shy delight, skeins of hair plastered over the full, creamy breasts like ropes of crimson seaweed.

"Tell me, Lo," he murmured, letting his hand drift between her legs. "Is there a Herring story about a fisherman who catches a beautiful sea nymph in his net… and then has sex with her on the beach, from sunset to sunrise?"

"Dunno," Flora croaked, unable to keep her voice steady during the slow, deliberate workings of his fingers. "Doubt it. It's not depressing enough for a northern story. Not unless it ends with a shark eating them both."

"Well, I'm not sure about that last bit," Alistair replied with firm authority, reaching down with a free hand to unbutton his breeches. "But I like the sound of the _first_ part. So come on, darling – let's experiment and see what works."

Over the next two hours, the young Theirin took his Cousland bride in all the ways that it was still physically possible to do so. He had her on all fours like a Mabari; from behind while cradling her in his arms; on the edge of the bed with her legs pulled over his shoulders. The sheets were left in a tangle of sweat, bathwater and other fluids, the frame of the bed itself sorely tested.

The frantic creaking of wood advertised well enough what the royal couple were doing, the rhythmic squeaking a reflection of Alistair's determined momentum. Flora had never been shy about vocalising her pleasure; her unashamed cries and moans added fuel to her panting, proud husband's vigorous movements.

Afterwards, the newlyweds lay tangled amidst the damp bedsheets; the king still rocking gently within his queen even as he folded her in a tender embrace.

"How in the name of the Maker could you _ever_ think that I didn't desire you?" he murmured incredulously as he brushed a strand of sweaty hair from her cheek. "I can't keep my hands off you. I've _never_ been able to keep my hands off you, my love."

Flora smiled dazedly at him, deliciously sore and satiated. The aches and pains of her body had been temporarily dulled; muted by the aftermath of pleasure.

"I know," she mumbled, scratching at her nose with her eyes half-closed, "Remember when we stayed at South Reach and we used to sneak off in the middle of the day all the time?"

Alistair laughed, low and intimate, reluctant to withdraw from her welcoming heat.

"I remember," he replied, wryly. "Eamon would come looking for a signature and not be able to find me. We'd be in some side-passage, or beneath the staircase."

Flora went pink at the memory, recalling how she had wrapped her legs around his waist as he thrust her hard back against the wall.

"I don't think I could do that anymore," she said, wistfully. "I think it's physically impossible."

"Give it a couple of months, darling," Alistair murmured, finally easing himself out of her. "We'll be swinging from the candelabras again in no time."

He reached back to rearrange the pillows behind him, then settled down with an expectant arm raised. Flora dutifully nestled herself into the crook of his shoulder, feeling him tuck the sheets tightly around her. Their hands met beneath the blanket, fingers instinctively coiling together in the ritual that had first begun in the dreadful aftermath of Ostagar.

"Wake me if you need anything, my love," Alistair breathed in her ear, smoothing Flora's rumpled hair affectionately over the back of her head. "Or even if you don't."

"Herring tomorrow," she whispered back, with a small squirm of excitement. "I can't wait."

Alistair's tender smile became more a contorted, rictus grin; he was grateful that she could not see him from her angle.

"Yes," he said, forcing brightness into his voice. "I, ah – can't wait either."

 _Can't wait to leave the place,_ he thought, grimly. _And we haven't even set foot there yet._

* * *

OOC Author: Alistair needs to put his game face on tomorrow, lol! Also, Flo is a numpty– it's SQUADRON, not squid team. Although a battalion of squids on the battlefield would be genuinely terrifying…

Finally! A bit of lust and thrust, haha! Not to the same extent as the lurid middle chapters of the original, but our poor former Warden is almost eight months up the duff, so she has to be a little restrained, hehehe

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	129. On the Road to Herring

Chapter 129: On the Road to Herring

The sun rose the next morning veiled in morning mists, the moorland also swathed in a thick miasma of sea-mist. The vapour lay thick within the hollows and contours of the land, as pure and unspoiled as fresh-fallen snow. The sun itself was a faint egg-yolk smudge on the eastern horizon; barely discernible behind the mask of cloud.

Teagan, who had risen first, wondered if the inclement weather might delay their journey. Myra the inn keeper had snorted in the face of his concern, promising that the mist would have burnt off by mid-morning.

The smell of freshly scrambled eggs and roasting tomatoes soon summoned the rest of the company. One at a time, they drifted into the tavern with a comment on the thickness of the mists outside.

"Are you looking forward to visiting the hideous little village of Herring, my dear Wynne?" Zevran enquired, adding his own seasoning to the plate of eggs slid before him.

Wynne snorted, shooting the elf a sly look from the corner of her pretty, pale blue eye.

"I'm curious to see the place that so irrevocably moulded our Hero of Ferelden's character," she replied, evenly. "You know how Flora cherishes her _Herring grit._ And yet, I don't think it is a particularly _easy_ place to live. I think its people are hard for good reason."

"A diplomatic answer," murmured Zevran, swirling his peppered eggs with a fork. "I will hold my hands up; I am _not_ looking forward to our visit. There's always something peculiar going on in these isolated rural communities."

He broke off abruptly as the royal couple entered from the rear passageway, Alistair's arm slung proudly over his queen's shoulders. Flora had anchored her fingers within the fabric of his tunic, wanting to prolong their contact for as long as possible. Both of them had dark shadows writ beneath bright, tender eyes; elbows colliding in an effort to keep close.

"The young lovers!" the elf announced, a note of slightly forced glee resonating within the words. "All rested up after last night's extensive activities. May I say, Alistair, that your stamina has _much_ improved. It seems as though you were well able to keep up with _carina's_ voracious little appetite."

Once upon a time, this nature of comment would have made the king blush and hastily change the subject. Now, Alistair flashed the elf an easy smile as he pulled a chair out for Flora; one hand dropping to give her buttock a surreptitious squeeze as he did so.

"I left my wife well-satisfied," he replied, unable to stop from grinning to himself.

" _Sí,_ she _sounded_ it," retorted Zevran, who had been in the adjacent room. "You have always sung most beautifully in the bedchamber, _nena."_

Flora smiled back at him, ladling a spoonful of eggs into Alistair's bowl. It was a rare occasion that _herself_ and _sung beautifully_ were used in the same sentence.

"We're going to Herring today," she reminded her companions, unable to stop the smile from creeping into a wide beam. "Are you all EXCITED?"

Once again, the company were put in a moral quandary: did they tell the truth, which was that they would all prefer to head straight to Highever, or tell a lie to their heavily pregnant and earnest young queen?

"It's going to be an experience, poppet," replied a diplomatic Teagan at last, pushing a steaming tin cup across the table towards her. "Here: peppermint tea. Steeped properly, and _without_ leaves."

Flora shot him a glance from beneath her eyelashes; the bann had clearly been enlightened to his error since the last occasion that he had made her tea.

"Thank you, Bann Teagan," she replied, patting his wrist with her fingers as he slid the cup in her direction. "I appreciate it."

Alistair, meanwhile, had unfolded the map across the table; forking steaming eggs into his mouth with one hand while pointing to the map with the other.

"So Herring is located just here," he said, swallowing and gesturing simultaneously to where a cross had been hastily inked onto the map. "There isn't a route marked that leads to it, but Flo says that we take the Highever road eastwards, then turn northwards at something known as- "

He shot her a small glance to confirm, a faint line creasing across his handsome, olive brow.

"- the ' _witch's cauldron'._ Is that right, darling?"

Flora nodded cheerfully, taking a bite of grilled tomato.

"Mm," she mumbled, swallowing at a pointed stare from Wynne before continuing. "You'll know it when you see it."

"Charming," whispered Zevran darkly, as the old mage stifled a snort. "Already, the place sounds _so incredibly welcoming."_

The royal company settled their bill with the innkeeper, who brought out their whole family to see them off – including the jaundice-stricken veteran, who was hunched over in a chair. As Alistair adjusted the saddle positioning – wanting to ensure that it met his own lofty standards – Flora went to the soldier and assured him that she would look up the service records of the Denerim Sixth.

Much of the morning mist had burnt off by the time they set out once more upon the moors; though it still coagulated in pockets of lower ground, and coated the sky in a thick, tangled layer of grey. The topography was beginning to change around them, the moorland gradually working itself into the craggier granite terrain of the Storm Coast. Vegetation began to spring up once again as the sloping ground provided more natural shelter from the wind; fir trees with their branches bent backwards clustered in clumps on the gravelled slopes. The ragged undulation of the moorland had exaggerated itself into cliffs and rocky promontories, very seldom were they now travelling upon a _flat_ surface.

At one point, the company paused to check the map at the foot of an exposed granite cliff. Seeing a great subsidence of shingle nearby, Teagan hastily directed them to stand further back.

"It seems that on the northern coast, the _land_ wishes to kill you as well as the sea," remarked Zevran, then cackled as he caught sight of Flora pulling a hideous face at him.

Once the correct direction had been ascertained by compass, the company set off once again; passing beneath a rocky archway and through a ragged avenue of fir trees. Sparse patches of sea grass lay scattered here and there, but the main terrain underfoot consisted of gravel, exposed rock or loose shale. The mist grew thicker with each mile they covered, although it seemed content to settle in a thick layer atop the crests of the pines.

Flora had been caught between excitement and apprehension all morning; she had not been back to Herring since being unceremoniously dragged off by Templars five years prior. The little village on the northern coast had shaped her character fundamentally – she had lost count of the number of occasions over the past year where she had forced herself into action with the stern admonition; _you're a Herring girl. Herring girls have silt in their hearts and salt running in their veins. Just get on with it, whatever needs to be done._

As a result, she had not been able to sit still on the saddle all morning. Alistair had patiently tolerated her fidgeting and squirms; keeping a firm grip on his restless wife as she quivered with anticipation. On his part, the king was grateful for Flora's preoccupation with her own thoughts – it meant that his own growing qualms could remain hidden.

Just as he was about to take a deep breath and ask Flora about the temperament of her adoptive mother – something that Alistair had been brooding over for the past few days – Zevran cocked his head to the side, brow furrowing.

"Does anyone else hear that?" he asked, glancing suspiciously at the cluster of pine trees surrounding them.

They drew to a halt, the horses shifting impatiently. The elf's hearing was naturally superior, but in the ensuing silence the others were also able to discern an odd noise in the distance. It was a hollow, churning sound; an echoing roar that lingered in the air with a peculiar sense of menace.

"What _is_ that?" breathed Alistair, perplexed. "It sounds like – I don't know. I've never heard anything like it.

Unlike the others, Flora's silence was not due to ignorance. Instead, the familiar noise had brought tears to her eyes, for it was a sound that meant she was nearly _home._

"That's the _witch's cauldron,"_ she whispered, fingers compulsively working a thread loose from the sleeve of her jumper. "It's just up ahead."

Unable to stop herself, she let out a squeak of delight. Alistair, enchanted at hearing such an unusually _vocal_ expression of pleasure from his wife, pressed a kiss to the back of her neck as she sat before him on the saddle.

"My sweet mouse-bride," he murmured, nuzzling his nose against her hair. "I don't think I've ever heard you make such a noise before."

"Because we've never been to _Herring_ before," Flora replied, immediately. "Are you _twitching_ with excitement?!"

"I… can't describe how I'm feeling, darling," Alistair replied, trying his hardest not to grimace.

"Nauseous," muttered Zevran, although not loud enough for Flora to hear.

The 'witch's cauldron' turned out to be a rounded chasm in the ground, an elongated hollow that descended two hundred feet into ominous darkness. At the foot of this natural well, seawater roiled and swirled; hurling salt spray angrily up the craggy walls. The clamour of water churning within rock had been amplified by the vertical cave and echoed into the surrounding area, a beacon of sound that echoed for a mile in each direction. A half-rotted wooden sign lay toppled nearby, with one broken arm painted with _Highever,_ and the other with _Herring, Skingle._

Near the cauldron, the company let the horses loose to graze on the nearby tufts of sea grass, taking a brief respite to ease the burden of saddle-sore limbs and aching muscles. They sat on the softened grass, sharing out apples and hunks of cheese; their backs turned against the wind.

Zevran slid his whetstone idly up and down a vicious looking blade, his eyes following the progress of unfamiliar birds as they winged their way overhead. Wynne took out her knitting needles and continued working on a half-complete infant sleep suit made of cream wool. Over the past few months, the senior enchanter had knitted a whole winter wardrobe for a single royal baby; after confirmation that there were to be _two_ new arrivals in Kingsway, she had picked up the needles once more.

Alistair and Teagan had been pouring over the map once more, trying to decide whether their inked cross marking Herring was in the correct location. Flora had rather vaguely pinpointed it – she had no real idea where _exactly_ it lay – and each map they had purchased showed the village in a different spot.

"My love, do you reckon it's just opposite Kirkwall? Can you ever make out the Marcher _coastli- "_

Alistair roughly amputated his own sentence; nostrils flaring and eyes widening. Flora was hovering on the very edge of the hollowed out cauldron in the rock, dropping chips of gravel into the churning waters below.

" _Flora,"_ he croaked in a voice approximately eight tones higher than usual. "Flora, come and sit down. I can _feel_ the hair on my head turning grey, darling."

"I used to throw stones down here all the time," Flora said, lost in reminiscence. "I always wondered how deep the water was at the bottom."

"Well, we're not finding out today," Alistair replied firmly, thinking _or ever!_ "Come and sit, sweetheart."

Flora let the last few chips of stone drop from her palm and ambled across to where the others were seated. Alistair reached up a strong arm to intercept her as she made to sit on a tuft of seagrass; drawing her down onto his lap instead. She put an arm around his neck and made herself comfortable within his thighs, face tilted like an unerring compass in the direction of the Waking Sea.

Alistair took a deep breath to calm his speeding heart, then leaned forwards to surreptitiously breathe in the salt-damp scent of her hair; brushing his lips against her ear.

"You can sometimes see the Free Marches coast across the straits," Flora replied in answer to his earlier question, dreamy-eyed with anticipation. "But most of the time, it's too cloudy."

"Is the road to Herring accessible by cart?" Teagan chimed, eyeing their unhelpful mark on the map. "There's no route on here that I can see."

Flora nodded, inhaling another gulp of cool air.

"The fish-merchant comes by twice a week to collect the catch," she said, leaning her head against Alistair's shoulder as he raised a thumb to idly caress the hollows of her throat. "And the Templars must've brought their cage-on-wheels into the village when they caught me. I don't remember being dragged very far before they locked me up in it."

As one who had once been on the other side of this equation, the king flinched; pressing his lips swiftly to her neck in tacit apology. Yet Flora was not unduly bothered by the memory, she was eager to be underway.

"One last question, poppet," Teagan asked, eyeing their bundled up tents and bedrolls in the back of the cart. "Are there any inns or guest-houses in the village? Or… _near_ the village? I'm just considering where we're going to sleep _."_

Zevran almost let out a derisive cackle at the notion of a _guesthouse_ within Herring; amused by the notion that anybody would willingly choose to stay there.

"There are only about… _tweleven_ buildings," Flora replied, thoughtfully. "Including the chapel, the fish-store and the smith's. You could always sleep on the floor in people's huts."

Once again, the elf had to bite back amused laughter at the idea that he would sleep at the foot of a stranger's bed. He did not think it worth asking if there were any strapping and muscle-bound fishermen worth propositioning.

"Oh," Flora then piped up, suddenly. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday," replied the bann, rolling up the map and sliding it back into its case.

"We could sleep in the fish-store," she suggested. "The merchant comes to collect the catch on Tuesday mornings, so it'll be empty. They'll have sluiced down the floor to get rid of the scales and guts! The blood-stains don't wash out after a while, but they're nothing to worry about."

There was a stunned silence. Alistair was grateful that his wife's head was tucked beneath his chin, and it was thus physically impossible for her to see his expression.

"Ah," said Teagan eventually, his voice faint. "I… think we'll take the tents, just in case."

"We could camp on the beach," replied Flora, dreamily. "There's only a _slight_ chance of being washed out to sea at this time of year. Or getting stepped on by a giant."

Alistair's eyes bulged in horror. He tightened his grip around both his wife and the precious contents of her belly.

" _Maker's Breath."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOOOH how exciting, we're within sight of Herring! Well, exciting for Flora – everyone else is like ARGHHHH NOOOO we don't want to go, haha. Anyway, there's a witch's cauldron cave in Wales – although the one in my story, I envision to be far smaller – more like a dark, circular hole within the ground.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	130. Herring

Chapter 230: Herring

The company took the trail that branched northwards from the witch's cauldron; the landscape growing ever more erratic beneath the hooves of their horses. The dirt underfoot gradually gave way to loose gravel and shingle, intermingled with patches of greyish sand. It was not the buttery, finely milled sand of Denerim's oceanic coast; but a coarse, gritty substance that reflected the dark crags of granite and basalt that erupted from their surroundings.

As the path began to slope downwards, a low rumble in the distance grew increasingly audible. Oddly foreboding; it made the horses' ears flatten against their heads. Flora, when she first heard it, jolted in the saddle as though struck by a mage's lightning spell.

"My love?" Alistair asked immediately, nudging the mare's flank to slow it. "What's wrong?"

 _The twins are coming!_ he thought wildly to himself, as he did every time that his wife startled. _Oh, shit – they're going to be Herring natives._

"That's the Waking Sea," Flora whispered back, her eyes wide and gleaming with a bright, liquidous sheen. "I haven't heard it in five years. I'd nearly forgotten how it sounds."

Sure enough, the low rumble was the echo of turbulent waves crashing onto the shore or hurling themselves up against cliff-faces. The Waking Sea was the most restless stretch of water on Thedas – and the most dangerous. Every year, several dozen vessels were lost to its avaricious depths; their most famous victim being Maric the Saviour himself. After the old king's ship was lost at sea, the freemen of Ferelden said to each other that there was nothing that the _land_ would not do for its liberator – trees would bend and valleys reform at a word from him – but that the wind and the waves owed Maric Theirin no debt, and thus claimed him as they would any other.

Alistair was well aware that this was the sea that had taken the life of his absent father. He reached up with a free hand to touch Flora's face as she leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling dampness on his finger. Leaning forward, the new king rested his chin on his wife's head; rubbing his thumb along the high angle of her cheekbone.

"I can't _wait_ to see Herring," Flora whispered in response, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the trail ahead. "And my dad. I want to show you _everything_."

Alistair felt a twinge of guilt for his pessimistic outlook on the village that had so fundamentally shaped his best friend's life. Taking a deep breath, he resolved to give Herring a chance, and reserve judgement until after they had arrived.

 _You didn't say anything about your adoptive mother, baby,_ he thought to himself. _Maker, grant me the ability to keep my composure if this woman is rude to Flo. I've never been able to hold my temper when she's been spoken to poorly before._

The rumble grew louder even as they approached the cliff, the sky overhead now completely swathed in a thick miasmic veil. Although it was mid-afternoon, there was a strange half-light in the air; a result of the cruel smothering of the sun. The sound of the waves hurling themselves against the rock now seemed to come from directly beneath them.

Just as they were about to mount the cliff, a sea-mist descended swift as a curtain in an Orlesian stage-play. It was damp and dense, and opaque as milk, thick enough to reduce visibility to only a few feet. Teagan called for a halt after a few minutes, aware that the path was treacherous and the cliff-edge near.

"Florence?" he called into the billowing mists over his shoulder. "Will this last long?"

There was a strangled squeak in response, shortly followed by Alistair's clearly identifiable, well-bred tones.

"Flo hasn't been able to speak clearly for an hour, she's so excited. Nod for _yes,_ shake for _no,_ my love. She's shaking her head, uncle."

"It… it won't last long," added the queen in little more than a tremulous whisper, her voice muffled further by the damp air. "If it comes down quick, it goes quick."

Sure enough, after only a few minutes the mist seemed to melt away into the damp air. For the first time, the lie of the land ahead was revealed.

Spread out before them, carved from crude rock and weathered stone, was the Storm Coast in all its terrible magnificence. The cliffs were jagged and kept in a state of rapid erosion, broken by clusters of rock formations. Hundred-foot tall basalt columns were gathered together, surrounded by lower stepped counterparts. The beach was made up of a sweeping swathe of shingle, littered with broken chunks of the precarious cliffs. It was also littered with the skeletons of ships in various states of decay; from rotten fragments encrusted with barnacles to ominously fresh-looking wreckage.

The sea itself raged and tore at the uneven coastline, lashing itself against rocky islands that rose defiant from the foaming maelstrom. Great sprays of salt-water were flung up for dozens of feet; flecks of sea-foam carried off by a whistling north wind. Even further out - where there was no coastline for the sea to wreak its anger upon - the water seemed to _seethe;_ swelling and frothing in a maelstrom of currents. It was a brutal and unforgiving sight, and yet there was a stark beauty to its untamed savagery. It was a landscape not created for human habitation; a battlefield between sea and coast that humans had – for some reason – chosen to huddle upon to make their living.

Flora was wholly lost for words, she trembled on the saddle and stared in stupefaction; her own Waking Sea eyes finally reunited with their real-life counterpart. Tears rolled unrestrained down her cheeks in parallel trails, dripping off her chin and sliding down her throat. Alistair, who was mildly traumatised each time that his wife cried, was murmuring into her ear; yet she could barely understand a word. He could feel her heart racing, the pulse at her wrists throbbing with anticipation. This, after all, was what she had spent four years climbing onto the Circle roof in an attempt to glimpse.

"The sea looks enraged," Zevran observed archly, eyeing the turbulence below. "I can well see why it claims the name _Storm Coast. Nena,_ there are people who actually _fish_ on that wild creature?"

But _nena_ herself was still beyond words, her head swivelling from side to side as seawater flooded her skull; fading memories refreshed with salt-laced vibrancy.

"It's so perfect," she breathed in awe, her fingers clenched tightly into fists. "Isn't it just the most… _the most…"_

The queen trailed off with a tearful hiccup, wiping her nose on her sleeve even as she continued to stare. There came a little squirm from within her stomach and she ignored it completely; gazing transfixed at the raging waterscape.

Teagan, who had crossed the Waking Sea over its calmer western straits, cast a curious eye over the primeval scenes spread out before them. Letting his gaze slip sideways, he could see the parallels between the landscape and its proudest inhabitant. The queen's fine-boned, alabaster face with its perpetual gravity of expression, the sea-water grey eyes that were deceptively cold, the long, rope-like tendrils of tangled hair; all these features seemed mirrored in the wild terrain around them.

The bann realised that the elf was eyeballing him beadily; having spotted Teagan's wistful stare.

"Ah," he said, clearing his throat with a hasty cough. "Petal – _Florence –_ which way is Herring? Each of our three maps marks the place in a different location."

Flora roused herself from her dazedness, flailing a finger towards a neighbouring cove, hidden from view by a sharp dip in the landscape.

"It's over there," she whispered, breathless with happiness. "Not- not far."

Despite his trepidation about visiting Herring itself, Alistair was delighted by his wife's transparent joy at seeing the Waking Sea once more. Their travels around Ferelden had been littered with references to it; Flora had always subtly – and not-so-subtly - aligned herself to the northern coast.

 _May the Waking Sea take my bones and bleach them if I'm wrong!_

 _I'm a Herring girl, we have silt in our hearts and salt in our seawater veins. And it's Waking Sea-water, which is twice as cold as any other!_

 _The Amaranthine Ocean is nice, but too flat – it needs to get a bit more energetic. Like the Waking Sea!_

Fortunately, the sudden massing of sea mist appeared to have been an isolated incident. The company followed the cliff-top trail for the next hour, with the churning, dull roar of the sea as a constant backdrop. There was only one road that led into the little village of Herring; a shingle-strewn track that entered the shallow cove at the rear. No signposts pointed towards the settlement, since the few people who ever deigned to visit the village were well-aware of where it was located. The road itself was several hundred years old, used so infrequently that it barely needed maintenance.

This, at least, had been Flora's understanding. As they approached the cove, she was startled to see a number of figures making their way along the trail ahead. The majority of them were on horseback, although there was a small number on foot scattered amidst them. There was also – to her utter shock – several _carriages_ rolling their way carefully along the gravel track.

"Flo," Alistair murmured as they approached the rear of the elongated caravan. "Does Herring host a market?"

"No," she whispered back, her brow creased in confusion. "I don't understand who all of these people are. Why would they be going to Herring? Are they _lost?"_

"A question we all ask ourselves," replied Zevran under his breath, not loud enough for Flora to hear. _"Why, indeed?"_

Teagan shot a glance at Wynne, who returned his unspoken query with a grimace of confusion.

With the cumbersome carts accompanying them, they were not quick enough to catch up with the last riders in the queue. Ahead, the road gradually sloped downwards into a gravelled cove, the village itself still hidden from view. Steep dunes rose to either side, broken with tufts of coarse and bristled sea-grass. The wind blew sand low across the gravel, around the legs of the horses and through the spokes of the cartwheels.

Flora was squirming so vigorously on the saddle before Alistair that he had one arm fully wrapped around her to prevent her from slipping. She had overcome her paralysis after the reunion with the Waking Sea, and had rambled enthusiastically about her home village for the past candle length. Alistair had listened loyally to tedious Herring trivia; touched by his wife's excitement.

Near the entrance to the cove stood a crude wooden stand, wedged between two sand dunes at the side of the road. It had been hastily constructed and looked as though it might fall down at any minute; an affliction shared by the weathered old man hunched behind it.

"Halt," he wheezed as the company approached, lurching up from his three-legged stool. "There's a toll to pay before you enter the village."

"The King of Ferelden can pass where he pleases," retorted one of the guards, immediately. "All roads are open to him."

The old man turned a milky white eye, half-mottled with a cataract, on Alistair's horse. A true northerner, he was not overawed by status or title; but merely let out a grunt.

"The _king,_ eh?"

"I don't mind paying a toll," Alistair called down from his mare, handsome olive brow creasing. "As long as it's a legal one, put in place by Teyrn Fergus Cousland."

There was a pause, during which the old man's gaze slid wildly everywhere but at the king's handsome, intently focused face.

"Fingal?" Flora said after a moment, peering at the man with wide eyes. "It's me. Flora."

The old man turned his rheumy stare on Flora, and had the grace to look a little embarrassed.

"Eh, Pel's lass!" he murmured, recognising her immediately. "Finally come back and paid us a visit then, eh? Took you long enough! Got more important things to do, eh? Made fancier friends?"

Alistair, who was already experiencing a deep sense of foreboding, felt his best friend flinch against his chest at the accusation.

"My wife has been preoccupied for the past year," he replied, a steely note in his tone. "Ending the Blight and killing an Archdemon tends to take up a little time."

Fingal looked disinterested, while simultaneously trying to kick a bag of coins beneath the makeshift wooden counter. From the heavy metallic _clink,_ it seemed as though the day had already been profitable.

"Why are you charging people to come into the village?" Flora interjected, wishing that she was in sufficient physical condition to jump down from the horse. "There's never been _any_ tax on this road!"

The old man let out a small huff of indignation, shaking his head so that the few clinging strands of grey hair quivered.

"It's _your_ fault, lass," he grumbled, prying a loose splinter of wood from the 'counter'. "We've been gettin' a constant stream of visitors – outsiders - for _months._ They all want to see where the _lost Cousland_ and _Hero of Ferelden_ grew up."

"V- _visitors?"_

Flora blinked, recoiling for the second time in as many minutes. Alistair felt as though he were standing on a high cliff, watching two speeding horses ride towards each other on a narrow path; a disaster imminent and him powerless to prevent it. He gripped his struck-silent queen more tightly about the waist and cleared his throat.

"I won't pay an illegal toll," the king said, reaching into the coinpurse at his waist and withdrawing a few silver coins. "This is a _charitable donation_. I suggest you also consider such a rephrasing of words, while also adding the prefix _optional._ Otherwise – well."

"Extortion is such an ugly word, isn't it?" Zevran chimed in, with steel behind his smile.

"As is _banditry,"_ added Teagan, who had little patience for swindlers.

Flora was very quiet as they rode further towards the village, a marked contrast to her earlier uncharacteristic excitement. Nobody else spoke much; harbouring their own suspicions as to the nature of what they were about to discover. Alistair, whose heart was beating hard, kept leaning forwards to press his lips to the back of his wife's head.

"I adore you, my lovely Lo," he murmured anxiously against the dark, wine-red richness of her hair. "My sweet girl."

Flora did not say anything in reply, but her fingers sought out the hand he had resting on her stomach, needing the reassurance of their _fish-rope_ ritual. The king felt the movement of a child beneath his wrist; tightening his grip on both wife, and her precious burden.

* * *

OOC Author Note: There's a word in Welsh which doesn't have a direct translation in English, called _hiraeth._ If you ask different Welsh people what it means, you'll get different meanings. Essentially, it's a bit like homesickness, or nostalgia – but for the way things were in the past. It relates to the phrase _you can never go 'home' again;_ because everywhere changes and moves on, in subtle ways, in your absence. It's tattooed on my ankle!

Anyway, poor old Flo is about to experience that reality – that Herring, rather than being a fixed, unchanging constant, has moved on in her absence. Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	131. You Can't Go Home Again

Chapter 131: You Can't Go Home Again

Herring itself came into view shortly afterwards. A squat and nondescript huddle of slate-roofed buildings was constructed on a sheet of rock that emerged, turtle-like, from the sand and shale. It was sheltered from much of the wind by the low wings of the cove around it; great angular columns of basalt that seemed unnatural in their uniformity. There were no more than a dozen buildings in total, none higher than a single storey.

A perilous curve of rock stretched out from the shingled beach and submerged itself within the chilly surf. The further the rocks reached, the more prominent its jagged crags and angles, until it resembled a vicious set of teeth rising up from the restless water.

The boats of the fishermen had been dragged above the seaweed-marked tide line; any attempt to anchor them in the shallows would have led to their battering against the rocks. Even within the relatively sheltered aspect of the cove, the water seethed and grumbled; the surface riven by powerful currents.

The scenery itself was nondescript, an entirely normal, if uglier, variant on a standard rural fishing village. It was the _living contents_ of Herring that distinguished it from its peers. As the royal company approached, it soon became starkly apparent that this isolated rural hamlet was more crowded than Redcliffe town on a market day.

The Herring locals were easy to discern – they were the ones clad in old wool and stained leathers, their countenances hard and their hair prematurely greyed. There was a lean strength about them like faded but still sharp-toothed wolves; they were a people who lived by the grace of the wind and waves. There were not many of them – less than forty people dwelt within the village – and they were almost hidden from view by the eclectic selection of visitors crowding between the buildings.

The strangers were clad in the fine linens of the merchant classes and low-ranking nobility; mostly cut in a Fereldan style. There were also several Orlesians, clad in their distinctive, lurid fashions, and at least a half-dozen sporting the Marcher double-breasted tunic. Those clad in finer clothing were trailed by servants and baggage mules; augmenting the visitors into what could justifiably be called a _crowd._

Many of them were wandering around the village, whispering and nudging each other as they pointed out the diminutive stone huts. A handful shuffled dutifully in the wake of a portentous little boy, who seemed to be giving some sort of _tour;_ gesturing grandly out to the Hag's Teeth reef with a scrawny arm. Others were gathered at the forefront of ramshackle wooden stands, hastily constructed in the same manner as the fraudulent turnpike.

Such was their fascination with the grim little fishing village; the tourists did not notice the arrival of the royal guests. The company were able to leave their carts and horses at the edge of the village without drawing attention to themselves; hidden from the huddle of buildings by a convenient sand dune.

Flora, who only a short while ago had been so excited that she could not sit still on the saddle, was very quiet. The confusion on her face was ceding inch by inch to despondency, her pale, Waking Sea gaze restless as its namesake. She had not loosened her grip on Alistair's fingers; he had dismounted awkwardly with their grasp still intact.

Now the king stood on the coarse grit, the salt-edged wind ruffling his hair and his wife's hand clutched firmly in his own. The others had dismounted quietly and without conversation; looking between the miserable Flora and the tourist attraction that had once been her beloved home.

"Alistair," said Teagan softly, lowering his voice further as he approached. "The captain has suggested that these – these _visitors_ be moved on before you make your presence known. If they learn that the Hero of Ferelden herself is _here,_ they might get a little… overexcited."

Alistair gave a tight nod, jaw taut and unamused. His thumb moved constantly over Flora's small knuckles, rubbing in repetitive circles of reassurance.

"Do it."

The guards ventured into the village to clear out the crowds, Zevran accompanying them to emphasise the _necessity_ of the crowd's rapid dispersal. Aware that there was only one road out of the village, the king led his wife further behind the sand-dune; masking them from curious eyes.

"That's where the Templar fell off his horse," Flora said at last in a small voice, gesturing with her free hand towards an innocuous patch of sand. "He broke his back in half. I fixed it."

Behind the dune, they could hear the sounds of the visitors leaving, chattering to each other in several varieties of tongue. They did not seem to be paying any heed to Teagan and Wynne, who were still waiting at the side of the road. The clouds were beginning to mass overhead; the muted light of late summer gradually fading into a pre-dusk murkiness. The threat of drizzle hung in the air, a faint tinge of saltwater lacing each inhalation.

Alistair put his arm about Flora's shoulders, standing within the hollow of the sand dune in a rare moment of privacy. He drew her to his side and pressed his lips to the top of her head, brow creased with anxiety.

"Sweetheart, it's… it's still Herring. Even with the _tourists_ swarming it like flies _._ I'm looking forward to _you_ giving me the proper tour."

"I want to see my dad," she replied at last, brightening slightly. "He'll explain what… what all _this_ is about."

Alistair nodded, keeping her hand grasped tightly within his own.

A short while later, once the last of the nosy visitors had been cleared out, the royal company ventured into the village itself. Herring was no more appealing at close proximity than it had been at a distance – it was a settlement built for durability rather than aesthetic. Coarse sand blew constantly across the rocky ground, gathering in piles against the walls of the buildings. Fishing apparatus was strewn everywhere – a half-mended boat was upside-down between two huts; barnacle-encrusted fishing nets were piled in a tangle near the tiny Chantry; rods leaned up against ramshackle walls. An old man sat on an upturned bucket and painstakingly bent hooks back into shape with an improvised tool. Two hundred yards down the beach, the receding sea churned itself into a furious, foaming froth, increasingly bitter with each inch yielded to the shore.

The Herring locals viewed the approaching royal party with naked suspicion; their faces contorting in as much astonishment as northern stoicism would allow as they set eyes on Flora. Several of the men had seen her in Denerim when they had been conscripted to fight in the final battle, yet to see her _here_ – back in the village itself – was no small shock. Their gazes slid first to her, and then to the makeshift wooden stands, then dropped to the ground.

The little boy who had been showing the visitors around had no such embarrassment. He must only have been seven or eight – too young to remember that the queen had been a Herring local – and approached the royal company without hesitation.

"Me lords an' ladies!" he squeaked, while the Herring natives shuffled, shifty-eyed. "May I interest you in one of our best-sellin' products?"

Zevran, who recognised an element of his own younger self in the boldness of the child, stifled a smile. Flora, meanwhile, was still silent and bewildered; clutching onto Alistair's hand as though it were a life-rope.

"What are you selling, lad?" Teagan asked eventually, sensing that the king was wholly distracted by his wife's turmoil.

The little boy scuttled over to the makeshift stands, retrieving a variety of items. Returning, he held each up as though it were a necklace of Antivan gold; raising his voice proudly.

"First: a strand of _Hero's Hair._ Just like the hair of our own homegrown Herring hero: the lady Flora! Only fifty silver a piece."

He held up a long strand of dark red seaweed, a thick and rubbery ribbon that brushed the sand at their feet. It was indeed remarkably similar in shade to the queen's oxblood hair; which was currently bundled in an untidy braid.

"Fifty silver for a piece of seaweed?" Wynne enquired, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline. "Are people actually paying these prices, boy?"

"It's one of top-sellin' products, old madam," retorted the child, with northern bluntness. _"Here's_ our best-seller – only one gold coin!"

The boy held up a small glass bottle, stoppered with a plug of wood and filled with gravel.

"Real, au- _aufentic 'Herring Grit!"_ he declared, triumphantly. "What the lady Flora drew upon in battle to kill the evil dragon. Now _you too_ can have some _Herring Grit_ for yourselves! Any takers? Eh?"

Flora was struck into an appalled silence at the commercialisation of her own hard-won endeavours. Fingal, the old man who had attempted to charge an entrance fee into the village, decided that enough was enough and sidled forwards.

"Welcome back to the village, lass," he muttered, giving the boy a swift kick to get him out of the way. "Get back with yeh, idiot. That's the lady Flora _herself."_

The little boy gawped. Alistair scowled both at the mistreatment of the boy and the exploitation of his wife's Herring connection. The drizzle was starting to increase in density now; mottling the surface of the water and pattering against the slate roofs of the huts.

"What's going on, Fingal?" Flora croaked eventually, clutching her husband's hand in a death-grip. "Why are you – doing all _this?_ And where's my dad?"

"Pel's gone t'Skingle to trade for some new tools," replied the old man, tugging at the thinning strands of his grey beard. "Should be back tomorrer. An' – an' all this… well. It were the idea of your own ma, lass."

Flora hunched her shoulders in quiet dismay, although she was not surprised.

"Do people actually buy this stuff at these extortionate prices?" Teagan asked, astonished. "Bits of weed and dirt?"

"It ain't just _dirt!"_ piped up the boy, indignant. "It's _Herring Grit;_ that what got the lady Flora through the toughest of times!"

Flora looked at the bottles of grit lined up on the rotted wooden board that served as a counter, utterly confused. So far, her return to Herring had not followed any variant of her own imaginings. She had not wanted to be received as a hero (a nightmarish and unlikely scenario, considering the northern temperament) but she had expected that Herring would be _exactly_ as she had left it, five years prior. The memory of her home had been preserved in salt within her own mind for half a decade – sacrosanct and eternal – and now she was confronted with an entirely contradictory reality. It was a rude and brutal awakening, and she did not quite know how to react to it.

Alistair felt his wife's hand, small and cold, against his own palm. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to put her back on the saddle, clamber up behind her and ride the twenty miles to Highever in a single night.

Yet instead he put on a brave face, squeezing her fingers and forcing a smile.

"How very… enterprising! I admit, I wasn't expecting Herring to be full of commercial geniuses. It must be a nice boost to the village's income."

Teagan, who was relatively certain that the occupants of the village were not paying any tax on this additional revenue, let out a wry snort.

Flora swallowed, casting an anxious glance towards the restless, receding sea. The drizzle was now a thin, persistent downpour; the sort of precipitation characteristic of the northern coast. It did not feel especially heavy, yet managed to saturate hair and soak through layers of clothing in a surprisingly short amount of time.

"Is my – my mother here?" she asked, the word sounding odd in her mouth now that she knew the truth about her parentage.

"Aye. Either in the chapel, or your old 'ouse, lass. One o' the two."

As he replied, he glanced in the direction of a slate-tiled, stone-walled hut. The wind had made a concerted effort to dwarf the building in sand; piles of coarse, grey grit lay up against the wall. Flora followed his gesture towards the hut, a flicker of emotion disturbing her usual composure as she gazed upon the home of her childhood.

Alistair, Teagan, Wynne and Zevran also stared at the nondescript fisherman's dwelling, which was somewhat more than a shack and yet not refined enough to be named a _cottage._ They were each curious to see where their young queen had grown up; simultaneously, they were uncomfortably aware that Flora herself was in the throes of mild distress. The elf nursed an additional concern – he was also aware of Flora's conflicted attitude towards her adoptive mother.

Now, Flora looked at the salt-encrusted door leading to her childhood home; frozen to the spot.

"Are you _sure_ she's the Hero of Ferelden, uncle?" the little boy whispered conspicuously, his dubious gaze on the queen. "She's about to drop a baby, and she seems a bit… a bit _slow in the head._ And she's _short."_

"You ain't wrong there, Jan," commented a dry voice, hoarse enough that the gender of its owner was not discernible. "The girl's always had naught but seawater and flotsam between the ears."

Flora went rigid, her fingers tightening reflexively around Alistair's own. The king himself bristled reflexively at the insult to his wife, turning to face the new arrival.

The voice belonged to a tall woman, lean and strong as a blade, bound with sinew and her iron-grey hair shorn raggedly above her shoulders. Her skin was weathered, ageing her a decade; yet the coal-dark eyes set close to her nose were shrewd and clever. She was long-limbed – she must have stood taller than Flora's adopted father – and her hands were red and raw from prolonged immersion in saltwater.

Flora took a deep breath, having been turned around with Alistair due to their linked hands. It took her a moment to gather her composure and corral her words; even more nervous than she had been before addressing the Landsmeet on that final, crucial day before the vote.

"Hello, ma," she breathed, at a loss for how else to assess the scowling woman. "I'm back."

* * *

OOC Author Note: This was genuinely one of my favourite chapters to write! Although it's not been a particularly enjoyable experience for Flo so far. I wanted to put a new and unexpected angle on her homecoming, and since I've come back to the Welsh coast for Christmas – my husband's gone to America to see his mum – it seemed quite fitting! Although my homecoming is a lot nicer than poor Flo's, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	132. Meeting Flora's Family

Chapter 132: Meeting Flora's Family

Nobody in the royal company was impressed with the woman's frosty greeting of her adopted daughter. Alistair bridled like a roused Mabari, Zevran narrowed his eyes to dark, glittering slits and Wynne's expression settled into one as cold as the Waking Sea.

"I can see that ' _you're back'_ , _girl,_ " retorted Flora's foster-mother, folding her arms across her chest. "You always did like statin' the obvious. I see you've spread your legs for someone _important_. Well done: you're sorted for the next two decades."

This was clearly in response to Flora's swollen stomach. There was a stony silence from the rest of the queen's companions; none of whom knew quite how to respond. Alistair himself was now trembling with the effort to keep his fury from crashing across the shingle like the incoming tide; outraged at both the insult to his best friend's intelligence and the implication that she had done naught of significance save for jumping into bed with a prince.

"My wife is the Hero of Ferelden," he said, the words emerging laced with tight-lipped anger. "All the land owes her the greatest of debts. You've been selling all this… _paraphernalia_ based on her achievements, so you must be aware of the great things that she's accomplished."

"Aye," chimed in Teagan, coming to the king's assistance. "Florence slew the Archdemon and ended the Blight. She gathered armies from across the land and defended Denerim against the Darkspawn horde."

Gerda shot the bann a scowl from the corner of her small, clever eye, fingers busy unravelling a knotted fishing line as she stood before them. Herring natives had a habit of constant movement even when they were stationary – Flora tended to pluck at loose threads of her clothing, or wind strands of hair around a finger.

"I don't give a bent hook about what she's supposed to 'ave done," the burly woman retorted, her northern bluntness now bordering on open insolence. "And it ain't no surprise that she were able to _beguile_ men across the country into supportin' her. _Flirted_ her way across Ferelden, eh?"

"I didn't beg- _beggle – beg-weel_ them," Flora replied glumly, thinking of First Enchanter Irving and Lord Harrowmont of Orzammer. "Or flirt."

Gerda was clearly not listening, continuing to speak as though Flora had never opened her mouth.

"But if fancy visitors and travellers want to stop here and see where _'the lady Florence'_ grew up – then I'm goin' to make some silver off them."

The woman curled her lip towards her adoptive daughter, tucking the untangled fishing line back into the pocket of her stained woollen tunic.

"Surely you ain't _angered_ at us makin' a bit of extra coin, lass?" she demanded, her eyes hard and flinty on the unhappy queen. "Herring's barely got two limpets to rub together. And, since _you_ got yourself taken, we lose more souls to disease and wreckers each year. Profits've been right down. We barely have enough to eat."

Flora shook her head mutedly, grateful for the death-grip of Alistair's fingers clamped around hers. His thumb was stroking each of her knuckles in firm, reassuring circles; a constant reminder of his presence at his side.

"I- I ain't… I'm _not_ angry," she whispered, slipping momentarily back into the vernacular of the north. "I just wasn't expecting… all those people."

The woman stared unblinking at her daughter. For a single moment, Zevran was reminded of an old, starving shark, worn and weathered, yet still dangerous. The elf had been watching Gerda without pause for the past few minutes; letting the woman's bitter words flow over him while focusing on her unspoken mannerisms. There was a strange light to the deep-set eyes; a twitching of the fingertips; a quiver of the nerve in the throat – when combined, these signs created a disturbing picture.

"I think the woman is half-mad," Zevran murmured to Wynne, who stood in taut disapproval at his side. "Perhaps two-thirds. Let's not leave our _florita_ alone with her."

Flora, meanwhile, was gazing stoically forward. She was trying her hardest not to cry – aware that this would be the _worst possible thing_ to do in front of her mother.

Gerda brought the fishing line out of her pocket once again, and began to work it through her fingers. This time, her purpose was not to untangle the line – but to knot it back up.

The light had almost left the day, the sun sinking mutedly behind a veil of cloud. By now, the tide had receded out into the straits, leaving behind a vast swathe of mottled sand. The children of Herring were already wandering the coarse grit with buckets in hand, looking for crabs left in the wake of the water. They were barefoot - shoes were only for those going out on the boats - and scrawny in frame; their figures like dark matchsticks against the fading ochre light. The recession of the water made the village seem even more desolate, the bare bones of the landscape exposed to the eye.

" 'Spose you want to wait 'ere until Pel gets back," Gerda said suddenly, having knotted the line back up into a snarled mess. "You can come inside. Help me wi' the dinner."

The weathered fingers began to work once more at the fishing line, untangling it with the efficiency of long-practice. This time, Alistair too noticed the woman's compulsive gesture, his nostrils flaring. He drew Flora a fraction closer to his side, inwardly determined not to release her for the duration of their – hopefully _very brief_ – stay in hideous Herring.

Gerda turned and began to stride towards the nondescript stone dwelling that Flora had glanced towards earlier. Alistair paused for a moment before following her, keeping his wife firmly at his hip with a strong grip. Their companions trailed in their wake, Zevran hissed frantically at a grim-faced Wynne.

 _This woman is a monster!_ he mouthed, eyebrows wedged into his hairline. _Mad as a bucket of crabs, as our sirenita would say._

Just before they reached the rotting, iron-bracketed strips of wood that served as a door, the woman shot Flora a smile bright with genuine affection over her shoulder. Alistair allowed himself a flicker of hope, seeing the sudden surge of tenderness in Gerda's dark eyes.

"I wager you're lookin' forward to seein' your brother again, girl," she announced, reaching towards the rusting handle. "He'll be grateful of some company for dinner."

Flora flinched as though she had been struck. Alistair, astonished, blinked down at his wife. He distinctly remembered her mentioning that her Herring parents had once had a son; who had drowned shortly before Pel took in Flora.

Yet she offered no word of explanation now, an expression of grim resignation settling across her face as Gerda shoved open the ill-fitting door.

The fisherman's dwelling consisted of one large room, with a smoking hearth at one end and an elevated wooden platform at the other. There was a motley collection of furniture clustered around the walls – from its eclectic appearance, it appeared to have been salvaged from wreckage. A rectangular table was attended by a mismatching set of chairs and stools; a wardrobe missing a door stood in a corner. A half-mended fishing net was draped over a brass-bound chest. The room smelt of hearth-smoke, and the pungent resin used to proof wood against rot, though there was also a distinct undertone of mildew. There was no window, the interior space was lit by a dozen greasy candles wedged in bottles and placed on assorted flat surfaces.

Yet the royal company did not notice the faint smell of mould, nor the general decrepitude of the dwelling. Their attention was focused on the salt-stained table, where something utterly macabre took pride of place at the far end.

A skeleton had been positioned on the best chair – the one with an intact back and arms – and posed as though it were sitting. Since it was little more than bleached bones, this feat had been achieved through the application of iron brackets and knotted rope. The skull was fixed slightly crooked atop the spine with a lump of dried resin; the jaw hung loose in a terrible grin. A few strands of straw-like hair still clung stubbornly to the cracked cranium. It was clad in a threadbare jumper, one sleeve almost entirely eaten away by moths. One of its hands rested on the table, fixed there with an iron bracket. A brass ring hung loose from the smallest finger-bone.

"Look who it is, Tobias," Flora's adoptive mother breathed, tucking away her tangled fishing line and hurrying to the skeleton's side. "It's the girl, back again. Thought she'd got too high an' mighty to remember us."

As they watched in appalled fascination, Gerda used her sleeve to tenderly brush a cobweb from within the skeleton's hollow ribcage.

"Maker's Breath," croaked Teagan, the freckles on his nose standing out stark as he went a full shade paler. _"Maker. What in the void- "_

"It is like something from an Antivan tale used to scare children," Zevran murmured, his gaze sliding sideways to where Flora was standing sadly at Alistair's side.

"Girl, did you miss your brother?" Gerda called over her shoulder, heading towards the door-less cupboard. "I ain't been able to keep him as clean as when you was here."

The woman turned around with an assortment of dented tin plates in her hands and a bright smile curving across her weathered face.

"Her little fingers were perfect for gettin' right into the _nooks and crannies._ Right, where's them pickled mackerel I put in a jar? Lass, come and help me serve! The rest o' youse, take a seat."

This command was barked across the room; Flora responded so hastily that she almost stumbled over her own feet. Her companions seated themselves around the table, unable to stop staring at the ghastly apparition presiding at its head. The situation was so peculiar that they felt disorientated and entirely unsure how to respond to it. Zevran fingered the hilt of his blade compulsively, resolving not to act over-hasty.

A grim-faced Alistair made an urgent gesture towards his uncle and Teagan immediately drew his chair closer; wincing at the scrape across the uneven flagstones. The two men conferred in a hurried whisper, their exchange disguised by the clattering of plates.

"This place is a fucking _nightmare,_ uncle _,"_ the king hissed, resorting to rare profanity. "That woman is deranged. I need to get my wife away from here."

"I hope you weren't expectin' nothing fancy," Gerda said with a vague hint of menace as she brought over the tin plates, dumping them unceremoniously on the table. "I ain't got aught else except the briny fish."

The company watched in appalled fascination as the plate with largest pickled mackerel was placed before the mortal remains. Gerda leaned forward and pressed her lips against the skull's fragmentary remains of hair before taking a seat.

There were no utensils to speak of, save for a selection of bent tin spoons. The Herring native picked up her fish by its tail – which, along with the fins and eyeballs, had not been removed – and began to crunch it methodically between her teeth. Zevran, who had been ready to inquire delicately about their skeletal host, went faintly green about the gills.

Underneath the table, the king was clutching his queen's hand in a death grip; his thumb rubbing further reassurance into her knuckles. Her fingers felt cold and clammy, although he was not sure how much warmer his own hand was in comparison. Everything within Herring felt as though it were covered with a fine layer of mildew; people included.

"So, I hear you ain't got your magic no more," Gerda said, her shrewd gaze settling on her miserable former daughter. "Pity, that – it were the only useful thing about you, lass."

Flora stared down at the beady, black eye of her untouched mackerel. For the first time in her life, she did not feel like eating fish.

"Flora has _many_ skills, actually," retorted Alistair, far more rudely than he usually allowed himself to be in public. "She's good at lots of things. Too many to name."

"Aye, like sproutin' a babe in her belly," Gerda muttered, her derision accompanied by a snort. "The girl's got nothin' but flotsam and jetsam between her ears. I always _told_ her she'd end up as some noble's bedwarmer."

Zevran opened his mouth to snarl, then was elbowed swiftly in the ribs by a grim-faced Wynne. Flora continued to stare down at her plate, and to her horror, felt dampness prickling on her lashes.

 _Don't you dare,_ she thought fiercely to herself. _No, no, no._

Alistair dropped his spoon with a clatter on his plate, the storm clouds now descending dark and menacing across his handsome features. It was clear that he was teetering on some precarious edge; that there was a great, angry bellow brewing within his chest that he had only suppressed out of respect for his wife. Yet it was abundantly clear to those around him that he would not be able to restrain himself for much longer, a vein pulsing hard in the sinew of his throat.

"Florence – _Flora_ has done so well over the past year," Teagan said instead, with some difficulty. "She's astounded us all. You should be proud of her."

Yet, Gerda was not properly listening. She was fussing over the skeletal remains of her son, changing the angle of its bracketed wrist and inserting a rusted spoon clumsily between its fingers.

"You ain't ate much, dear," she reprimanded, sternly. "Is it _her_ bein' back? Has the girl spoiled your appetite? Should've made her eat out back as usual, eh."

There was a tearful hiccup from the ' _her'_ in question, a sound which drew the attention of everybody. Flora, ashamed of her own wet cheeks, put her hands over her face.

Gerda's own face contorted in shock, horror and finally _disgust;_ her nostrils flaring and her lip curling.

"Are you – are you _crying?!"_ she breathed, sheer revulsion dripping from each word. "Ugh! You've gone _soft,_ girl."

" _ENOUGH!"_

Alistair's chair was launched backwards, the entire table lurching as he thrust himself upwards to his full lofty height; the legendary Theirin presence billowing outwards like a ship in sail to fill the entirety of the room. His anger crackled as would some electrical discharge of a Waking Sea storm. He was an olive and gilt brand scorching away the mildewed gloom; terrible and yet magnificent.

They all turned their heads to stare at him - a wet-eyed Flora included - temporarily shocked out of her own sadness. The king reached out to reclaim her hand, winding their fingers together in the familiar ritual before helping her upright.

"We'll wait for your dad somewhere else, my love," he said softly, ignoring everyone else in the room and dabbing the edge of his sleeve to her cheeks. "Come on."

Flora let herself be led towards the door as her companions also got up to leave.

Pausing at the threshold, Alistair turned cold eyes on the tall, iron-haired woman who still sat motionless beside the corpse of her son.

"You don't _deserve_ my wife's presence," he said bluntly, with a vein of hardened contempt. "So sell your seaweed and bits of rock, because it's all you'll ever have of her."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Arrrrgh, creepy! I wanted to give a bit of Gothic fantasy elements here, with the remains of the son propped up at the dinner table for one and a half decades. No wonder Flora never quailed at death - or morbidity in general - as a healer... she grew up sharing a table with rotting remains!

MERRY CHRISTMAS all who celebrate it! Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	133. The Queen in Distress

Chapter 133: The Queen in Distress

At the hut's doorway, the royal couple nearly collided with the guards and Ser Gilmore, who had swarmed the fisherman's cottage on hearing Alistair's bellow. They scattered before the fuming king, who strode from the lopsided doorway with a face like thunder and his sniffling queen tucked beneath his arm.

Alistair did not stop until they were past the seaweed-covered rocks that marked the boundary of Herring. Finally, he drew to a halt amidst the low sand-dunes at the base of the low basalt cliffs. The sky was streaked with apricot and ochre, and threaded with ominous veins of rich crimson, a portent of future downpours. Fortunately, the drizzle had momentarily ceased; it was cool, but not excessively windy. He could feel his best friend flagging, her body sinking beneath the weight of her own emotion. Not wanting Flora to stumble, he steered her down onto the coarse, tawny sand; crouching and reaching out to cup her face between her palms.

"Sweetheart, my love, please don't cry- "

But his wife was caught in the terrible realisation that the Herring she had shaped in her own mind – a sanctuary in the midst of the Circle and then the Blight – bore no resemblance to the Herring of the present day. Flora did not know whether the village had simply _changed_ over the past half-decade, or if her spirits had moulded the memories of her home in order to both comfort and strengthen her as required for their own purposes.

 _Or perhaps it's me,_ she thought wildly to herself, barely paying heed to her increasingly agitated husband as tears streamed down her cheeks. _Now that I know I'm a Cousland, perhaps I've changed – changed so that I don't belong in Herring anymore!_

Flora's other companions arrived a moment later, conversing in appalled, hushed whispers about the dreadful scenes within the fisherman's hut.

"It's obvious that the woman was driven mad by the death of her son," Wynne murmured, picking her way delicately over the coarse sand. "It's sad, in a way. She's not in her right mind."

"It's more sad how she treated our _carina,"_ retorted an indignant Zevran, who was so outraged that he temporarily forgot to complain about the northern climate. "Do you think that skeleton has been sat there for _fifteen years?"_

Teagan gave a half-nod, his eyes fixed on where the king was frantically trying to mop up his sobbing wife. He was not having much luck; the tears were now accompanied by hoarse, heartbroken little croaks.

"Can I do anything to help?" the bann offered, coming to a halt beside a tuft of sea grass.

"Could you find out from someone how long it takes to get back from Skingle?" Alistair replied, thinking of Flora's absent father. "And if there's anywhere we can stay tonight – _not_ in that blasted tomb of a hut."

Teagan nodded, dropping a hand to Flora's shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze before striding off towards the silhouetted huts.

Zevran and Wynne positioned themselves on either side of Flora; the latter grimacing as she eased herself down onto the side of the dune. Alistair had drawn his wife into his arms while he murmured into her ear, his own heart racing in dismay.

Flora was not listening. She paid no heed to his tender words, nor the rhythmic stroke of Zevran's thumb down the length of her spine; oblivious to everything but the raw sting of her own sadness.

 _Herring's not like I remembered it._

 _My dad's not here. Mama still hates me._

 _All I wanted for years was to come home; but now that I have, it doesn't feel like home anymore._

She let out a keen of distress, a _halla_ struck with a hunter's arrow, and wrapped her fingers in Alistair's tunic, sinking her brow against his shoulder. Her husband flinched at the sound of her despair; each sob a sly dagger between the ribs.

"My love," he pleaded with her. "My sweet wife."

The keening deteriorated into a wail, muffled against the damp fabric of his tunic.

"Alistair, she needs to calm down," Wynne murmured quietly, her pale blue eyes soft with sympathy. "These hysterics could send her into premature labour. I mean, just over eight months – the babes would survive, but these are hardly ideal circumstances for a birth."

Alistair blanched, gripping onto his wife more tightly. Flora clung onto him in return, her breath coming in shallow gasps, the salt of her tears stinging her eyes. Fortunately, the king had become practised in the soothing of his wife over the duration of the progress. Although these tears were caused by external distress rather than emotional imbalance; the principles of calming her down were the same. In addition to this, the former Wardens were used to comforting each other during the darkest nights of the Blight, each knew the best and most effective ways of consoling the other.

Now, Alistair ran his hand through her hair, gentle and rhythmic, letting the thick, oxblood strands slip between his fingers like loosened ropes. He could feel his wife's body slacken against him as she exhaled; some of the tension draining from her unhappy frame.

"Good girl," he breathed into her ear, shifting position on the sandy dune to accommodate her on his thighs. "There we go, my beauty."

With the help of his hand spread firm across her breast, Flora's breathing eased from the gulps of a drowning man to a more even rhythm. Alistair could feel her panicked heartbeat begin to slow beneath his palm, and let out a sigh of soft relief.

 _She'll never want to come back to Herring again,_ the king thought suddenly to himself, feeling a small twist of joy in his belly. _She'll stay with me in Denerim, now. I won't need to worry about losing her to the pull of the north._

The next moment, Alistair felt a lurch of guilt, pressing a fierce kiss to his wife's small ear to make up for the selfishness of this thought.

Around them, night was drawing in with a merciless swiftness that it did not display in the more benevolent east; the light draining with each minute they spent out on the sand. The sea - despite being a tidal league further out in the straits – seethed in relentless turmoil; furious at being temporarily deprived of a coastline to wreak its fury upon.

The Antivan elf shivered, pulling his tunic tighter around him.

"I do not like the north," he murmured to Wynne, who let out a wry snort in response. "It is bleak and unforgiving, much like the people who live in it. I thought that the people here would give _mi sirenita_ a hero's welcome. Since she has _literally_ put their village on the map. Nobody had heard of Herring, before her."

"I am aware, Zevran."

"I've seen more welcoming faces in a rival assassins' guild headquarters! And I speak from _experience."_

The guards shifted, spotting a figure approach from the village. Teagan was making good progress over the unstable surface towards them, his boots sinking part into the sand with each step.

"There's a small cave just around the headland," he called, nearly tripping over a crab that scuttled unexpectedly from a clump of seaweed. "It's above the tideline. I'd say it's a better call than the tents, especially if this wind keeps up."

"Oh, I imagine that it _will_ keep up," muttered Zevran, casting a resentful eye at the massing clouds. "In fact, I would be surprised if it were _not_ gale force winds and torrential downpours later. Herring seems like that sort of place, _como saben."_

Alistair nodded, easing a drooping Flora off his lap and clambering to his feet. Brushing the sand from his breeches, he reached down and lifted his sniffling wife into his arms with only the slightest grunt of effort.

"Right," he snapped, still tense and unhappy at his queen's distress. "Let's find this bloody cave."

The cave turned out to be the only part of Herring that was not a _let-down_ in some way. It was tucked behind a jutting spur of rock that protected the narrow entrance from the constant turbulence of the air. The main chamber extended back fifty yards, shrinking into a slender passage blocked by rockfall. The cave had clearly been used as accommodation in the past; black soot marked the walls where fires had been set. The sand underfoot was dry and finer than the gritty coarseness of the beach; it would make for a relatively comfortable surface to sleep on.

The scouts had already gathered driftwood for a fire, which Ser Gilmore now assisted them with constructing. The guards brought the bedrolls and packs from the cart, setting up their own sleeping area across the entrance to the cave.

Too impatient to wait for the fire, Wynne had ignited an arcane flame within a spare lantern. As she added a few more inches to her letter to Irving, the lantern hovered helpfully beside her shoulder. After only a few minutes had passed, she had fallen asleep over the long roll of parchment; a blanket over her shoulders and a strand of white hair trailing from her bun.

"The locals tell me that Pelegrin should be back by morning," Teagan informed Alistair as the others settled themselves near the fire. "They've assured me that they'll let him know where we are when he arrives."

When Alistair shot him a dubious look, Teagan let out a humourless snort.

"Aye, lad. I'll go over there in the morning and find the man myself."

"Thanks, uncle," the king replied distractedly, his attention focused on his miserable wife.

Flora was hunched at his side, huddled beneath his arm with her head bowed over her stomach. Tears ran over her cheeks, slid over her chin and down the hollow of her throat. If someone had asked her _why_ she was crying – and she was coherent enough to respond – she would not quite know what to say. It was an odd combination of her mother's hostility, her body's imbalance, the presence of _tourists_ within Herring; most strongly, it was the realisation that the 'beloved home' she had drawn strength from for the past five years was irrevocably changed. Alistair was trying his hardest to soothe her the best he could, his fingers clutching hers tightly in their old ritual as he kissed and stroked her hair.

Nobody spoke much as they set out their bedding, their eyes returning over and over to the miserable queen. Although Flora bursting into tears had been a recurrent theme during the progress, this was not typical of the usual melodramatics. They were all aware of how much Flora had been looking forward to this part of their journey – every man present had experienced at least three of her gushing Herring monologues over the past two months. Now her distress was palpable; the tears borne from genuine dismay as well as hormonal fluctuation.

Teagan gripped Alistair's shoulder as he passed the royal couple to retrieve a whetstone from his pack; aware that the young man he saw as a nephew was suffering too. The king tore his gaze from Flora's tear-stained face to shoot agonised eyes up at his uncle.

"I can't bear this," he muttered, clutching the back of his wife's neck as she dropped her head to his shoulder. "I don't know what to say to her. I wish it were possible to punch a village."

"Then don't say anything," Zevran chimed in softly from the other side of the fire, the rising sparks reflected in his liquid-dark eyes. "I have an idea on how to make our _querida_ feel better. But, you must come with me."

For a moment, Alistair looked visibly torn. On the one hand, he did not want to detach himself from his miserable, fat-bellied wife even for a moment; on the other, he had been trying to console her for the past hour and nothing had worked. Now she sat beside him clad in shirt and smalls, the uncomfortable leather breeches and boots in a pile on the sand. Her hair was loose, falling in a tangled mass of dark red tendrils past her waist.

"Uncle," he said after a moment, making up his mind. "Will you sit with her?"

After pressing a kiss to Flora's full, trembling mouth, he clambered to his feet; advancing around the fire to confer quietly with the elf. After Zevran had explained his idea, Alistair gave a swift nod.

"We'll be back soon, my love," he said, quiet and resolute. "Uncle Teagan is going to stay with you in the meantime."

Flora gave a doleful croak, her head hanging like an over-watered flower.

The bann, feeling his heart lurch inexplicably, sat down on the sand beside her. He leaned forward and gave the flames a poke, with a long piece of driftwood that had clearly been splintered from the hull of a ship. The fire hissed and spat in response, chewing its way through the fuel as it threw off gouts of glittering sparks; flooding the cave with a mellow, ochre glow. Beside him, Flora sat hunched over her swollen stomach, half-heartedly clutching a blanket around herself and sniffling.

"I've a joke about fish, poppet," Teagan said suddenly, his voice echoing between the hollowed stone walls of the cavern.

After a moment Flora tilted her damp face towards him, her eyelashes beaded with wetness. She did not say anything, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her limpid, cloud-grey stare.

"What's the richest fish on Thedas?" he asked, half-wondering what his peers from the Bannorn would think if they could see him spouting schoolboy jokes in a forsaken northern cave.

Flora blinked at him, and Teagan could see the wheels of thought turning behind her grave, tear-stained face. He was relatively certain that she would not guess the answer; the queen tended to interpret jokes literally.

"I don't know," she whispered, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve.

"A… goldfish," replied Teagan, slightly self-conscious.

Flora gazed at him for a long moment, then the corner of her mouth turned slowly upwards.

"A 'gold' fish?" she repeated, wide-eyed.

"Aye, petal," he said, with a wry snort. "It's not very high-minded humour, I'm afraid. Not the kind of thing you'd hear in a witty Orlesian salon."

"I wouldn't understand it if it were high-minded," Flora replied, honestly. "I think that a fish made out of gold would _sink,_ though. Do you have another joke?"

Fortunately, Teagan – who had been raised in the fishing town of Redcliffe and had spent much time travelling to the Marches in the company of sailors – _did_ have another one.

"Where do fish sleep?"

Flora thought about it diligently for several minutes; quiet enough that Teagan thought she had gone to sleep. Eventually, she shook her head and nudged him gently in the ribs, curling her bare toes into the sand.

"Tell me."

"In a river bed."

The bann cringed internally as he spoke, aware of how contrived and puerile the joke was. Yet – after she had thought about it – Flora let out a damp snuffle of humour.

"D-do you have any more, Bann Teagan?" she asked, reaching around her stomach to tighten the strapping on her bare knee.

Teagan broke into a mild sweat; realising that he was now committed to a stream of marine-themed humour until Alistair and Zevran returned.

The next moment a sniffing Flora let her head rest onto his shoulder, exhaling with some measure of relief. In the face of such motivation, the bann suddenly found that he could come up with an _inexhaustible_ supply of fish-based jokes.

* * *

OOC Author Note: I hope everyone who celebrates it had a good Christmas! I had a luuuuush Christmas with my family in Wales, though I super miss my husband, who's gone back to see _his_ family in the States. Anyway, poor old Flo! I think this is the first chapter where she's just cried for two and a half thousand words, lol. Nothing like a good old fish joke to cheer one up! I can take no credit for these jokes, they're just random crap ones from the universe, lol. Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	134. The Prehistoric Forest

Chapter 134: The Prehistoric Forest

Outside the cave, the wide expanse of coarse sand stretched down to the receding tide. The Waking Sea seethed quietly out in the straits, lashing salt spray up against the jagged ridge of rock known locally as the _Hag's Teeth._ Night on the northern coast drew in with a deep, dark lustre, like black tea from Antiva steeped for a little too long; the stars standing out like burning, white-hot embers against a coal face.

Within the cave, the sound of the sea gnawing angrily at the reef was somewhat muted by solid rock. Wynne, wearier from the journey than she would ever deign to admit, snored softly from her bedroll. One of the Mabari had trotted off in the wake of king and elf; the other had stayed behind to guard the mother of the Theirin heirs, sprawling lazily across the cave entrance.

The bann's right leg had begun to prickle with pins and needles from the period of extended inactivity, yet it would have taken a host of Darkspawn to move him from his current position. Flora's head was still resting against his shoulder; she had been quiet for some time, and he thought she might have gone to sleep.

"Bann Teagan?" the queen said suddenly, the north in her voice shaping his name like no other in their company.

"Just Teagan," he corrected her, gently. "What is it, Flora?"

"What was Alistair like as a little boy?"

Teagan thought for a long moment, dusting off memories that had lain dormant for over a decade. He had split much of his time between Redcliffe and Rainesfere during the years of Alistair's childhood; and had been informed by Eamon as to the identity of the gangly blond stable-lad who had a natural knack with the horses.

"He worked hard, for the most part," the bann said, slowly. "Though he could also slip into daydreaming. He liked to please, and to be praised. A great asset to the stable-master too. I once tried to poach him for my own horse-yard at Rainesfere – unsuccessfully, as it happens. Why do you ask, petal?"

"I'm thinking about what traits the twins might inherit," she replied distantly, her voice drifting up from his right shoulder. "I hope that they've been influenced by _all_ of you over the past few months. I'd like them to have Alistair's bravery, and Wynne's wisdom, and your conviction, and Zevran's wit."

From the ease with which Flora recited the list of qualities, it was clearly something that she had thought extensively about.

"Did you get all that?" she continued, patting her midriff as something nudged against her belly from within. "I hope you're paying attention."

"What about from their mother?" the bann replied, quietly. "What should they inherit from you?"

He felt her shrug, with a northerner's inherent self-depreciation.

"I don't have any skills or talents," Flora replied sleepily, the wool of her tunic rippling as one of the twins squirmed. "I'm not clever. I don't know what they could get from me _."_

"Nonsense," said the bann firmly, as the Mabari lying across the tent entrance pricked up its ears. "If they inherit even a _quarter_ of your- "

He was interrupted by the return of Zevran and Alistair, who were conversing in low tones as they entered through the mouth of the cave. Alistair almost fell into the fire in his haste to scuttle across the sand to his wife; reaching down to embrace her as relief suffused his face.

"My darling girl," he breathed as she curled the corner of her mouth up at him. "I missed you. You're not crying anymore!"

After sinking to the sand, the king manhandled his fat-bellied wife onto his lap; leaning back against the cave wall with her in his embrace. Flora put her arms around his neck, grateful for the solid, reassuring warmth of Alistair's chiselled chest.

"Bann Teagan told some fish jokes," she replied, fingering the collar of his tunic. "He was very good at it. I think he should become someone who tells jokes for a job."

"How about it, uncle?" Alistair suggested, gamely. "Who tells jokes for a living?"

"A court jester?" suggested Teagan, trying not to laugh. "I think I'll politely decline, poppet. I'm not sure the outfit would suit me."

Flora rested her chin on Alistair's shoulder, comforted by her husband's bulky physicality. Alistair caught the bann's eye and nodded a _thank you,_ grateful for Teagan's assistance in calming down his upset wife. He was well aware that his uncle – a confirmed bachelor, who enjoyed a minor reputation as a ladies' man - had little experience in offering _platonic_ reassurance to a weeping girl nearly two decades his junior. Teagan gave a grunt of acknowledgement, the ghost of Flora's head resting against his shoulder still lingering.

Flora's attention was then caught by the elf, who was rummaging quietly around on the far side of the campfire. Zevran had set up a small cooking stand, and was threading the bodies of several fish onto a thin cooking wire. As she watched, wide-eyed, her companion positioned the fish gently near the open flame.

"ZEVRA- " she started, then remembered that Wynne, Ser Gilmore and the scouts were sleeping further back in the cave. _"Zevran._ What are you doing?"

"' _Zevra'_ sounds like a glamorous female version of myself," the elf murmured, sitting back elegantly on his heels to survey his work. "And your husband and I went scavenging in the tide-pools for what was left behind in the wake of the water."

Flora swivelled herself sufficient in Alistair's arms to see the catch, eyeing the bodies of the fish suspended over the open flame.

"You've got some rockfish," she breathed, fascinated. "And some wrasse. That's a big one, the one on the end."

The elf smiled at her, reaching out and turning the cooking spike to roast the fish evenly.

"Antiva City does not have a beach: it is a port city constructed on stilts above the water," he murmured in response. "When the tide recedes, children go scavenging on the mud-flats beneath the buildings. They bring back crabs, mostly, and the occasional fish. Sometimes, if one was _lucky,_ one found a tossed coin or carelessly-slipped ring wedged in the silt."

Flora grimaced, trying to envision Antiva City in her mind's eye. Redcliffe had a portion of its buildings constructed over the lake, but she could not imagine an entire multi-levelled _city_ built atop the water.

"What stops it from sinking?" she asked, feeling Alistair's fingers settle themselves on her hip. "All the weight of those buildings!"

"Ah," replied the elf, turning the fish one more time as they sizzled and spat. "You see, _nena,_ their foundations are built upon solid bedrock, though cunningly disguised by the sand."

Zevran paused, leaning forward to waft the scent of the smoke-infused flesh towards his discerning nostrils.

"I wish I had some peppers and a _cazuela_ dish," he murmured, letting the fish grill for a few moments more. "Still, I have some seasoning that will be tolerable enough."

Shortly afterwards, he removed the smoked fish from the spit and spread them over a sleeping guard's shield; using the polished surface as a makeshift plate. Reaching deep into his leathers, the elf withdrew a small glass vial filled with a bright orange substance.

"Paprika, _carina._ It is ground from the fruits of peppers."

"Paprika," she repeated, trying and failing to mimic his rolled _r_ -sound. _"Pap-rrrika."_

Zevran snorted softly to himself, rubbing pungent orange fingers into the smoked flesh of the fish.

" _Sí, amor._ Here."

They divided the fish amongst the three of them, forsaking plates and utensils and eating with greasy fingers. Flora ate in silence, fascinated at this foreign interpretation of a Herring staple. Even Alistair, who had never been the biggest fan of seafood, had to praise the quality of the Antivan's preparation.

"Zev," he protested, swallowing a smoked, spiced mouthful. "You never let on that you were so good at cooking when we were travelling around gathering the armies. You should've prepared more meals!"

"But Fereldan fare is inherently depressing, _mi rey,"_ the elf retorted, quick as a whip. "I was only able to make this dish after flirting enough with the cook at the Circle to gain access to his spice-larder. Much of the time, the only condiment available during our journeys was _salt."_

Alistair let out a snort in acknowledgement of this point, too preoccupied with his wife's emotional stability to summon any substantial defence of his country's cuisine. To his immense relief, the food seemed to have lifted Flora's morale; she was still damp-eyed, but the tears had now dried on her cheeks.

"Thanks, Zev," he murmured quietly, pressing a thumb against Flora's cheekbone to double-check that it was not freshly wet. "I appreciate… this."

Flora reached out a hopeful hand towards the elf; he shuffled himself around the base of the fire in a manner that should have been impossible to achieve elegantly, and yet he managed it. Once Zevran was within reach, Flora hooked an arm around his neck and pressed her lips firmly against his tattooed cheek. The elf reached up to pat the back of her head as she did so, a wry and wistful smile twisting the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you," Flora breathed in his ear, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve as she withdrew. "Everyone's bein' – _being -_ kind to me. I'm ever so grateful for it. I… I know I was the only person who wanted to come here."

Alistair finished his last mouthful, lifting an arm to curl around his wife's shoulders as she returned to his side.

"My love," he said, and was not sure what else to say.

 _I'm sorry that your adoptive mother still treats you worse than a barnacle stuck to one's boot?_

 _Or that Herring – the one constant during the years of uncertainty and fear – has changed irrevocably in your absence?_

Instead of finishing his sentence, he held her more tightly to his side; mentally running through a half-dozen scathing put-downs for Gerda should she come looking for Flora in the morning.

An hour later, as the Mabari sprawled across the mouth of the cave and swatted at sand flies, those within slept with various degrees of settled-ness. Ser Gilmore and one of the scouts were unconsciously competing for _loudest snore;_ Zevran had resorted to rolling up wax paper and stuffing it in his ears. Wynne was now firmly lodged in her slumber, the quill still drooping between her fingertips.

It was a cool late-summer night, the chill north wind had blown away any nocturnal cloud and the sky stretched out in deep, star-spangled bleakness overhead. Outside, the tide was beginning to work its way back up the coarse-grained coast. Further out in the straits a storm was brewing, but the beach itself was relatively calm. The water brooded quietly, tossing the occasional foam-flecked defiance towards the rocky cliffs.

Alistair had made a nest in a far crevice of the cave, piling up the bedrolls and blankets in a determined effort to ensure that his wife would not get cold. Emotionally exhausted from the evening's tribulations, he had fallen asleep within minutes of lying down; slumped against his leather travel pack.

Flora, curled in the crook of his arm, had not been able to rest. Her heart kept surging forwards, her mind whirling with nosy tourists, _Herring grit_ for sale, the preserved bones of a long-dead youth, her adopted mother's accusatory glare; all fermenting and frothing within her skull like the churning sea nearby.

The firelight cast strange, dizzying patterns on the cave wall opposite. The queen watched them for an hour, listening to the snores of her companions and feeling the solid reassurance of Alistair's heartbeat against her shoulder. Eventually, she began the arduous process of un-entangling herself from the bundle of blankets and her husband's arms. Due to the stress of the evening, Alistair had neglected to tie a strand of her hair to his finger, and so Flora was able to free herself without rousing him.

Barefoot she crept around the campfire clad only in one of the king's shirts, her hair hanging loose around her waist. Stepping carefully over Zevran's feet, she padded across the sand towards the echo of the sea. One Mabari hound lifted its head and gave a little whine, eyeing the bearer of the next generation of Theirins as she sidled towards the cave mouth. This roused the senior of the guards, who gave his junior counterpart a swift kick.

"Your Majesty," the older officer hissed through the darkness and the queen turned large, pale eyes on him. "Is something wrong, my queen?"

"No," Flora replied, vaguely. "I'm just going for a walk."

Both guards looked at one another, aware that in the past Flora's 'harmless' nocturnal wanderings had taken her to abandoned villages and isolated woodland.

"I'll take Brute and go wi' her," the senior officer muttered to his junior, clambering to his feet and retrieving his sword. "You stay an' guard the king."

By the time that the man had strapped on his sword-belt, Flora had wandered out of the cave. Brute, the tan Mabari with the broken fang, had responded more quickly than the guard. The hound was a few paces behind the king's pregnant wife, trotting silently across the coarse sand with its ears pricked high.

The beach stretched out before Flora in a great, mottled swathe of sand and shingle. The tide-line was marked with a belt of seaweed and driftwood; thirty yards or so from the cave entrance. Further still, the sea crept ever closer, fingers of frothing white clawing their way up the shale. The Hag's Teeth reef stood silhouetted against the water, jagged and dark, with a pinprick of blazing light at the end.

 _That used to be my job, to clamber out onto the rocks and light the warning-beacon,_ Flora thought to herself as her feet sunk into the sand. _I wonder who does it now? Maybe that boy who was hawking tours of the village, he seemed nimble enough._

The Mabari, noticing that the Theirin's bride was limping slightly, bit gently at the leather strap trailing from her weak knee. Flora reached down – awkwardly, due to her swollen midriff – and tightened the strapping.

"Thank you," she said to the dog, brushing her fingers across the top of its head. She had once been a little afraid of Mabari, but the months spent in their company while on progress had eased any lingering fears.

The wind ruffled the bottom of her shirt, the linen hem fluttering about her bare thighs. Inhaling a great gulp of damp, salt-laced air Flora continued to pad down the beach; weaving her way around stray driftwood and clumps of tangled seaweed. The guard followed at a respectful distance, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible and yet unable to prevent himself from cursing as he almost fell over a half-submerged rock.

The junior officer, clad in sleep-trousers and a hastily-donned breastplate, hovered at the cave entrance and watched the three diminishing figures. The queen was shuffling her way bare-legged towards the sea, the wind plucking at trailing ropes of hair. The Mabari followed on her heels, ears pricked, while the senior guard was struggling to keep his balance on the damp sand.

The younger guard made up his mind, treading around the fire and stooping to tentatively nudge Alistair's shoulder.

"Majesty?"

Alistair grimaced, yawned, and then looked down into his empty embrace. The handsome face contorted in alarm and he clambered rapidly to his feet, head swivelling.

" _My wife- "_

"The queen is on the beach," the guard hastened to reassure him. "The captain is with her, but I thought I ought to wake you."

"Thank you," Alistair replied, tugging his shirt over his head with one hand while buckling his sword belt with the other.

Emerging onto the beach, the king found himself grateful for an illuminating full moon; bathing the expanse of sand in a silvered glow. Striding around the smouldering campfire, he followed in Flora's footsteps – her _literal_ footsteps, since the outline of her feet was clearly visible. The junior officer and the other Mabari followed at a respectful distance, the dog snapping his jaws at sand-flies and small, scuttling crabs.

The nocturnal ambience softened the harsh edges of the Storm Coast; its unforgiving bleakness diluted beneath the kind obfuscation of night. The dull roar of the Waking Sea echoed in the distance, the underbelly of the beach left exposed in its wake. Alistair made his way around tide pools, fragments of driftwood and clumps of iron-rich crimson seaweed; unable to stop himself from glancing at the bare bones of old wreckage emerging eerily from the sand. Part of him wondered how many drowned men had been washed ashore on this beach, and if his own father had been one of them.

Tearing his mind away from such macabre thought, Alistair stepped purposefully over a ragged line of seaweed. He focused his attentions on his best friend as he headed towards the damp sand near the shallows. Before him, the senior guard and the Mabari had come to a halt; an incongruous sight in the middle of the beach.

"The queen is just ahead, King Alistair," the captain muttered, turning his head at Alistair's approach. "She said she wanted a _walk."_

"Thank you," replied Alistair distantly, focusing on the narrow shoulders of his wife.

Flora was sitting on the sand a dozen yards away, her bare legs stretched out before her. She was gazing out at the seething, white-capped waters as they lashed against the distinctive rocky spur of the _Hag's Teeth._ Her hair fell loose down her back, a deep red mass of tendrils long enough to fall past the base of her spine.

Alistair went to sit beside her, his fingers brushing affectionately over the top of her head as he lowered himself to the sand. To his relief, Flora was not crying – the grave, finely-hewn features were pensive, the pale grey gaze fixed on the open straits. She turned her face towards him as he sat, the full mouth tilting upwards into a wan smile. He reached out to caress a thick rope of Flora's hair as it hung beside her face, running his finger and thumb down to where the oxblood skein trailed over the sand. He did not say anything, but waited for her to broach the silence; if indeed she chose to do so.

Flora let her toes sink into the damp sand, inhaling the salt-scented air and feeling the comforting, familiar dampness within her lungs.

"From now on," she said eventually, with a lacing of wistfulness. "My home will be wherever _you_ are."

Alistair felt a twist of instinctual delight within his stomach, after all, was this not what he had secretly wished for? He did not want to share his wife with a desolate village on the northern coast; he was determined to have _all_ of Flora's heart.

This selfishness only lasted for a moment before the king felt ashamed of such self-centred sentiment. He leaned forward and tilted her chin from side to side, his gaze moving thoughtfully over her face.

"Herring might have changed," Alistair murmured, softly. "But I wager that the Waking Sea itself is no different."

Flora paused, and then nodded; the changeable, seething, current-torn straits were somehow _exactly_ as she remembered.

"You've always said that you have Herring grit in you, darling, but I think it's more saltwater in your veins," Alistair continued, warming to his theme as he touched her crimson-seaweed hair and gazed at the translucent paleness of her eyes. "My wild, determined, unpredictable beauty. Herring grit was shaped by _these_ waves, after all."

"Wild?" Flora breathed, peering back at him through dark lashes. "Am I _wild?"_

"I've known you to be tempestuous, baby," he replied, a wry smile twisting at his mouth. "In certain situations."

"Wild… like an angry lobster?"

"Uh- "

Flora blinked at him a moment longer and then smiled sadly, manoeuvring herself to her feet in the sand. As Alistair scrambled to join her, she reached out to grasp his fingers; turning her pale, resolute face up to his.

"I want to show you something."

She led him across the damp ridges of sand, heading purposefully for a stretch of beach that lay just eastwards of the cave. The guards and Mabari followed at a tactful distance, grateful that the full moon provided ready illumination.

As they proceeded across the beach, Alistair noticed something peculiar about the moonlit terrain before them. The mottled sand was broken at ragged intervals by dozens of dark protrusions; each one the approximate width of a human torso, and strangely angular, like shark's teeth rising from the sand. As they drew closer, Alistair reached down to touch one of the jagged mounds – he had thought at first that it was a rock, but quickly realised that it had an _organic_ texture.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured, glancing around at the similar eruptions in the sand around them. "What're all these, Flo?"

"They're trees," Flora said, just as the king himself recognised them as the stunted remains of wooden trunks. "Whenever Herring has a big storm – there was one last night – the mud gets washed away and you can see them."

"Trees," Alistair repeated in wonder, stooping to touch a hard, blackened stump. "I've never seen anything like it."

"They're from a forest that grew here thousands of years ago," said Flora vaguely, her face tilted up to the silver-edged moon. "Before the time of Andraste. Then the sea rose, and the trees drowned. But they were preserved by the peat-mud. That's what my dad told me, anyway."

"That's amazing, Flo," he replied, turning once more to survey the strange landscape. "I've never seen anything like this before."

Flora eased her bulk down onto a patch of sand between the petrified trunks, one hand resting on the mound of her stomach. Alistair went to join her, lowering himself with far greater ease. A crab scuttled out of a nearby clump of seaweed, casting a suspicious look at the uninvited guests.

"In Herring, they have a story," she whispered, her voice carrying beneath the distant crash of the waves. "That there was once a kingdom called _Helig's Court,_ between Ferelden and the Free Marches. It was ruled by two brothers, one dedicated and the other a drunkard. The drunkard fell into an ale-slumber and accidentally left the sluice gates to the great dam open. Water flooded the entire kingdom, and drowned all that lay within it. That's why it's called the _Waking_ Sea. In times of danger, you're supposed to be able to hear the war-horns of _Helig's Court_ blasting out from beneath the waves."

Alistair listened to Flora's story, but equally paid heed to the way she had _begun_ it. For the first time he could remember, she had used the phrase: _'in Herring, they…"_ as opposed to _'in Herring, we…"_

Flora blinked; having simultaneously made this realisation. She swallowed, hard and painful, and an unprompted tear slid from beneath her eyelashes.

"My love," Alistair breathed, reaching out to intercept the tear with a finger. "My own sweet wife."

Flora turned her head towards her husband, her mournful eyes searching his handsome, honest face. Without breaking her gaze, she reached up and began to unbutton her nightshirt. Alistair's lips parted and then remained silent, his own hazel stare dropping as she bared her breasts to him. With a shrug of the shoulders, the nightshirt slithered onto the sand and she was naked in the moonlight before him.

"You know the protocol," the senior guard hissed towards the junior, elbowing him while turning around to face the cliffs. "Stop gawkin'."

The younger officer, who had caught a tantalising glimpse of the queen's high, rounded breasts before being nudged in the ribs, reluctantly swivelled in the same direction.

"This new Theirin and his queen have rutted more over the past eight weeks than Cailan – Maker rest him – and Anora did in eight _years,"_ he commented, scratching at his nose.

"Good," retorted the elder. "Long may it last. The more royal babies she makes, the stronger Ferelden's future."

Meanwhile, Flora had placed her hand squarely on Alistair's chest, pushing him backwards onto the sand. Astonished and delighted, he had let her bear him down; his lips parting to readily accept her demanding mouth. She clambered on top of him, straddling his pelvis with deliberate intent, hungrily claiming his tongue even as she began to rock against him.

Alistair let out a helpless groan into her mouth, their lips working together even as he reached down to caress the bare, ripened curves of her body. He had begun to stiffen in his breeches the moment that he had glimpsed a dusky pink nipple; Flora's shameless grinding against him had finished the job. A flush of arousal now mingled with the determination writ across her lovely features, she leaned back slightly to allow his hand access between her legs.

He was only permitted to fondle her for a moment before she began to tug urgently at the strings of his trousers. The king leaned back on his elbows in the sand, savouring the sight of his bride determinedly pulling him free of the linen, the need pulsing from her in waves. Alistair reached down, his purpose to assist her – but Flora had already manoeuvred herself on top of him, a soft sigh of relief escaping her throat. It had been only two minutes since the nightshirt had slithered from her shoulders; now, the queen was thoroughly impaled on her husband.

Flora paused to catch her breath, oxblood hair falling loose around her waist and a flush creeping across her pale breasts. Alistair was gazing up at her from the sand, his tongue wetting his lips and his eyes dark with desire. She leaned forward as far as she was able, taking his face between her palms as she began to move. It had been her intention to kiss him, but the rhythmic pistoning between her legs soon took up all of her attention; small pants of arousal escaping her throat.

Alistair, who always loved watching his wife work herself on his body, leaned back on his elbows in the coarse sand. The moonlight filtered down through a wispy layer of cloud, leaving silvered trails on the restless surface of the water. His best friend was lost in her own surfeit of lust; dreamy eyed and whimpering with pleasure.

"You look so fucking beautiful, baby," he told her throatily, reaching out to caress her full, gasping lip as she rode him. "I'm the luckiest man on Thedas."

Flora took his finger in her mouth, moaning something incoherent as she did so. This was the cue for Alistair to put an end to his wife's dominance. Sitting upright, he reached to grasp Flora by the hips and began to ease her up and down with a soft murmuring of praise. On similar occasions in the past he had suspended her in the air to allow for deeper penetration, in Flora's current condition, he held her securely on his lap. Each thrust was deep, slow and purposeful; he thrilled at each strangled gasp he drew from his sweating wife.

"I want to hear you," he instructed her, in between hungry kisses plastered to her face, throat and bared breasts. "Nice and loud, darling."

As she soon demonstrated, the wholly unsubtle Flora did not know how to express her release in anything _other_ than _'loud.'_

A few moments later, Alistair _-_ dazed from his own climax - held his quivering wife against his chest in an effort to calm her racing heart. He touched his lips to Flora's part-open mouth, a hand coming up to caress the side of her flushed, fine-boned face.

"Well, I don't think we've ever lain together in the remnants of a prehistoric forest before," he murmured, tenderness warming each word. "What brought this mood on – _aaahh!"_

This shriek was in response to a sudden surge of water; shallow, foamy and cold. While the king and queen had been making love on the sand, neither of them had paid any attention to the incoming tide. Alistair, who had his wife perched atop muscular thighs, suffered the brunt of the frigid, salty influx. His eyes bulged as his nether regions were flooded; the warm aftermath of pleasure brutally ended.

Flora, watching her nightshirt bobbing gently away in the surf, did not mind the cold water surging around her thighs. She smiled down at Alistair as the foamy shallows washed up around them, a clump of seaweed tangling itself on her calf.

"What's wrong?"

"It's – it's bloody _freezing,"_ he complained, gripping her in place while clambering up with mammoth effort. "Maker's Breath, my balls are the size of raisins."

Flora cackled, slithering down to stand in the knee-deep shallows. The guards were swivelling like some Orlesian miniaturist's toy; turning towards the king's shout of alarm and then spinning back on seeing that the queen was still unclothed.

"It's refreshing," she replied, pushing her feet into the gritty sand and feeling it rise between her toes.

"Too refreshing," Alistair retorted, keeping a grip on his wife's arm as though worried that she might suddenly be swept out to sea. "Where's your nightshirt, my love?"

Flora shrugged, she had last seen it carried out on the pull of the tide.

"Dunno," she replied, vaguely. "In the Free Marches."

Alistair pulled his own tunic over her head, manhandling his lust-drowsy wife into the finely woven linen.

"Right. Now, if the night-time shenanigans are over, darling, you need to get some rest!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: So the prehistoric, preserved forest is based on Borth Forest in Wales – which is SUCH a cool place to visit! You can Google pictures of it… it's a two mile long stretch of preserved, 5000 year old tree trunks on the Welsh coastline. I thought it would be a cool thing to include! Helig's Court is based on Cantre'r Gwaelod, a sunken kingdom from Welsh legend. It's a bit like Atlantis, and features a lot in song, literature and poetry here – it has a Wikipedia page, for anyone interested. Hurray for having a culture that I can steal lots of interesting things from, hehehe. I'm very patriotic!

WILD, LIKE AN ANGRY LOBSTER! Well, Flora was a little bit wild in this chapter, haha. I think the babies could inherit good things from her though, even if she's not very clever or talented.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	135. Farewell to Herring

Chapter 135: Farewell to Herring

The next morning, the royal company gathered around a fire constructed from scavenged driftwood, and positioned just outside the cave entrance. The smell of freshly grilled fish mingled with the seaweed and the salt-brine air; covetous seagulls circled and dived from the cliffs overhead. It was a damp, murky morning – as was usual on the northern coast – and the wind carried a faint autumnal portent.

Teagan, who had overseen the construction of the fire, had asked Flora if she wanted to go into the village to break her fast. In response, Flora glanced in the direction of the huddled buildings in the distance, and then silently shook her head; hunching her shoulders miserably. The bann had not pressed the issue, but made sure that she was given the largest and most succulent portion of grilled trout.

"How long will it take us to reach Highever?" Zevran asked, his voice faintly muffled. With a catlike distaste for the damp, he had wound Wynne's woollen scarf several times around his head. On anybody else this would have looked ridiculous, yet the elf somehow managed to appear almost _stylish._

"If the weather keeps in our favour, and we don't lose the light too early, we ought to be there in three days," Teagan replied, forking another slab of grilled fish onto Wynne's plate. "I've an inn in mind for tonight, one I've stayed at before. Name of _The Flagon and Blessing._ The tavern-keeper is trustworthy, and it's not well-known. _"_

Alistair nodded, he was eager for Flora to spend eight hours in a proper bed, beneath a solid roof. He was well aware that his wife had not passed an easy night; though this was due to her body's physical discomfort and troubled thoughts, as much as it was due to their surroundings. Flora herself had been very quiet throughout breaking her fast. She sat with her back to the huddled stone buildings a half-mile distant, eating her grilled fish with head bowed and shoulders slumped. Not even Zevran's teasing about the mottled aftermath of Alistair's kisses, which trailed across her collarbone and down her throat, could raise a smile.

Alistair himself was eager to be off – to leave the hideous little village firmly behind – but was aware that they could not leave without first speaking to Pelegrin, Flora's adoptive father. To this end, he kept swivelling around to squint off towards the clustered buildings, hoping to see a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette approaching over the sand.

Finally, he recognised a figure making its way measuredly across the beach towards them. Pel did not rush – nothing in Herring moved at a rapid pace – but paused to check the scraps left by the incoming tide as he went; kicking aside driftwood and lifting up clumps of seaweed. At one point, he stopped to retrieve something half-submerged in the damp sand. Whatever the object was, it was soon tucked into the battered leather pack slung over the old fisherman's shoulder.

After checking the contents of the lobster pots, Pel continued to make his way towards the royal company's fire.

Alistair pressed a hasty kiss to the side of his forlorn wife's forehead, then scrambled to his feet. Teagan followed in the king's wake as he strode across the sand, determined to intercept Pel before he could get within earshot.

On seeing the king and bann approach, the fisherman stopped on the sand and eyed them shrewdly. Pel was a tall, broad and powerfully built northerner – he bore more than a few passing similarities with Loghain. The wrinkle-latticed face and the grey, tangled beard were in stark contrast to the strong arms and weathered, capable hands; the muscle hardened over decades of hauling boats up over the sand.

Instead of bowing, the Herring native let out a grunt of greeting, his pale blue eyes settling curiously on Alistair's face.

"Mornin', yer maj."

Alistair took a deep breath, calming himself deliberately before speaking. He wanted nothing more than to pour forth a torrent of complaints; to vent his frustrations at his wife's sadness to the man that had always seemed a human manifestation of Herring itself.

"Flora's upset, ser," he began instead, gut twisting as he recalled Flora's desolation. "She's been in tears since we arrived."

"Somethin' wrong with the babe, eh?" Pel replied, his brow creasing.

"What? _No!_ No," Alistair retorted, immediately. "The babe – _babies_ are fine. She's having twins, by the way."

Pel grimaced reflexively: for the majority of commoners within Ferelden, having an extra mouth to feed was _not_ a blessing.

"Eh, sorry."

Alistair felt a low churning of frustration within his belly, and forced himself to take another deep gulp of damp air.

"No need to be sorry, I'm very happy about it," he said, measuredly. "Absolutely _delighted,_ actually. But – what I meant, was, Flora's not had the best time since we've arrived here. She's been looking forward to coming back to Herring for months- "

" _Years_ ," interjected Teagan, and Alistair nodded.

"Years, and it's… it's not gone as she expected."

Pel gave a perplexed grunt, one that Alistair recognised as a sound of _query._

"Well, the _tourists,"_ the king explained, his brow furrowed. _"_ The tours around the village – _'this was the Hero of Ferelden's home for ten years. This was where she lived. Here are the lobster pots that she used to empty'_. The selling of _souvenirs:_ the strands of seaweed, the _Herring grit._ This place has made a profit off my wife's memories- out of her _life!_ She's been – she's been _exploited."_

Alistair trailed off, indignantly. Pel eyed him for a moment, and then gave an eloquent shrug, the wrinkles on his face deepening as he opened his mouth to speak.

"The village has made more money in the pas' three months than in three _years,"_ he replied, in the rasping, coarse-edged tones of the north. "'Cause of the extra coin, we ain't needed to send the boats out in the worst storms to bring in a catch. We've 'ad enough to tide us over 'til the sea settles. We ain't lost a soul in _weeks."_

Alistair blinked, visibly torn. On the one hand, he could see the man's point – and in his position as king of Ferelden, naturally approved of anything which benefitted the common citizen. On the other hand, he could not forget Flora's face when she had seen her much-prized ' _Herring Grit'_ bottled up for sale, its meaning cheapened.

"Well, Flora's mother is insane," he said, in a blunt change of tack. "Has she always kept that mouldering corpse propped up at the dinner table?"

"'That _'mouldering corpse'_ was my _son_ ," Pel retorted, with a brief flash of defiance. The next moment a small sigh escaped his throat, one shoulder rising in a shrug. "Eh, but it's not, anymore. It's the bare bones, what the sea chose to return to us. The loss of the lad ruined my wife's mind."

"Well, _your_ wife was vile to _my_ wife," Alistair said, a fraction less confrontationally. "Poor Flo was in bits."

"Gerda's sick in the 'ead," Pel replied, the resignation writ raw across his face. "She's not been right for years. The lass should _know_ this – she knows not to take what her ma says to heart."

Alistair and Teagan looked at one another; an anxious hazel gaze meeting a pale green stare.

"I think you ought to speak to Florence yourself, ser," Teagan said, finally. "She's just breaking her fast."

The three men walked over the sand; Pel's loping stride easily able to match that of the two younger men. Overhead, the gulls wheeled and cried out to one another with unintelligible urgency. Pel glanced upwards, then grunted a comment in a brogue so thick that neither Teagan nor Alistair could make out his words.

The rest of the company were still seated around the dying embers of the campfire. Zevran was perched elegantly on a boulder, gazing pensively out to sea like a centrepiece from some illustrated storybook. Ser Gilmore was conversing with the scouts over the map; Alistair was not the only one keen to depart the village as soon as possible.

Flora was clearly in the middle of being berated by Wynne. The senior enchanter was kneeling beside the despondent queen, pointing out letters that the latter had just traced in damp sand with her finger.

"Come now, Florence, _concentrate!_ I know you can spell _Pentaghast,_ so it bemuses me utterly why you have chosen to start it with a _'Y'."_

Flora looked down at her scribed letters and let out a mournful sigh. "I have the brain of a _turnip."_

"My love," called Alistair as they approached across the sand. "Sweetheart, it's your dad."

"Pa! _Papa!"_

Despite her newly conflicted feelings about Herring, Flora's instinctual delight at seeing her father again rose to the fore. She swivelled and made to clamber upright, Pel hastily reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

"Eh, don't get up, lass!"

Flora beamed up at the old fisherman with transparent delight, a new brightness settled across her features. Pel lowered himself to the sand beside her with a grunt, his pale, clever eyes moving up and down his adoptive daughter's new shape.

"Yeh got a belly like the prow of a ship," he commented, raising a bristled, greying eyebrow. "Mus' be ready to spawn, soon."

"Mm, in a month. Wynne thinks it'll be a couple of weeks," Flora replied, moving one hand to rest on her stomach. The twins, with such little space to move, spent most of their days sleeping now in preparation for the birth.

 _Not in Herring,_ Alistair thought wildly to himself. _Not here. Please, Maker. I can't have Herringites as children._

Pel let out one of the many grunts within his vocabulary; unintelligible to anyone other than a northerner. Only a native of the Storm Coast could accurately discern the meaning of a grunt based on timbre and intonation alone.

"Husband lookin' after you, eh?" he continued, returning to coherent speech.

"Yes," replied Flora, reaching out to wind her fingers in the fraying woollen hem of Pel's jumper. "You could search the whole ocean and not find a better husband."

Alistair beamed at the eccentric compliment; appreciative of its underlying meaning. The smile was wiped rather rapidly off his face at the fisherman's next question.

"And you ain't given him no cause to beat you?" Pel continued, with northern bluntness. "It ain't good for you to get a smack in your condition."

Flora shook her head as Alistair's eyes bulged in sheer, horrified incredulity. The blanching king was struck dumb by the notion that he could _ever_ raise a hand against his beloved wife; his queen; his best friend; the saviour of his country and the mother of his children.

"Pa," the queen herself continued, taking a deep breath to ensure that her words emerged relatively stable. "Papa, there's been a lot of – a lot of _changes_ to the village. Tomar's son is sellin' – _selling –_ 'Herring Grit'!"

Pel snorted, casting an appraising eye up at the gathering clouds.

"Is that what's got yeh blubberin' like a babe, lass?"

Flora blinked at him, grateful that she had managed to keep her composure.

The old fisherman shot her a sideways glance, then returned his gaze thoughtfully to the sky; thoughts meandering.

"I reckon that's a big storm brewin' up there. Yeh don't want to be sleeping out in the tent tonight."

"She won't be," croaked Alistair, still in a state of shock at the suggestion that he could ever lay a violent finger on his wife. "I'll… I'll make sure of that."

Pel nodded, his thoughts returning to Flora's comment like salmon making their way upstream.

"What they're doin'," he said at last, canting his head towards the village. "It don't change your past, do it?"

Flora blinked at him with eyes large and solemn as those of a young seal. Pel continued, clearing his throat partway through the uncharacteristically lengthy speech.

"It don't change the meanin' of the place for you. That's in _here- "_ he planted a fist approximately in the middle of his ribs. "Your memories ain't changed, 'less you want 'em to be. Everyone's proud of you… in their own way. You know it ain't in our nature to show it."

Everybody was very quiet, their eyes fixed on Flora's pale, pensive face as she mused over her father's assertion.

Finally, the corner of Flora's mouth turned upwards and they all breathed an inward sigh of relief. The twisted corner expanded into a proper smile, and she reached out to put her fingers on the weathered skin of her father's wrist. They were all silent for a moment, listening to the wailing cries of the gulls and the equally frenetic clamour of the nearby waves. Alistair, unused to northern stillness, reached out and tightened the leather strap around his wife's weak knee.

"Ma isn't proud of me," Flora said softly, after a moment. "She called me a noble bedwarmer."

"Your ma ain't right in the head," Pel countered, gruffly. "She's no different to how she's always been – yeh _know_ not to take it personal, like."

Flora nodded slowly, watching Alistair's long, capable fingers working at the leather band.

"I could cure anything wrong with the body," she whispered, almost to herself. "But I couldn't cure a sick _mind._ You know I tried."

"And you grew a thick skin 'cause of her sharp tongue," Pel reminded his adopted daughter, casting another glance up at the sky. "Ain't that thick skin served you well over the years?"

Flora thought about it: about the years of cruel jibes from her classmates in the Circle; the sly comments from her Warden brethren; the many side-eyes and sour remarks made about her accent, or her inferior status as a mage over the years. Flora had let the derision flow over her like the tide, with her spirits whispering in her skull and her Herring stoicism bolstering her heart. She had never allowed the mockery of others to dishearten her, or dissuade her from what she intended to do. In fact, in many cases, their cruel comments had actually _hardened_ her resolve.

At her side, Alistair's face was twisting in a grimace. He did not agree with Pel's rationale – that the years of mean treatment from her adoptive mother had tempered a resilience in Flora that had been instrumental in ending the Blight – but at this point, he simply wanted his wife to feel better.

To the king's relief, Flora was nodding slowly. She brushed at her cheeks as though embarrassed by yesterday's tears; taking a long and steadying breath.

"Yes, papa."

There was another long moment of quiet. Overhead, from somewhere deep within the miasma of cloud, came a low and ominous rumble. Flora glanced at the menacing skies and turned anxious eyes on her father, fingers tightening on his sleeve.

"Do you have to go out in the boat today?"

The old fisherman shook his head, the beginnings of a rueful smile curling from beneath the salt-and-pepper beard.

"Nah, lass. We made enough profit from them visitors – and the sale o' Herring Grit - to see us through t'end of week."

Flora blinked, struck into thoughtful silence. Teagan took advantage of the pause to clear his throat tactfully, shooting a swift and meaningful glance towards the king.

"We should be on the road soon, Alistair. It'll take all day to reach the inn, and we don't want to get caught in that storm."

Impulsively, the king slung an arm around Flora's narrow shoulders as she sat in the sand, pressing his lips to her hair. She tilted her head to peer up at him and his hazel gaze swept appraisingly over her face – Alistair could interpret the minute sea-changes in Flora's expression as accurately as her father could read the sky overhead.

"Does that sound alright to you, my love?"

To everybody's immense relief, Flora gave a quiet little nod, her grey eyes soft and contemplative.

"Mm."

It took only a short time for them to pack up their belongings and load them onto the cart; everyone moving more hastily due to their desire to _leave_. The clouds were massing like an opposing army, lurking menacingly on the horizon.

The natives of Herring came out to see them off, three dozen villagers clad in the rough wool of the north; their expressions ranging from suspicious to mildly curious. Flora's mother was there too, standing beside Pel, who had a steadying hand on her elbow. In contrast to her earlier strident belligerency, Gerda now appeared pale and confused. She watched the cart being loaded up, the Theirin-liveried guards calling out to one another as they checked the baggage and strapped it in place. Teagan was methodically checking the hooves of the horses, making sure that the shoes were screwed tightly in place and that there were no stones wedged between flesh and metal.

Her eyes went next to Flora, who was standing beside Alistair and swivelling her gaze across the landscape; as though trying to fix Herring and the Storm Coast in her mind forever. Although nobody had mentioned it, Flora was aware that it was unlikely that they would be visiting her old home again. Alistair's fingers were entwined with hers, his warm and strong palm reassuring as ever.

"The girl ain't stayin'?" Gerda asked Pel suddenly, a raw note in her voice. "I... I thought she were come back to us for good."

"No, wife," replied Pel, patiently. "She's married, an' got babes on the way. She lives on the east coast, now."

Gerda fell silent, seeming a greyer, frailer shadow of the formidable woman they had met the previous night.

Flora looked at her adoptive mother, then squeezed Alistair's fingers before dropping his hand, padding across the gravel towards Gerda. Impulsively, she thrust herself upwards – Gerda was several inches taller – and kissed the woman on her mottled, wind-blasted cheek.

"Bye, ma."

Alistair relaxed a fraction as his wife returned to him across the sand, her face fixed and pale as a seashell. The little boy, Tomar's son, went scuttling in her wake, brandishing something in a small fist.

"Flora, _Floraaa!"_

The guards twitched at the informality of the address, but no Herring native would ever refer to their local mender as _your majesty._

Flora turned towards the little boy, who had a pinched and anxious face. Clearly, the child had picked up on the queen's general unhappiness yesterday, and felt somewhat responsible.

"'Ere," chirped the child, holding up a glass vial of beige sand. "Some _Herring Grit,_ free of charge!"

Flora swallowed, and made herself smile as she reached out to take the little vial.

"Thank you," she said, gravely. "I – I'll treasure it forever."

She thought for a moment, and then turned to a nearby barrel. On its barnacle-encrusted, half-rotten wooden surface rested a set of fisherman's tools, placed there by one of the locals as they saw the royal company off.

In a swift gesture – the hallmark of practising with Zevran – Flora stretched out the end of her long ponytail and sliced off six inches of hair. She then handed the distinctive oxblood clump to the gawping boy, steeling herself to maintain the smile.

"I bet you can get a good price for this," she said, recalling the crimson ribbons tied to the lances and polearms of the Fereldan United Army. "I… I hope you make enough profit that nobody has to go out in a storm for the next few weeks."

Jan reached out reverently to take the strands in a grubby fist, his eyes wide.

"Say thankee," instructed his uncle sharply, and the boy dutifully did so.

As the Herring locals dispersed, Alistair, who could not quite trust himself to speak coherently, reached out to tug gently at his wife's unravelling braid. Even with six inches shorn off, her hair still fell to the middle of her back; beforehand, it had reached below her waist. Flora turned solemn, cloud-coloured eyes on him, the damp lashes like dark reeds surrounding a clear pool.

"My love," he murmured, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. "Here, I'll have another of your hair-bands somewhere. I've a collection of them."

Alistair had grown used to finding a selection of the leather ties that Flora used to restrain her hair in the tucked-away parts of his clothing; hidden in pockets, tucked in folds of his tunic and even inside the toes of his boots. Sure enough, he was soon able to locate a tie up his sleeve. Flora ducked her head and allowed him to weave the strands of her hair into a rudimentary but functional braid. Once the king was finished, he bent forwards and kissed the top of her head; soft and affectionate.

"There we go, sweetheart. All done."

Shortly afterwards, they were mounted on horseback and the scouts were advancing on the road ahead; leading the company between the low, curving cliffs and out of the cove. A fine drizzle had begun to fall, the seagulls singing out either a forlorn farewell or a celebration of their departure – depending on how one chose to interpret it.

Alistair – and the rest of the company – breathed an inward sigh of relief as the village of Herring shrunk to a dull, grey dot behind them. Flora had kept her gaze fixed stubbornly forwards until the very last moment, when she swivelled around in the saddle and shot one last, wistful stare towards her childhood home.

"Goodbye, Herring," she whispered, the words half-muffled against Alistair's shoulder. "Thank you for… for everything."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Oooooh, so it's goodbye to Herring for poor old Flo! I'm not sure how much I agree with Pel's logic - yes, Flora did learn to be resilient in Herring - it was where she got the grit in her soul - but was it worth the years of hard living and ill treatment from her adoptive mother? I don't think so... although her toughness did end up benefitting Ferelden. But those are exceptional circumstances! Anyway, I thought it was a nice way for Flo to make peace with Herring - the donation of some of her hair. It was getting ridiculous long, anyway, hehehe. Who needs butt-length hair?!

HAPPY NEW YEAR! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	136. Danger in the Woods

Chapter 136: Danger in the Woods

The royal company followed the coastal trail east for the next few hours, making good time along a surprisingly well-maintained road. It was steep but properly surfaced, and the branches of surrounding fir trees had been shorn before they could stretch too far over the road. The drizzle stayed light and bearable; the weather was reasonably mild considering that it was almost Kingsway.

Teagan remarked on the quality of the roads, praising Fergus for his dedication to maintaining the routes and byways of his teyrnir despite the distractions of the past few months. Flora pricked up her ears at the mention of her brother's name, cheering briefly before slumping back against Alistair's chest. She was sitting backwards on the saddle to better lean on him, her face planted squarely against his shoulder. The king was aware that his wife was dejected – there was a difference between this dolefulness and her usual solemnity – and had not released her from his embrace all morning.

"For a small country, Ferelden has a variety of diverse landscapes," Wynne commented as they passed through the heart of a craggy valley, its gravelled slopes precarious with boulders and loose stone. "From the rocky cliffs of the north, to the swamps of the Korcari Wilds- "

"The Frostbacks in the east, and the pasturelands of the Bannorn," agreed Teagan, keeping a cautionary eye on the unstable slopes ahead. "I've not travelled Thedas enough to know if there's other regions like it. I've only been to the Marches, and once to Orlais."

"Orlais is as rich in its geography as it is in its wealth," murmured Zevran, his lyrical, sun-infused accent in stark contrast to the damp and misty surroundings. "To the south are the Arbor Wilds, an unsettled forest littered with elven ruins. They say that the Dalish who reside there are the fiercest in Thedas. Then, at the furthest reaches of the empire, lie the Western Approaches. This was once a lushly forested region, but when the Blight came – it ravaged the land, rotted the soil, and turned it into sand."

"That's what would've happened to Ferelden," Alistair chimed in, nuzzling his chin against Flora's rain-damp head. "If it hadn't been for my brave and beautiful wife. _Hero of the realm."_

Flora let out a northerner's grunt into his shoulder, glancing upwards. The babies had woken up some time ago, and it felt as though they were wrestling within her stomach. Her back ached and her feet were swollen within her boots; riding on horseback was increasingly uncomfortable, and yet she would rather have eaten her mustard-coloured woollen dressing gown than ride in the _cart_ with the baggage.

"And then there are the mountain ranges," continued Zevran, his voice soft against the pattering backdrop of drizzle. "The Frostbacks, the Hunterhorns, the Gamordan Peaks, _Ezoire._ Orlais is ringed with mountains."

"Aye, to keep the Orlesians in," muttered Teagan, prompting a snort from Alistair.

"Have you been to any Orlesian cities, other than Val Royeaux?" Wynne enquired, clutching the reins in a single hand while expertly tucking loose strands of hair back into her bun. "I once visited the Circle at Montsimmard, just after Ferelden declared its independence. _That_ was a series of awkward dinners, I can tell you."

The senior enchanter smiled privately to herself, returning her other hand to the reins. Zevran chuckled, deep and rich.

"I once killed a sadistic viscount in Lydes," he reminisced, wistfully. "And I received _this_ old wound in Jader. But, my dear Wynne, I am not sure there is a person in Thedas that has been to _all_ the towns and cities in Orlais. There are, after all, _dozens."_

Flora raised her head from Alistair's shoulder, intrigued at the concept of such extensive civilisation.

"Dozens?"

" _Sí, querida,"_ replied Zevran, pleased that she had roused herself from her gloom. "There are many, many settlements within Orlais."

"Can you name them?"

" _Arlesans, Churneau, Ghislain, Halamshiral, Sahrnia, Salmont, Serault, Verchiel,"_ began the elf, after a measured breath. "And that is not all, but I shall start upon the _Vals: Val Chevans, Val Chevin, Val Colline, Val Falaise, Val Fontaine, Val Foret, Val Gamord, Val Henar,_ and _Val Montaigne!"_

"And _Vallyroo,_ the capital," offered Flora as Alistair tightened his grip, feeling the squirm of their children between them. "Why do so many of their cities began with Val? What does _val_ mean?"

Zevran shrugged an elegant shoulder; fortunately, the well-read Wynne was able to provide an answer.

"It is Orlesian for _valley_ , Florence."

"Oh," said the wistful Flora, fiddling with the end of her braid. "You and Zevran are _so_ clever. I bet your brains weigh as much as a tuna fish."

"Well, perhaps a catfish," Wynne replied, gratified to see some colour returning to Flora's cheeks. "But thank you, child."

"Would you ever wish to see Val Royeaux for yourself, _carina?"_ enquired Zevran, nudging his horse forwards as the path rose out of the shallow valley. "Explore the tangled Wilds and wander the grape-rich valleys of Serault? There is a lake near the capital so still that the locals have named it _Miroir de la Mère,_ the mirror lake."

Flora shook her head immediately, swivelling around on the saddle to sit forwards as Alistair hastily aided her movement.

"No," she replied with northern bluntness, resting her hands on his restraining arm. "I like Ferelden."

"My wife is a true patriot," Alistair said proudly, lifting his bearded chin. "My Alamarri queen."

Flora twisted her head and smiled at him, and he inhaled a great gulp of relief; pleased that she had perked up.

They continued to follow the road out of the gravelled valley, emerging onto an open moor just as the rain graduated from drizzle to downpour. This, strangely enough, was Flora's favourite type of weather, and did more to cheer her than jokes or geographical discussion. She sat straight in the saddle and tilted her face up to the misting rains, her lips parted and her eyes closed; the dampness wetting her eyelashes and trickling down onto her cheeks.

Alistair leaned across the saddle towards Wynne, and asked her in a hushed whisper whether it was _unhealthy_ for his thirty-three weeks pregnant wife to get _rained on._ The senior enchanter had almost laughed – and then seen the anxiety on the new father's face.

"No, Alistair, it won't do her any harm," Wynne replied, patiently. "Though take care that she doesn't become too cold, and that her hair doesn't get soaked through."

Alistair had dutifully wrapped his wife's head in a woollen scarf until she looked like a Rivaini bride, then bundled her in as many blankets as he could scavenge from the carts.

The company ate in the saddle and continued to ride through the afternoon. They passed through a wooded valley littered with stone ruins, then followed a winding stream for several hours. Gradually, leather tunics proved ineffective against the rain; by the time that the sun slid languidly towards the western horizon, even woollen smallclothes were soaked through. One of the horses went lame on the cobbled road and had to be led, the scout perching rather grumpily in the cart with the baggage.

The light was just leaving the sky when the drizzle finally abated. Teagan called for a halt, keen to spread out their maps and consult the route. They had passed several toppled wooden signposts during the afternoon - victims of the playful northern wind – and the scouts had been forced to navigate with compass alone. They drew to a stop at the edge of a damp cluster of woods; an incongruous clump of trees perched at the peak of a low hill. Several damp sheep eyed them malevolently, annoyed at having to share the sparse shelter with an extensive company.

The maps were spread out over a nearby toppled tree trunk; Teagan, Alistair, Ser Gilmore and the scouts immediately gathered around them and began to point out scribbled roads and blotchily inked landscape features.

"Is that a valley?"

"It could just be a splotch of ink. Isn't there meant to be a village here – _Skingle, Shingles –_ where is it?"

"Gone, swallowed up by the malevolent Storm Coast as breakfast," chimed in Zevran, perching himself elegantly on the end of the toppled trunk. "Chewed up into splinters."

"Was that stream we crossed earlier meant to be this river?" Teagan added, squinting down at the map. "It was about the width of my saddle."

"I've seen more impressive streams when I take a piss in the mornin'," added the guard, then looked hastily around to check that the queen was not in earshot.

The queen, who would not have batted an eyelid at the crude comment, had vanished into the nearby trees. The twins had been prodding experimentally at her bladder for the past few hours; this was the fourth time she had needed the privy since they had eaten lunch.

It was quiet beneath the soft canopy of firs, the last vestiges of rain dripping from the branches onto the moss-covered earth. The fading light cast a peculiar, green-tinted hue over the ancient trunks, as though the wood was submerged deep beneath the waves. The few brave birds that dared venture out from their nests were perched on the branches, pecking miserably at damp feathers and eyeing the mottled earth for worms.

Flora knelt beside a thin trickle of water and rinsed her hands, watching the bushes rustle several yards away. A rabbit scampered out from the leaves, saw the human girl, and froze in its tracks.

"Don't worry," said Flora, waving her fingers at it. "I can't eat meat at the moment; my children don't like the taste."

The rabbit turned with a flash of a white cotton-tail and darted into the undergrowth. Flora dried her hands on the hem of her woollen tunic and lumbered upright, awkward as a new-born foal.

"Right," she said into the damp air, and then felt a chubby little foot nudge experimentally into her bladder once again. "Oh, no! Don't you try it! There's _nothing left in there."_

Patting the mound of her stomach, Flora was about to head back towards the edge of the trees when a strange, plaintive cry wended its way through the thin air.

"Help, help!"

Flora blinked, her brow slowly furrowing itself into a crease. There was a pause, and then the cry came again, high and reedy.

" _Help, help!"_

"Wha - ," she said, head swivelling. "Help?"

Meanwhile, those gathered around the maps had seen a sight far more unusual than a disappearing village. The royal company could count in single digits the number of other travellers they had met since leaving the Circle – not counting the crowd of nosy tourists within Herring. Yet a dozen yards away, a wagon had emerged from a hitherto unnoticed path in the woods. It was a humble trader's wagon, the back weighted down with canvas-covered goods. Two dwarves sat at the front of the cart, one clutching reins attached to a belligerent-looking mule. Another dwarf sat on the backboard, humming tunelessly to himself and puffing at a long pipe.

The guards turned to face the new arrivals, Ser Gilmore stepping forward and clearing his throat.

"You are in the presence of the King of Ferelden, dwarves!" the knight announced, as the dwarves looked vaguely confused. From the sharp tang of alcohol in the air, it seemed that they had been engaging in some liquor-based merriment on their journeys. The dwarf on the backboard fell flat on his face onto the damp earth, a bottle rolling out from his jerkin.

"Eaahhh!"

"Be at ease," Alistair said hastily, as those gathered around the toppled trunk turned to face the new arrivals. "Greetings. You look about as damp as we do."

"What's your business on the coastal road?" Teagan asked, sliding a nearby stone onto the map to stop it from curling upwards. "We've not run into many other travellers."

"We're booksellers, ser," the dwarf clutching the reins replied, his ginger moustache quivering. "On our way from Denerim to Verchiel. We got a range of books for all tastes – saucy novellas, epic poems, _'istory_ books and great novels."

Wynne raised an eyebrow, her shrewd eyes lighting with interest.

"Do you sell parchment and ink?" she enquired, thinking of her unfinished letter to Irving.

The dwarf with the moustache gave a woeful shrug, the corners of his mouth turning down.

"Eh, many apologies, milady – we're fresh out of parchment and ink, I'm afraid. You got a taste for _litch-er-atchure_ , milords?"

"Not particularly," replied Alistair, giving a rueful shrug as he gazed up at the cart. "Though my wife does need new reading material. We've been struggling through some Chantry tracts from the Circle, but they're full of words like _excommunication_ and _transubstantiation,_ and poor Flo isn't coping very well."

The other dwarf at the front of the wagon gave a throaty chuckle, his rich brown eyes lighting with interest.

"Oh, aye! Which one's your wife? Not this lovely lady, I assume!"

He gestured towards Wynne, who offered a polite and un-amused smile as Alistair shook his head. There followed a pause that lingered strangely in the air. The two dwarves on the front of the cart eyed each other; the one on the ground moved an appraising gaze over the royal company.

Alistair was about to ask if they had any books for children- with large, separated letters – when the oldest dwarf spoke, each word carefully crafted to appear casual.

"So… where's yer wife, then? The queen?"

The king's question died on his tongue, the conversational light fading from his eyes as it was replaced by a steely stare. Beside him, Teagan stood a fraction straighter; fingers moving to the hilt of his blade.

"Why do you ask?" the bann enquired, coldly.

"And do not lie," Zevran added, from where he had stealthily crept up onto the wagon's backboard. "As you have _already_ done about your profession."

The elf sliced at the rope ties attaching the canvas to the wagon; the heavy fabric fell to the muddy ground. Instead of books, the cart was filled with weaponry – axes, pole-arms and blades – in a great tangle of metal. Immediately, their subterfuge was laid bare, the insignia of the Carta painted in crimson on the inside of the wagon.

Alistair inhaled sharply, his pupils shrinking to the size of pinpricks. Even as the dwarves rose to their feet, defiantly drawing wickedly curved blades from their belts, he was unsheathing his own blade. The guards let out a bark of warning, metal singing as they pulled forth weapons.

"You've come for _my_ wife?!" the king bellowed as he strode forwards like some avenging scion of Alamarri legend, sword raised and face incensed. _"My wife?!"_

The following skirmish was short and bloody; Zevran had slit the throat of the dwarf feigning drunkenness before he even had time to draw his short-sword. The dwarf with the ginger moustache swung his own blade with moderate skill, but was felled by two foot-long arrows from Ser Gilmore's bow; each one hitting like a punch to the gut and tearing their way deep into muscle-bound flesh.

The eldest dwarf – the one who had enquired ever so casually about Flora's whereabouts – received a swift and brutal thrust between the ribs from Alistair's blade. The king was so angry that he did not angle his blade straight for the heart in a killing blow; instead, the silverite point tore a ragged gash through the dwarf's lung.

Alistair barely noticed, yanking his blade free with a sickening scrape of metal against bone. He was already turning towards the woods, the colour draining from his face as he shouted for his wife.

"Flora! _Flora!"_

The others, leaving carnage strewn at the foot of the wagon, followed the king into the woods, each one desperately calling the queen by all variants of her name.

"Flora!"

" _Florence!?"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: OH NO! DWARVES! Happy New Year everyone! I can't believe it's 2018!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	137. The Carta Dwarf

Chapter 137: The Carta Dwarf

With adrenaline and terror coursing through his blood like fast-igniting oil, the king crashed through the undergrowth; hares and other small creatures scattering before his single-minded charge. He almost collided with Wynne as they simultaneously rounded a weeping willow; Zevran's tan face drained of richness as he followed in the senior enchanter's wake.

 _"There!"_ Wynne said suddenly, pointing towards a nearby circle of trees.

Flora was standing in the centre of a small clearing, looking slightly confused.

"Someone was calling for help," she said, taking a step towards them. "Did you hear anything?"

Shapes moved behind her, flitting between the trees like a swift-moving shadow. Alistair opened his mouth to bellow a warning, preparing to spring forwards as the Theirin lion realised in human flesh. Yet even his battle-honed reflexes were no match for the companions at his side. Before the king could move a muscle Wynne's hand had lifted, an elongated stream of glittering, crystallised light surging from her fingertips. The stream shot over a startled Flora's shoulder and collided with the figure at her back, encasing the dwarf in a sheer coating of ice. The would-be kidnapper was frozen solid mid-lunge, one side of a net clutched in icebound fingers.

The other half of the net fell to the ground, as did the dwarf formerly clutching it. The Carta peon dropped to the moss-covered earth with a dull thud, one of Zevran's slender throwing knives wedged deeply in an eye-socket. Silence settled over the small wood; a contrast to the chaos, clashing metal and bellows that had echoed about the trees only moments prior.

Flora turned around in astonishment, her gaze moving from the frozen assailant to the felled one. She blinked, her mouth opening in a question; then squawked as she was embraced roughly by strong, desperate arms.

"Flora," the king croaked feverishly, his pupils shrunk into pinpricks of panic. "My love – _Maker's Breath."_

Alistair's handsome face was a mottled grey beneath the olive complexion. His fingers trembled as they dug themselves into the rich navy wool of her tunic, anchoring his fat-bellied wife tightly to him. He bent his head to Flora's far-shorter one, burying his face in the mass of dark crimson hair and inhaling the salt-laced scent of her; feeling the press of their children against his abdomen.

"Maker's Breath. _Thank the Maker."_

Flora clutched him back with equal fervour, her astonished eyes lifting to her companions as they gathered around her. Teagan sheathed his blade with a sigh of relief as he came to an abrupt halt, his gaze settling on the frozen assailant.

"Nets are for fish," observed the queen after a moment, unsure what else to say. "Not for girls."

Alistair let out a choked sound that was half a gasp of relief, and half a sob. He was still holding Flora in an uncomfortably tight clench, his eyes wide and staring.

"Let her breathe, Alistair," Wynne said quietly, watching Flora's face pinken. "She is unharmed."

The king blinked, uncomprehending. Flora squirmed free, sliding her hand down his arm and entwining their fingers. As Alistair felt the pressure against his chest ease, he let out a grunt of distress and pulled his wife back into his embrace. Flora found herself with her face once more pressed into his travel leathers. Abandoning the pursuit of freedom, she nestled her nose into the hard muscle of Alistair's chest and inhaled his distinctive masculine scent.

While the king continued to reassure himself that his queen and babes were unharmed, Teagan had gone to berate the guards; murmuring his displeasure in quiet and steely tones. Zevran sauntered across to the frozen figure, his dark eyes glittering with dangerous promise. The dwarf was frozen solid within the icy prison, his mouth open and curling beard encased in white; fists still grasping the rope of the net.

"Wynne, you are an _astonishingly_ gifted woman," the elf murmured, sliding a fingertip down the frigid cheek. "A far more elegant solution than the one I provided."

This was in reference to the other dwarf, who lay bleeding on the earth at their feet. A dagger had been wedged so deeply within his skull that the tip was buried in the moss.

"Ah, but there is a time and a place for brute force," the senior enchanter replied, lifting her skirts as she stepped delicately over the bloodied figure. "I thought that we might desire to _question_ one of the wretches before disposing of him."

"A wise idea," said Zevran, his lip curling in disgust as he gazed at the creature that had tried to capture their new queen. "I eagerly await the… _defrosting."_

Inch by inch Alistair's grip on his wife loosened, his frantic heart slowing from a chaotic race to a more measured, yet still rapid, beat. Flora peered up at the underside of his bronze-stubbled chin, noticing a vein pulsing in his throat. Standing on her toes, she pressed her lips gently to his neck; her fingers clutching the sleeves of his tunic.

"I'm alright," she whispered, anxiously. _"We're_ alright."

"But that was _too_ close," Alistair croaked, one trembling palm cupping her face. "Maker's Breath – if we'd been a few moments later, they would have got you in the net and _hauled you off – Maker- "_

The colour drained from his face and he swayed on the spot; aghast at the prospect of his heavily pregnant wife being dragged bodily across the ground. Flora looked around desperately for some aid – she was certain that she would not be able to support the weight of her six foot and three inch husband. Fortunately, Ser Gilmore and Zevran stepped forward to grip the king's elbows; steering him over to sit on a low tree stump.

"Flo – _Flora- "_ Alistair protested, his head swivelling in the direction of his wife. "Stay with me."

Flora followed in his wake, kneeling down on the mossy ground beneath her hunched-over husband. Alistair reached out blindly, his fingers gripping a thick clump of oxblood hair. Flora, trying not to squeak, let her chin rest on his knee. Gradually, the king began to calm down, his hand stroking compulsively over his queen's head; taking comfort in the soft, familiar cloud of oxblood hair against his calloused palm. She nestled her cheek into his thigh, feeling the damp earth seep through her leggings.

Teagan returned from berating the guards and immediately appraised the situation. He strode across to his nephew and put a hand on Alistair's shoulder, leaning down to murmur that the scouts had performed a quick reconnaissance of the woods. They had found no further sign of Carta presence – it seemed as though the wagon and its passengers had been the only vehicle involved in the abduction attempt.

As Alistair received this reassurance, the fear began to crystallise into fury; storm-clouds darker than any of those in the sky above gathering on his face. He caressed the back of his wife's neck one final time, then rose to his feet. His eyes swung across to the frozen dwarf, the pupils shrinking with steely menace as they honed in on their target. There was none of the usual kindness to be found in the hazel irises, only a hard and unforgiving focus.

"Wynne," he said softly, taking measured steps across the wooded clearing towards his prey. "How would you recommend we thaw this fellow? I've a few… _questions_ that I'd like to ask him."

Wynne finished checking Flora over – the queen was physically unharmed, if a little shaken – and turned to face Alistair. Without a word, she lifted her staff from her back and held it aloft. The head blazed with heat, burning with an ochre flame so authentic that only the lack of smoke gave it away as arcane in origin.

Alistair nodded tightly, his fingers running compulsively over the hilt of his sword.

"Do it."

The king began to pace back and forth before the frozen figure, his boots sinking into the mulch of damp soil and fallen leaves. Wynne held her staff out at the base of the iced figure; moisture beading on the frigid surface as it began to defrost.

Zevran reached down an elegant hand to Flora, who was still kneeling on the ground.

"Up we get, _querida,"_ he murmured, gripping her fingers and hauling her upright with a grunt. _"Oof! Mi pequeña calabaza."_

Flora sat down on the tree stump, patting her stomach in response to a wriggle from within. The babies been roused by the shouting and commotion from earlier – with only a thin sliver of flesh separating them from the cool autumnal air, they had heard every bellow.

"Alright, poppet?" Teagan murmured as he passed by the tree-stump. "Quite a scare you gave us there."

 _Quite a scare for the twins,_ Flora thought to herself, feeling them squirm. _This dwarf woke them from their nap!_

The more she thought about this, the angrier the queen got. If it had been _her alone_ whom the dwarf had tried to ensnare, that would have been one thing – but, for another few weeks, _her_ also included _her children._ The thought of her two little creatures – whom she had dutifully protected since being made aware of their existence– being thrust into danger, caused a deep boil of uncharacteristic rage to begin brewing inside her belly.

Wynne continued to _defrost_ the dwarf with her staff held aloft; the frozen figure positioned at the centre of the company like some religious effigy. Alistair continued to pace around the unfortunate ruffian like a Mabari circling a robber, fingers compulsively wandering over the hilt of his blade. Zevran sat perched on a nearby boulder, very still and yet poised to spring forward at the slightest movement from the melting dwarf. Ser Gilmore and the guards had salvaged all they could from the Carta wagon, stripping it bare of wheel axles and steering rods. They were now stationed at various points on the hillside, keeping an eye out for any more unwelcome travellers.

Teagan, after building up a small pyramid of branches and kindling, had started a fire. Although he was a firm believer in the power of a stiff drink – he had already passed around a flask of gin – he knew that alcohol made their queen nauseous in her current condition. He had therefore retrieved a copper pot and a pouch of peppermint leaves from their own wagon; then begun to measuredly prepare some tea.

Flora was still sitting on the tree stump, her fine-boned face cool and expressionless. Teagan put a hand on her shoulder as he offered her the cup, hoping that she was not in shock. She gave a soft grunt of thanks, taking the steaming cup and inhaling the sweet, minty scent. The babies had gone back to sleep within her belly; yet their resumed calm was not shared by their mother.

 _I could have fallen when they netted me,_ Flora thought, recalling Alistair's lamentation from earlier. _It could have hurt the twins. Or worse!_

"Now, Alistair," Wynne said with a note of warning in her tone, lifting the blazing staff head from the melting dwarf. "There's a lot that can be learned from this creature… if he stays _alive_ long enough to find it out."

Alistair reluctantly slid his sword back into its sheath, a seething anger clouding his handsome features.

"He _will_ die by sunset," he replied, keeping his voice steady with some difficulty. "But… not until we've asked him some questions."

Inch by inch, the dwarf defrosted. The ice crystals on his beard melted, dripping down his chin and onto the front of his leather tunic. All of a sudden, he let out a choked gasp; blinking dazedly and flexing frostbitten fingers. The net fell to the damp leaves with a muffled thud.

"Wha- " he croaked, swaying on feet numbed to the bone. "Whaa- "

Alistair inhaled unsteadily, his hands clenching into fists with the effort of restraining the instinctual urge to lunge.

"No tricks," warned the elf, sidling forwards like a predator sighting prey. "I could kill you faster than I could _threaten_ to kill you."

The dwarf sputtered out air that had been trapped in his lungs for a half-candle; the vessels in his eyes broken and bloodied. He looked around at his adversaries, a sly lip curling as he assessed the situation.

A branch swung its way from nowhere, hitting the dwarf squarely in the face with a splintering of wood. The dwarf spat out several teeth, and blinked three times, increasingly slowly. The next moment, he toppled backwards into the damp leaves, knocked out cold.

The company turned in astonishment towards their queen, who was red-faced from the effort of wielding a branch nearly as tall as she was. Fuming, Flora let the improvised club drop to the soil; outrage writ starkly across her elegantly-hewn Cousland features.

"How DARE you!" she screeched with the fury of a fish-wife cheated in the market. "How _dare_ you?!"

The dwarf was unconscious and could not hear her. The company stared, gobsmacked.

"Aaaaagh!"

Uncaring that her opponent was prostrate on the leaves the queen stormed across the earth like an avenging fury from Alamarri legend, and swung one unwieldy booted foot into the dwarf's crotch. This resulted in a distinct _crunching_ sound, and all the men present involuntarily winced.

Puffing slightly, Flora stepped back and surveyed her handiwork with a vague air of approval. Alistair closed his gaping jaw with some effort, then strode forwards and put an arm around his wife's shoulders.

"Nice swing, darling," he said proudly, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "And that was quite the kick."

"Florence! Was that really _necessary?"_ Wynne enquired, trying and failing to look disapproving.

"Yes," replied Flora, inspecting the red marks that the bark had left on her palms.

Zevran let out a cackle of delight.

 _"Mi sirenita!"_ he crowed, stepping over the prostrate dwarf and kissing the queen on both cheeks. "You are so _sexy_ when you are being ferocious. _Mi tigresa."_

The queen exhaled unsteadily, tilting her head to receive the affection.

"Well," said Teagan diplomatically, failing to hide a smile. "Since it appears that we're to be here a while longer – until our guest wakes – shall I start on dinner?"

The royal company made themselves more comfortable within the wooded clearing. The fire was bolstered, several hares brought out from the wagon and cooking apparatus set up. A vegetable pottage was heated up for the queen, along with a side-dish of mushrooms.

They ate without ceremony, sitting cross legged on blankets strewn over the damp mulch. The fire crackled merrily, spitting and smoking; the delicious smell of roasted rabbit drifting through the damp air. In the foreground – within close proximity to four different blades – the dwarf lay slumped on the leaves, a lump the size of a plum swelling on his forehead.

For the first time, Alistair could not concentrate fully on his dinner. His restless gaze kept returning to the dwarf's face; each time, the hazel irises would darken a shade with barely suppressed anger. To his annoyance, he did not have enough hands to grip his wife's fingers, hold a fork and also grip the hilt of his sword.

Flora's anger had drained away; she was focused firmly on her dinner. The stew contained a variety of interesting vegetables, herbed and peppered, the mushrooms were raw enough for her peculiar tastes.

"Do you remember much of Highever, Florence?" Wynne asked, dabbing her lips delicately with a square of linen. "I know that your memories were restored, but the recollections of a child are patchy at best."

"And Flo was just a baby when she was at Highever," Alistair replied, through a mouthful of rabbit. "How old were you when you were sent away, darling? Four, five?"

Mid-swallow, Flora held up five fingers.

"I do remember a little bit. I remember a… a place with tall towers," she said softly, searching the little-used recesses of her mind. "And it was always full of people. Hundreds of people."

 _And dogs. Packs of dogs, wandering the hallways and lying beneath tables._

"And dogs," the queen continued, after a moment. "And an old woman who chased me up and down the corridors. I don't know who it was? My mother?"

"Probably a nanny of some sort," Wynne corrected, casting another glance towards the limp dwarf.

"I'm looking forward to seeing your brothers again, _mi florita,"_ said Zevran, twirling a throwing blade expertly between his fingers. "Especially Finian. Do you think he will be at Highever yet?"

Flora was about to explain that Finian would be at _Amaranthine –_ his own arling – when Teagan spoke up, his head ducking in a nod.

"Oh aye, he should be."

The queen looked astonished, although she was the only one in the company to react with surprise. After shooting a quick glance at his uncle, Alistair kept on eating, swallowing in measured mouthfuls. Wynne busied herself with dabbing at a spot on the sleeve of her robe, her brow creasing. Nobody wanted to confess that they had been quietly discussing the possibility of Flora remaining at Highever until she gave birth – rather than returning to Denerim, as was the original plan. When this option was tentatively raised before, Flora had been inexplicably horrified; insisting that they return to the capital before she went into labour. On seeing her alarm, Alistair had not pressed her further.

Yet after the revelation about the twins – and the realisation that the birth might occur several weeks earlier than originally estimated – the rest of the company had quietly conferred once again; coming to the collective decision that it would be far better for them to stay at Highever until the babes were born. Alistair had not yet broached this with his wife; but, in anticipation of the birth, Finian had already made his way to the teyrnir's capital.

Flora was about to ask why her brother had left Amaranthine, when Zevran let out a low hiss of warning under his breath. The dwarf was beginning to stir, eyelids fluttering and a soft groan emerging from his throat.

The queen's companions acted swift as ever. By the time that the dwarf's left eye had opened – the right was swollen luridly shut – he had the tips of several blades pointed at his throat, alongside Wynne's ominously gleaming staff.

"The Carta must be running low on applicants, if it employs amateurs such as yourselves," Zevran murmured, tracing the edge of his blade with a menacing finger. "We have some enquiries to make of you, _lombriz."_

"Ugh," the dwarf croaked from his prostrate position, dried blood from a shattered nose staining his beard with mottled crimson patches. He reached up with broad, calloused fingers to touch the swelling on his forehead, the broken nostril, the blackened eye; then inhaled sharply as he tried to sit up.

"Yeh've broken me banger," the dwarf wheezed, in agonised outrage. "Yeh little bitch!"

Despite the immediate outrage of her companions, Flora was not bothered by the insult. Conversely, she was delighted by the implication that she had ruined his manhood.

"Ahahahaha!"

Alistair, on the other hand, now threw off his straining composure with joyful abandon; seizing the dwarf's rudeness as an opportunity to release his barely-suppressed fury. Letting his sword tumble to the damp earth, he grabbed the spluttering dwarf by the neck and swung him bodily across the clearing. The next moment, the dwarf found himself thrust up against a tree with an incensed king bellowing a stream of white-hot obscenities into his face. The only words discernible amidst the tirade were _whoreson, ball-less whelp_ and _my wife!?_ _My queen?!_

"You may wish to intervene before the wretch's brains are scrambled irrevocably," Wynne observed after several moments, watching the dwarf's bloodied teeth fall to the autumnal leaves like spring rain. "If you still desire to extract information from him, that is."

Teagan nodded, stepping forward with a slightly wary look on his face; as though approaching a semi-wild Mabari.

"Alistair?"

Alistair made no sign that he had heard his uncle, driving a furious punch into the dwarf's fat-padded gut. The would-be abductor let out a wheezing groan, bloodshot eyes bulging.

The bann glanced sideways at Flora, a silent plea in his gaze.

"Alistair," she repeated, her commoner's voice soft and slightly hoarse. "Husband?"

As the bann had hoped, the sound of the queen's voice easily broke through the king's red-mist fury. Alistair stopped mid-way through yet another punch, his head swivelling around to where Flora stood in the damp leaves. Blinking, he let the dwarf drop with a heavy thud to the ground, striding across the mulch towards her.

"My sweet wife," he replied, dazedly. "Are you alright?"

As was his custom, the king reached out to caress both his wife's cheek and the full mound of her stomach; checking that both were unharmed.

Meanwhile, Zevran and Ser Gilmore had darted forward with a length of rope retrieved from the wagon. With quick efficiency, the dwarf was bound against the tree. All the while, the Carta agent shot a malevolent glower at his captors; from the one bloodshot eye that still worked.

"Yeh should've finished me then," he croaked, quite clearly without a shred of remorse. "Ain't man enough to finish the job, eh?"

Alistair ignored the jibe, focused solely on his wife's upturned face. A scowling Teagan strode forwards, one hand on the hilt of his blade.

"Don't think that you'll be leaving these woods alive," the younger Guerrin said, a dangerous edge to the words. "Your clumsy attempt to lay hands on the Queen of Ferelden was treasonous. But the _manner_ of your death will be decided based on how _cooperative_ you are over the next half-candle."

The dwarf let out a throaty, wet chuckle. A thin strand of pinkish-white spittle ran between shards of broken teeth into the greying beard.

"You're jokin'," he retorted, derisively. "I'm _Carta._ I ain't tellin' you nothin'."

The bann exhaled, exasperated.

"We don't have time for this," he said over his shoulder, after a quick glance upwards. The sun was lowering itself with increasing rapacity towards the western horizon, the pale grey sky beginning to infuse with streaks of apricot and rose. "We need to be at the inn by nightfall."

Zevran and Alistair looked towards each other at the exact same moment, coal-dark meeting ripe hazel; different in hue but identical in intent. The elf inclined his head silently, a focused, almost _predatory_ mask settling over his gestures. As he advanced towards the dwarf, his feet moved silently over the damp leaves, and he seemed to _glide_ rather than step.

"Give me a half-candle alone with him, my lords," he murmured, fingers dancing over the hilts of his blades. "I will extract all that is useful from this creature's shrivelled brain."

The dwarf fell quiet, eyeing this new adversary with a curled, derisive lip.

"Ha! A knife-ear?"

Zevran smiled, his teeth glittering in the gathering dusk.

 _"Sí._ Alistair, you may wish to take the wagons on the road ahead. I believe our accommodation lies just over the brow of the next hill. Tether my horse to a tree."

 _Our carina ought not to hear what I will be doing to this creature,_ was the silent augmentation of this statement. Alistair, meeting the elf's glance, understood full well his meaning. The king returned to his queen, slinging an arm around her shoulder while simultaneously turning her away from the bound dwarf.

"Let's go, sweetheart," he murmured, brushing a strand of deep red hair behind her ear. "Leave Zevran to it."

Flora twisted her head just as they left the clearing, overhearing the elf give a dark cackle as he withdrew a pair of gleaming blades from his belt.

"So, you are Carta. Well – in a past life – I was _Crow._ And, _most_ unfortunately for you, I have an _excellent_ memory."

* * *

OOC Author Note: YEH'VE BROKEN ME BANGER! Aahahahaha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	138. The Flagon and Blessing

Chapter 138: The Flagon and Blessing

The scouts had already prepared the horses and carts for departure from the woods. The sky was darkening with each quarter-hour passed, the drizzle had abated but the temperature was falling rapidly. The Carta wagon was laid bare before them, the tattered canvas cover hanging down to the damp grass. One dwarf lay near its wheel; bone-white in a coagulated brown puddle, with a gaping wound cut from ear to ear. The other lay contorted some distance away – Alistair's furious sword-thrust to the stomach had not resulted in a quick death. The final dwarf rested face-down on the gravel, two puncture wounds marking where Ser Gilmore's arrows had passed clean through his chest.

As the royal company emerged from the tree-line, Flora's eyes widened, her pale gaze moving from one corpse to the other.

"There were three more of them?" she breathed, noticing the crossed-ax Carta motif daubed on the inside of the wagon. "I didn't realise."

"Aye," confirmed Teagan, rolling up the map and sliding it into its protective case. "Five in total."

Alistair, whose arm was still firmly gripping his wife's shoulders, turned her away from the mutilated bodies.

"I don't want you to worry about them for a single moment," he murmured into her ear, nudging her gently towards the patient bay mare. "Promise me, my love. You have to focus on gathering your strength for the birth."

"I'm not worried," Flora replied immediately, her eyes not leaving Alistair's face as he lifted her up onto the saddle with a soft grunt of effort. "I'm with you. And Zevran, and Wynne, and Bann Teagan… and everyone else."

The _Flagon and Blessing_ was a mid-sized tavern frequented by travellers passing through the teyrnir of Highever. Nestled within a dip in the landscape that provided some protection from the biting coastal wind, it had a good sized stable, and a small apple orchard to the rear. As befitted an inn located in this most northern of teyrnirs, much of the décor was painted in Highever colours – pale green and rich navy – and a round stained-glass window above the main door depicted the Cousland laurel.

The innkeeper – a rotund, taciturn northerner – shuffled his family out to greet the royal company as they arrived. Two identical little girls with braids and streaming noses peered up at the king in awe; Alistair smiled benevolently back down at them, lifting his queen carefully to the gravel as a stable-lad scuttled forwards.

"My wife is having twins," he told them, as their eyes widened at being acknowledged by such a grand and lofty figure. "In a few weeks time. Although I think we're going to have a boy and a girl."

Flora gave a nod of confirmation – her alternating cravings matched exactly with Herring folklore.

While Alistair checked over the hooves of their horses, Teagan drew the innkeeper aside and lowered his voice.

"Who else is staying at the inn tonight?"

The innkeeper thought for a moment, half-watching his sons unload the baggage from the wagon.

"A man and his newborn babe," he replied after a moment. "A newlywed pair of elves. An' an old lady on her way back from visitin' her nephew in Skingle – she makes the trip every few months."

Teagan exhaled in relief: _no dwarves._

Meanwhile, Flora was peering up curiously at the Cousland wreath emblazoned in bright glass overhead. Even now – over nine months after the revelation that _she_ was a Cousland – it still took her a moment to associate the famous symbol with herself.

Beside her, Wynne gave a yawn. Flora turned and gazed up at her oldest companion, her eyes growing wide and anxious. There came a wriggling from within her stomach and she patted her belly absentmindedly; reaching out to slide her other arm through Wynne's.

"Wynne, you look _tired,"_ Flora breathed, rhythmically squeezing the senior enchanter's elbow as the last of the baggage was carried past them. "Are you? Tired?"

"I am a little weary, yes," replied the mage, the shadows accentuating the lines beneath her eyes. It had not been easy journeying over the past few days. Despite the well-maintained roads, the terrain was rarely flat and the weather had been unforgiving for those not used to the constant bite of a northern wind.

Flora inhaled unsteadily, appalled at the prospect of her eldest companion in any sort of discomfort.

"Come inside!" she ordered, wrapping her fingers within Wynne's and giving them a firm tug. "I'll make you some tea."

"Child," chided Wynne, allowing herself to be guided up the wooden step and over the threshold of the tavern. "You look _unduly_ alarmed. I assure you, there is nothing wrong – nothing that can't be rectified by seven hours sleep on a decent mattress!"

The interior of the tavern possessed a faded elegance – at one point, it must have made exceptionally good coin. A mosaic pattern was studded above a great stone hearth, the booths were padded with bottle-green velvet, and the furniture was made from good-quality oak. Only on closer inspection was the wear of age visible – several mosaic tiles were chipped away, the green velvet was mottled with thin patches, and the legs of the tables had been riddled with woodworm.

There were only a few other patrons within the tavern; an old woman asleep face-down on a far table, and a young elf couple sitting hand-in-hand in a booth. They were far too preoccupied with each other to notice the new arrivals, new brass rings on their fingers glinting in the firelight.

Flora led Wynne straight over to the circular, low table before the hearth. It was surrounded by several elegantly embroidered and overstuffed armchairs, of the sort that were common within the Circle.

"Sit, please!"

"Florence, I'm _fine- "_

" _Sit, please!"_

Snorting, the senior enchanter settled herself within one of the armchairs. To her slight embarrassment, Wynne immediately felt the ache in her bones abate; the saddle-sore muscles sinking into the plump cushions. Flora then went scuttling off to find a footstool – or a suitable substitute.

Alistair and Teagan entered shortly afterwards; Ser Gilmore having taken the first watch outside the door and several guards opting to sleep within the stables to keep a closer eye on the road. After their run in with the Carta wagon earlier, they were taking no chances.

Teagan removed a coin-purse from his tunic and headed straight towards the bar, already eyeing the impressive collection of kegs propped beneath the polished wood. Alistair shrugged off his travelling cloak, hanging it up to dry on a hook before joining Wynne before the hearth.

"Where's – oh," he said, spotting Flora shuffling over with a tower of toppling cushions in her arms. "Ah, sweetheart – let me take those!"

"They're for Wynne's feet," puffed Flora, swivelling. "I'm going to get the tea things."

"My love, shall I- "

"No, thank you. I'll be fine!"

Alistair watched his wife make her way determinedly towards where Teagan waited at the bar. He swung his gaze once more around the tavern – pleased to see that the innkeeper had bolted the main door, as requested – and then cast his eye over the other patrons of the tavern. The newlywed elves were now entwined in each other's arms; the old lady was snoring at even greater volume.

"I don't expect that we'll be ambushed by dwarves here," Wynne said gently, her shrewd, pale blue gaze accurately assessing Alistair's concern. "Try and relax, dear."

"When I get my hands on that whoreson, Howe," Alistair replied, in dark undertones. "What Zevran is currently doing to that dwarf is going to look like an- an… an _Antivan massage."_

At the bar, Teagan collected several tankards and a cup of cow's milk; gesturing to the barmaid that he would also be paying for Flora's requests.

"One kettle, please," said Flora, as the bann raised an auburn eyebrow.

The queen duly received the kettle, headed back towards the hearth; then returned moments later.

"Some water also, please."

As she waited for the woman to ladle well-water into the kettle, the distinctive grizzle of a very young baby echoed from the rooms behind the tavern. Flora's head spun around so quickly that her own ponytail whipped her in the face; instinctively swivelling towards the noise.

 _Concentrate, Flora,_ she thought sternly to herself, turning back to receive the weighty kettle. _That's not your baby._

 _It sounds hungry._

Returning to her companions, Flora busied herself making the tea while the others conversed quietly. The innkeeper moved around the chamber, lighting candles and adding wood to the hearth; warding off the encroaching veil of night.

"It's times like this when I miss our nightingale," said Wynne, receiving her steaming cup with a smile. "Thank you, child- you _do_ make a lovely cup of tea."

"The only thing I learnt in the Circle," Flora whispered in Alistair's ear, as the king drew her onto his lap.

Alistair smiled, pressing his lips to her cheek while surreptitiously inhaling the sea-salt scent of her hair.

"Leliana? Aye," replied Teagan, taking a gulp of northern bitter and grimacing. "That voice could summon birds from the trees."

"Finian once said that _my_ voice could raise the dead," Flora offered, gravely. "I don't think it was a compliment, though."

Alistair stifled his snort in his wife's shoulder, while Wynne unsuccessfully hid a smile. After the grim events of the afternoon, everybody was relieved that the conversation had taken on a more light-hearted tone.

"Alistair, I've heard you singing at Chantry mass before," continued the mage. "You've got a nice tenor. You could regale us with a song!"

"Oh, no," replied Alistair, immediately. "I don't want a reputation as the _king who sings._ What if word gets out? The Empress Celene could ask me to serenade her during our first diplomatic meeting. Then – knowing me – my mind would go blank, and I'd resort to either _Two-Ten Ton Kegs,_ or all six verses of the rude version of _Warden Flora."_

"Seven verses," corrected Flora, her mouth full of currant bun.

" _Seven?_ Did they add a new one?"

"Mm," replied his wife, swallowing. "It's not very accurate, though. I'm not that _bendy."_

Alistair let out a great chuckle, gripping his wife by the thigh to make sure she wasn't shaken from his lap. Delighted that she had made him laugh, Flora beamed. It was the first proper _wide_ smile that Alistair had seen from her since the disastrous visit to Herring, and he was equally gratified.

"My love," he murmured, lifting her chin with a thumb and gazing at her face. "I swear to the Maker, you have the most beautiful smile in Thedas. Look, uncle – wouldn't you agree?"

Alistair tilted Flora's face gently by the chin until it was turned towards Teagan.

"Aye," Teagan replied, gamely. "She's a flower."

Flora crossed her eyes and the bann laughed, leaning back in his chair and taking a long gulp of his ale.

A short while later, the newlywed elves had retired, giggling, to their bedchamber; the old woman was roused after several attempts and steered into her own dwelling. Outside, the moon sat, round and white as a wren's egg in a nest of cloud, wreathed by sparkling celestial strings. The northern wind had been tamed by the oppressive pressure of an incoming storm; a strange, anticipatory calm hung in the air.

Within the locked and barred tavern, the royal company were still settled into the overstuffed armchairs before the hearth; waiting for the return of the elf. Wynne had retired to her chamber, making the excuse that she wished to add another several inches to her latest missive to Irving. The fire crackled low in the hearth, faint curls of smoke drifting lazily up the chimney.

Teagan was sharpening his belt-dagger, sliding a whetstone methodically up and down the sleek, silverite edge. Alistair leaned back against the faded velvet, plucking idly at where the stuffing poked through the worn fabric. A dozing Flora was sprawled inelegantly on her husband's lap, her head against his shoulder and her bare feet dangling over the armrest.

"Did you see the latest letter from Mac Tir?" the king said after a moment, quiet enough to not disturb his snoring wife. "He's off to Blackmarsh to investigate… what we talked about the other day."

"The missing Warden?" Teagan replied, then hastily lowered his voice at a frantic gesture from Alistair. "Ah, sorry- I know you don't want to let her know about the… _situation."_

Alistair grimaced, reflexively touching the top of Flora's head.

"I _will_ tell Flo," he said, as Teagan leaned forward to stoke up the fire. "Once the babies are born and she's recovered. I won't have her worrying about it now."

"She _is_ the Hero of Ferelden, Alistair. The ender of the Fifth Blight."

"She's _my wife,"_ retorted Alistair, stubbornly. "I have to protect her."

Teagan smiled at his nephew, replacing the poker and returning his attentions to his blade.

"I understand, son."

Just then, there came a knock at the door; heavier and more purposeful than the elf's characteristic light clatter. Alistair swore under his breath, clambering to his feet with his yawning wife bundled in his arms. Teagan also rose - albeit at a more measured pace - his hand moving preparedly to the hilt of his blade.

"It's me, my lords," came a muffled, familiar voice through the door. "Gilmore."

Alistair sunk back into the armchair with a low exhalation, while Teagan began to make his way to the tavern entrance. After sliding back the bolts and lifting the heavy bar, the door was opened and Ser Gilmore entered; his boots muddied and cheeks flushed.

"The scouts and I have searched for two miles in each direction, just as you ordered, King Alistair," he said, the tiredness running raw in his voice. "No evidence of camps, wagons or dwarves to be sighted."

"Thank you," replied Teagan, seeing that Alistair was still in the throes of adrenaline. "Come and refresh yourself- there's some ale here, as well as bread and cheese."

"I'm going to take Flo to our bedchamber," the king said at last, inhaling deeply in an effort to slow his racing heart. "If you're still up when Zev gets in, could you send him to me? I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight – the vessels of my body are jangling like lute strings."

"Aye, son."

With one final glance at the front entrance to ensure that it had been locked fast, Alistair carried his snoring wife towards the door that led to the guest chambers. The tavern-keeper's wife hastened to open the door for him, apologising in an undertone about the presence of _stairs._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooohh poor old Alistair is definitely going to be going grey by the time they return to Denerim! One thing that I thought was interesting (and tragically was not the result of careful planning)… was that this progress is following Flora's life in reverse – from the Circle, to Herring, then back to Highever. I'm so excited to write about what Highever and Castle Cousland is like!

I changed the story cover image to the reference pic I use for Flo whenever I get a commission! I have one in the works at the moment, and so while I'm waiting, I thought I'd show you the way I picture Flo to look when I'm writing. I don't know who the girl is - it's an image I got from the Clairol hair dye website lol, so her name is "Clairol Flame Red 1", haha!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	139. Alleviating the King's Tension

Chapter 139:Alleviating the King's Tension

To Alistair's slight dismay, there was indeed a flight of twelve steps that led to the upper storey of the inn. Reflecting grimly that at least this was more advantageous from a _defensive_ standpoint, he began the ascent with his snoring wife in his arms. Flora woke up on the sixth step, saw the floor lurching dizzyingly below her, and went back to sleep.

The upper floor of the tavern consisted of six chambers branching off a wood-panelled corridor; evenly spaced with three on each side. The passage was inadequately lit by a single, albeit impressive candelabra consisting of interwoven antlers.

The chamber ascribed to the royal couple was located at the far end of the corridor. It had been marked by the scout who had brought up the baggage, the doorknob festooned with one of the crimson ribbons that had been produced in their thousands during the latter months of the Fifth Blight. Reminiscent of Flora's high, oxblood ponytail; they had become a symbol of support for the Warden-Commander during her endeavours against the Darkspawn. Soldiers had tied crimson ribbons around their lances; they were fastened to horse's bridles and tucked into armour.

Now that the Blight was over, the ribbon had become an emblem for the queen herself. On the royal weddings g day, crimson ribbons had been tied to lamp-posts and woven through railings; little girls had worn them in their hair and little boys had thrown folded rosettes before the horses. In recent months Flora - who felt fraudulent wearing her hair in the high ponytail now that she was no longer leading armies – had taken to wearing the ribbon in a bow at the nape of her neck instead.

Alistair shuffled down the passageway, gripping a softly snoring Flora in both arms. He passed a chamber that echoed with frantically creaking bedsprings, which he assumed was occupied by the newlywed elves. Sprigs of holly were tucked into the wall-sconces, giving off a sharp, bright scent.

Awkwardly, the king swivelled the knob and used a knee to shove their own door open; plucking the ribbon free as he did so. The chamber beyond was bathed in hearth-light, and dominated by a vast four-poster bedhung with faded plum-coloured hangings. The tavern keeper had clearly attempted to add some _regal garnishes_ to the standard bedchamber. A moth-eaten bearskin was draped grandly over the bedding, a small bowl of marzipan fruits was placed on a side-table, and two battered armchairs had been hauled up from the tavern and placed before the hearth.

Alistair let his yawning wife gently down on the bearskin, striding over to the window and pulling the shutters closed. On discovering that there was no lock, he used his own belt to strap the two wooden shutters together. Once the window was secured, he crossed the room to the main door, and turned the iron key in the lock until he heard it click. Not satisfied, he headed to the dresser and began to shove it towards the doorway.

Over on the bed Flora, woken by the scraping of wood, rolled over and almost had a heart attack as she came face to face with the stuffed bear head. Once her breathing returned to normal, she watched a sweating Alistair position the dresser before the doorway.

"You're barracuda-ing us in?" she asked, pushing herself upright on the mattress and rubbing her nose with her sleeve.

"Mm," Alistair replied breathlessly, stepping back and sucking a splinter from his thumb as he surveyed his handiwork. "A _barricade_ against dwarves with nefarious intent, darling."

Although his tone was deliberately light, there was a note of raw worry running through the words. Flora eyed him for a moment, rummaging through her leather pack for her nightgown.

"I think what happened earlier would have sent a message to the Carta," she said, unlacing her tunic. "That we aren't to be messed with."

Alistair let out an unconvinced grunt, casting one final glance at the improvised blockade across the doorway. Pouring himself an ale, he gulped it down with a trembling hand. Flora watched him thoughtfully, thrusting her arms through the sleeves of her striped, Theirin-crested nightshirt.

"Well, I'm not afraid," she said, honestly. "I'm with all of you."

Alistair let out a heavy sigh, sinking into one of the armchairs before the fire.

"I know, my love. Still, I'll feel a lot better when Howe is locked in the dungeons beneath Denerim Castle."

 _Or, when his head is firmly planted beneath my boot,_ he thought grimly to himself.

Flora buttoned up the ugly mustard-coloured dressing gown, noticing that one of the sleeves had now frayed almost up to the elbow. Feeling a squirm from within her belly, she heaved herself to her feet and padded across the room. Perching on her husband's knee, she put an arm around his neck. She could feel his thigh quivering restless beneath her; his eyes darting between the window and the door; his heart pulsing quick and anxious within the strong confines of his chest.

"Here, sweetheart."

Wanting to distract himself, Alistair tied the crimson ribbon carefully in a bow at the nape of Flora's neck, tucking back stray strands of hair.

"There, my beauty."

She smiled at him, and his gaze softened; the hazel irises bruising to a tender amber. With an arm secure around Flora's waist, Alistair bent forward and nuzzled his face into the swell of her belly, feeling a nudge in response to the pressure. Unfortunately, the squirm of his children only made the king more agitated; his grip tightening possessively on his burgeoning family.

"Maker's Breath, Lola. It was a close call today."

Flora sighed to herself, feeling his breath quick and anxious against her collarbone. Alistair's fingers were wandering over her leg, tapping repetitive, thoughtless rhythms against her linen-clad thigh. She reached up and tilted her husband's face with her own nail-bitten fingers, admiring the strong jut of his jaw and the proud line of his nose. Impulsively, she pressed her lips into the beard-stubble; then nuzzled her face against the chiselled hollow of his cheek.

"Mmm- "

"Mmm, gorgeous girl?"

" _Mm."_

Flora clarified her point by kissing a ragged line along his jaw, breathing in the scent of ale and wood-smoke. Alistair reached up to caress the back of her head, cupping her neck with gentle fingers.

" _You're_ beautiful," she whispered, sliding a small hand into the part-unbuttoned neckline of his shirt. Her palm wandered greedily over the hard banded muscle below, feeling the swollen pectoral ridge, and stroking the tightly packed abdominals. With each button she unfastened, more of the king's broad, impressively-hewn chest was revealed, a rich olive in tone and sporting curls of gilded hair. "Mmmm, crab-cakes."

Amused, Alistair leaned back and let his wife grope him with unashamed fervour; her pupils blown wide with desire as she felt the iron-bound muscle of his stomach.

"Having fun, darling?" he asked, watching Flora stroke the line of downy hair that disappeared into his breeches.

Flora peered up at him through her eyelashes, the full lips parted and a slight bloom on her cheeks. There was an openly wanton edge to her gaze that made Alistair's breeches feel uncomfortably tight.

"Mm, lots," she whispered, her fingers dropping to the waistline of his trousers.

The caress of Alistair's hand wavered, the breath caught in his throat like a fish in the net. Temporarily forgetting to inhale, he watched her unfasten the three small buttons that held his breeches closed.

"F- Flo- ," he croaked, as a slender hand went exploring. _"Maker's Breath."_

The corner of Flora's full mouth curled upwards – the sensuous, hereditary ripeness that had once gained Bryce Cousland a rake's reputation before the teyrn was tamed by the Sea Wolf.

As his wife's fingers grasped their rapidly stiffening prize, Alistair reached up a thumb and tested the plumpness of her lower lip, the air drawn erratically into his lungs.

"This pout kept me awake for hours when we slept on separate bedrolls," he murmured, leaning back in the armchair to allow her hand more freedom to stroke. "You've got the sexiest mouth in Ferelden, baby."

"We didn't sleep on separate bedrolls for long," Flora recalled, slightly breathless from the constant movement of her hand.

Alistair let out a throaty laugh, admiring the fullness of his wife's breast against the mustard wool.

"We were sleeping together long before we ever made love," he reminded her, recalling close-entwined limbs and tightly clasped fingers. "I'd never slept so peaceful in my life, even though we were in the middle of a Blight."

Flora smiled up at him, leaning forwards to press her lips to his cheek. Tongue moistening her mouth in preparation, she then eased herself carefully down onto the rug; guided by Alistair's strong arm. She took a moment to find a comfortable position, adjusting her belly until it rested on her thighs.

"Maker," the king breathed unsteadily, watching his queen lick her lips with shameless need as she knelt before him. "I'm the envy of every man in Thed- "

His words ended in a strangled croak as the infamously sulky Cousland lips wrapped themselves around him; immediately setting about their work.

Some time later, Alistair slumped half-senseless with pleasure in the armchair as his wife's dark red head continued to bob diligently between his thighs. The cords of his neck stood out as he gulped down air, the curls nestled at his pelvis were damp with sweat. Soft, guttural moans escaped his throat; each one absorbed into the woodsmoke-scented shadow.

Outside in the corridor, Teagan raised a hand to knock at the royal couple's door, noticing that the crimson ribbon had been removed. A second later, he paused mid-gesture. The bann was worldly in the ways of the bedchamber, and could easily identify the sounds that were creeping beneath the door.

"Alistair?" he called quietly, leaning towards the wood.

" _Y-yes?"_

"The guards are going to watch for Zevran," the bann explained, trying not to laugh. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight, both."

"Goodnight, uncle," replied the king, in slightly strangled tones. There was a pause, and then he added: "- and Flo says goodnight, too. Well, she's _waving_ goodnight. Ah, um."

Teagan snorted softly, and with a touch of wistfulness. He just about restrained himself from making a glib comment, aware that it might sound a little forced in the light of his own hopeless desire.

A short while after that, Alistair lay slumped back in the armchair with a dreamy smile plastered across his face. His entire body felt as though it had been drained of potency, the muscle liquefied and replaced with a soft, honeyed warmth. His reddened face shone with sweat, his hands lay limp and useless on his thighs; he had not yet gathered the coherency to speak beyond a sated croak.

Flora sat on the rug and surveyed her handiwork, inordinately pleased with herself. She had no doubt that soon Alistair's anxiety would return; but for now, it had melted away into the recesses of his mind, replaced with a lazy afterglow.

After a moment, he reached down a limp arm, groping around until his fingers found purchase in the unravelling mustard wool of her sleeve.

"Come up here and have a cuddle," the king ordered faintly, patting his thigh. "My sweet wife."

As Flora curled contentedly on his lap and fiddled with a strand of hair, Alistair drifted in and out of a doze; his arms wrapped tight around her. The queen yawned, looking at the contrast between the rich oxblood of her hair and the pale tip of her finger.

A moment later she went suddenly rigid and Alistair awoke with a start, clutching her with sleep-heavy eyes.

"Are the twins coming?" he mumbled, as he did each time that she made an unexpected movement.

"No," Flora replied, her head swivelling around the chamber. "I heard a baby."

Sure enough, the thin grizzle of a new-born came echoing once again from some distant corner of the tavern. Flora's brow furrowed and she swivelled in Alistair's lap, clutching the arm of the chair as she swept her gaze around in an effort to ascertain the direction of the cry.

Quite suddenly, the queen felt an ache within her own swollen breast in response to the hungry wail. Bewildered, she reached up to touch her chest, feeling a district throb beneath her fingertips.

"Whaa- "

"What's wrong, my love?"

"I'm aching," she replied, confused. "I don't know why."

From the other side of the wood, they heard a man's voice rise and fall soothingly, while the newborn continued to grizzle.

Flora felt the tears surging as the nerves in her own unbalanced body quivered in response to the cry. Alistair looked down as his wife sniffled, reaching out to dab gently at her eyes with the corner of his sleeve.

"It's not _our_ baby, my love. Besides, it sounds like the father is there."

Flora was well aware that it was not _their_ baby, but she did not quite know how to explain how she felt to Alistair. Instead, she pressed her face to his bare shoulder; then squeaked as his sweat-slick skin made an audibly wet sound against her cheek.

"Ooh," she breathed, as her husband fingered the damp collar of his shirt with a snort. "You're sweaty."

"Because my wife is such hot stuff, naturally," Alistair retorted, nuzzling his damp face against her neck as she squealed delightedly. "I suppose I'd better get a bath before bed."

"Nooo! Nooo! I like your _manly scent!"_

"Not after I've slept in it for eight hours, you wouldn't."

While Alistair partially dismantled the barricade – enough to let him open the door and call for a bath to be brought – Flora tucked her feet beneath her and yawned. Before long, soothed by the cedar scent of the hearth and the warmth of the chamber, she was dozing off in the faded armchair. The firm padding felt far better against her sore spine than the rag-stuffed mattress on the bed.

A blanket was draped over her, a kiss pressed to her forehead; Flora was vaguely aware of the entrance of the bathtub and Alistair's hushed thanks. Not even the scraping of the dresser – which had been temporarily manhandled away from the door – roused her.

Alistair shrugged off his unbuttoned shirt, draping it over the back of the chair while eyeing the range of bath products provided on a tarnished pewter tray. Northerners favoured rough and ready soaps made from fish oil; which tended to leave one as greasy as the creatures from which they had originated. To his relief, the provided soap appeared innocuous enough – the powdery, flowery scent rising from the bath bubbles suggested that the product was Orlesian in origin.

Just as he was bending over to remove his boots, there came a sharp rap from the window. Flora lifted a sleepy head from the armchair as the king barrelled across the room towards his sword. It was leaning in its sheath against the bed; Alistair whipped it out with a singing ring of metal.

"It might not be an evil dwarf," observed Flora from the armchair, pleating the blanket between her fingers as a glowering Alistair advanced towards the window. "It might be a…. friendly owl."

"Stay behind me, sweetheart!"

Alistair did not take his gaze from the shutters, the blade held rigid and aloft and his eyes as focused as a hawk's. Holding his breath, he reached up for the belt keeping the shutters closed and pulled it off in a swift motion. The wooden shutters swung open and Zevran waved at him from the other side of the glass, perched on a sliver of windowsill perhaps six inches wide. The sight of the elf was mildly terrifying – his face was entirely crimson, so thoroughly coated with blood that not even the dark tattooed stripes were visible.

Alistair recoiled, his eyes widening and the sword dropping from his fingers.

 _It's not mine,_ the grinning elf mouthed through the glass, gesturing elegantly towards his blood-soaked face. _Do not fear._

The king reached forward to unlatch the window, yanking the frames back and grimacing as a blast of cold air hit him squarely in the chest.

"Climbing in through a window and greeted by a half-naked husband," the elf purred, his fingers leaving red smears on the frame as he clambered inside. "This reminds me of my days in Antiva."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Being eight and a bit months pregnant is not going to stop Flo from getting down with her husband, lol! There aren't seven verses of the explicit version of _Warden Flora_ for nothing, hehehe. WTF, though – ' _crab cakes'_ during an intimate moment _?_ Sometimes I don't even know what's going on in Flo's head, and I'm writing from her perspective…

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	140. The Carta's Cruel Intentions

Chapter 140: The Carta's Cruel Intentions

"What – you're _covered_ in blood!" Alistair croaked, closing and shuttering the bedchamber window. Zevran slithered down onto the floorboards, his boots making a distinct _squelch_ when they made contact with the wood.

"Arterial spray, _mi amor,"_ he replied smoothly, sauntering across the room and leaving bloodied footprints in his wake. "None of it is mine. Hello, _querida."_

Flora peered at him over the arm of the chair with eyes like silver plates, wide and round.

"Hello," she breathed, looking him up and down. "I'll… find you something to change into."

Zevran blew her a kiss, simultaneously grimacing down at his tunic as the coagulated blood stiffened the finely grained leather.

"And you can have this water," Alistair added, gesturing to the steaming bath. "No offence, but you need it more than me."

"Thank you, _amors,"_ purred the elf, plucking at the laces of his clothing. "And in return, I shall tell you all that I have learnt from our dwarven 'friend'."

Alistair glanced quickly towards where Flora was rummaging through the pack, grumbling to herself as she sorted through piles of maternity gowns that Leliana had optimistically smuggled into the baggage.

"Eurgh! Frills! Eurgh! _Ruffles!"_

Seeing that his wife was occupied, the king lowered his voice. He leaned towards where Zevran was peeling himself out of skin-tight leather breeches while also keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the elf's face.

"The dwarf is _dead,_ isn't he?"

Not dignifying this with a response, Zevran instead shot Alistair a pitying look; draping the trousers elegantly across the back of the armchair.

"My dear Alistair," he murmured instead, combing fingers through strands of blood-clotted hair. "You keep your eyes fixed so _steadfastly_ on my face. Even if you _do_ feel a little inferior in your manhood – there is no need to feel shy. It is, after all, you who won the heart of the lovely Florence!"

"I don't feel _inferior in my manhood_ ," hissed back Alistair, a flush creeping slowly upwards from his collarbone. "Maker's Breath. The bath is molten-hot, by the way."

" _Excelente,"_ retorted Zevran, clambering flamboyantly into the bath as Alistair recoiled. "Aaah: _steaming_ , just as I like it."

Flora returned from the baggage with a tunic and breeches over her arm. She was about to lower herself to the floorboards beside the bath, when Alistair hastily dragged over the low stool from the hearth. The queen sat down on one side of the tub, the king knelt on the other; both looked expectantly at the elf reclining in the steaming bath between them. The water was now turning a shade of pale pink as the coagulated gore sluiced away from Zevran's flesh – though his face and hair were still coated in dried blood.

"What did the dwarf say?" Alistair asked abruptly, dispensing with any other pleasantries. "Please, tell me you got some information out of him."

Zevran raised a dripping foot out of the water and admired the lean muscle of his leg; sinewy and nut-brown in the hearth light.

"Our diminutive friend put up quite the resistance," he murmured, watching beads of moisture roll down the contour of his calf. "It took longer than I thought for him to crack. But – never fear, _amors –_ he ended up spilling his guts. In _all_ senses of the word."

Alistair glanced quickly at Flora, checking that she was not unduly affected by the graphic description. Flora had gone a shade paler, but her face was resolute – this dwarf had endangered her children, and even her extensive compassion had its limits.

" _Sí,_ he ended up being _very informative,"_ the elf continued, lowering his foot back into the bloodied water. "Once I had… _gone to work_ on him a little."

"What's their plan?" demanded Alistair, clutching the bathtub's copper rim.

"Well," began Zevran, his voice taking on a more serious resonance. "It seems as though Nathaniel Howe's scheme has backfired on him rather dramatically. He has been captured by the Carta, and taken hostage _."_

"They've taken him hostage?" repeated Alistair, astounded.

" _Sí,"_ murmured the elf, one elegant eyebrow rising. "The dwarf lost several fingers before he managed to convince me that he _was,_ in fact, telling the truth. When I asked _where_ their headquarters were, he claimed that they _moved around."_

"Using the old dwarven tunnels, I imagine," muttered Alistair. "Carry on."

"Anyway, so they have captured Howe- "

"But nobody is left to pay his ransom," the king interrupted, feverishly. "Only the sister in Amaranthine – Desdemona? Dolores?"

"Dolphin!" suggested Flora, helpfully.

" _Delilah,"_ corrected the elf, with an indulgent smile at the queen. "Finian has been keeping an eye on her – and an even _closer_ one on her correspondence – and there is no suggestion that she has been in contact with her brother. It seems she truly _has_ disowned the family name."

"So, if the Carta have taken Howe, why are they still after Flo?" Alistair asked, plaintively. "They almost _netted_ her today. She could have been hurt – or worse!"

Zevran sighed, turning dark and apologetic eyes on Flora. He reached out to lift a strand of thick, crimson hair from where it was dangling atop the bloodied water.

"From what I extracted from the fiend: the Carta want to capture _you, carina,_ as revenge for the destruction of their headquarters in Orzammar, and the death of their commander, Jarvia. The promotion of Lord Harrowmont to king also resulted in a _purge_ of the criminal underworld within the dwarven city, so they have been 'forced' elsewhere."

"But the Carta _abducted_ me!" Flora said, indignantly. "I didn't even want to go into their headquarters in the first place."

"And Sten killed Jarvia," added Alistair, equally outraged.

The king was making a concerted effort to keep his temper in control, though nervous tension thrummed along every nerve and vein. His nostrils were flared, his fingers tapped agitatedly on the copper flank of the bath. His gaze swung between the reclining elf and his wife, who was perched on the stool with her elbows resting on the rim.

"I am simply telling you what he told me _,"_ replied the elf, fragments of dried blood flaking from his cheek and drifting down to float on the soapy surface of the water. "I was sure to let him know how _unacceptable_ this state of affairs was."

Alistair took a deep breath, his brow creasing as the thoughts raced behind his handsome face.

"So, they want to take my wife," he said, slow and measured. " _My_ queen."

Both Flora and Zevran watched as the king rose to his feet, his face carefully blank. Without speaking a word, Alistair stalked across the chamber towards the window, coming to a halt just before the shuttered space. The next moment, his fist swung against the frame, hard enough to splinter the wood and force the shutter off its hinge.

Flora flinched in shock at the noise. Zevran, who hadn't twitched, reached out reflexively to place a dripping hand on her arm. Elf and queen looked at each other speechless for a moment, and then Flora pushed herself to her feet with a grunt of effort. She padded across the room; the only noise in the chamber coming from Alistair's erratic exhalations. Her husband, two bright bursts of crimson on his cheeks, turned to face his wife with an apology already on his lips.

"My love- "

Flora reached out and grasped her husband's arm, he let her manoeuvre his fingers up before her face so she could inspect the damage. There were bruises and scrapes marring his knuckles, one side of his hand was swollen. Several small, slender wooden splinters protruded from the skin. Alistair grimaced, frustrated by his loss of control; he gazed down at his wife as she began to methodically work the shards from his fingers. One she managed to pry out with her bitten nails, the other she tugged gently free with her teeth.

"Sweetheart- "

"I can't heal these anymore," Flora mumbled, her lips brushing over the scraped knuckles. "Please, take care of yourself."

Wincing, Alistair bowed his head over hers as she loosed his hand.

"I'm such an _idiot,"_ he said, shame-faced as he flexed his sore fingers. "This is my sword-hand. I could have broken it."

"I think you really taught the window-frame a lesson, though," Flora replied earnestly, peering up at him through her eyelashes. "I'll sleep better at night knowing that it's been subdued."

Alistair gazed at her for a long moment, then the corner of his mouth turned up in a reluctant smile. Reaching out, he touched the side of his wife's solemn, fine-boned face and then ducked down to close the foot of air between them, pressing his mouth softly to hers.

"My sweet wife," he said, in the same soft, familiar tone that he had once used to call her his _sister-warden._ "You're as delectable as an Orlesian pastry."

" _Orlesian!"_ Flora's face contorted in horror. "No!"

Alistair laughed out loud, the ache in his hand gradually fading.

"My dear, your expression just then – I could have sworn Loghain Mac Tir was standing before me! _'Orlesian'! No!"_

By now, Flora's face was contorted in outrage.

"Loghain Mac Tir?!"

" _Loggin Mack Teer!"_ repeated Zevran, mimicking the queen's distinctive northern accent. "Ah, _carina."_

Alistair released his wife's hand reluctantly as she padded back across the room.

"I'm going to find you something to eat, Zevran," Flora announced, occupying herself once more with the baggage. "You must be hungry. I think I have pickled herring in a jar, somewhere."

"Delightful!" purred Zevran, leaning back against the copper tub and resting his arms on the rims. "I am foaming at the mouth with anticipation, _querida."_

She shot him a dubious look over the shoulder of the lurid, mustard wool dressing robe; squatting down awkwardly to rifle through the leather packs.

"Foaming? Is that a good thing?"

The elf shot her a wide and enigmatic smile in response, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes creasing. Alistair wandered back over to the bathtub, sitting down on the low stool with his own face lost in thought. Flora was utterly occupied with the task of rifling through the bags – it seemed that nothing had been packed in any _logical_ order, and Leliana's frilly maternity-wear monstrosities were somehow _multiplying_.

Zevran watched the queen grow pink in the face – she had obstinately refused help from her husband – and the corner of his mouth curled upwards, slow and wistful.

"I had a realisation this evening, _mi rey,"_ he murmured, quiet enough that his words were obscured by the grumbling fire, the northern wind, and Flora's dark mutterings as she rooted through ruffled maternity gowns.

"Eh?"

"That, even if- "

Zevran began to speak and then flinched, as though the words had scraped the inside of his throat through their utterance alone. He grimaced, then took a steadying breath and continued; a crease forming across his smooth, richly tanned brow.

" _Ahem. Anyway,_ my realisation was this: that, even if _mi florita_ had not fallen in love with you, I never would have made a suitable partner for her."

Alistair blinked; he had not been expecting this manner of tangent.

"What do you mean, Zev?"

The elf gave a rueful shrug, water streaming in rivulets down the sinew of his throat.

"I _enjoyed_ what I did to the dwarf earlier," he said, very quietly. "I took an artisan's delight in the craft of torturing another living being. I had thought I had left such… such sentiment in the past – when I abandoned the feathered mantle – but, it seems that it was merely lying dormant."

Alistair watched the elf's dark eyes gleam in the flame-edged shadow; the pupils almost the same shade as their surrounding irises.

"It seems that there is something incurably _rotten_ within me," the elf continued, measuredly. "I do not know whether the Crows planted this corruption during my childhood, or whether the seed of it was always there, and they simply nurtured it. Still – it is a growth far too extensive and malignant to remove. I am a man who enjoys killing, and I will always be so. Unfortunately, this places me at odds with our kind-hearted _carina._ "

He made a gesture towards Flora, who was cross-legged before the hearth and in the throes of an _intensive moral crisis._ A particularly hideous maternity gown was clutched in her hands – pink and yellow silk, ambitiously augmented with polka-dots and ruffles – and she was clearly debating whether or not to surreptitiously shove it into the flames. Her dilemma was writ naked across her lovely, grave features; for a moment, the gown's life hung in the balance.

As Alistair and Zevran watched, the grumpy queen finally shoved the crumpled gown back inside the leather pack. A moment later, she removed the garment, smoothed it out over her belly, then began to press it into neat folds.

"She is too… _good_ for me," the elf said, in an undertone, a note of raw yearning ringing in the words. "She is as sweet as _mazapán_ , and I – I am a _killer of man._ And despite her friendship, which has saved my very life and steered me to new horizons – I cannot change what I am at heart. A man like me could not make someone like her feel safe, I am sure of it. I am not you, _mi amor_."

Alistair suddenly felt a surge of sympathy towards the elf, who – like himself - had been irrevocably moulded by forces beyond his control. He almost reached out a hand to grip the elf's shoulder, then remembered that Zevran was still naked in the bathtub.

"But Flo adores you," he said instead, firm and quiet. "And she knows what you are – and what you've done."

Zevran shrugged an elegant shoulder, eyeing his still-bloodied reflection on the gleaming copper wall of the bathtub.

"It is a moot point, regardless," the elf murmured as his gaze dropped to the wedding band on Alistair's finger. "I have never seen a pair better suited to each other than you two. You go together like… ginger and cinnamon."

Alistair beamed, glancing across to where Flora had finally managed to locate the jar of pickled herrings. Zevran followed his stare, a wicked smile curling across his olive features.

" _Ah,_ but the lovemaking would have been exquisite _,"_ he added dreamily, giggling as Alistair nearly fell off the stool. "She and I have always had great _química."_

" _Sshh!"_ squawked Alistair under his breath, wide-eyed. "The babies have _ears._ They can _hear_ what we're saying! There's only about _this_ much between them and us."

The king held his finger and thumb apart a quarter of an inch, hazel eyes bruising with sudden tenderness.

"You can see little feet pressing against Flo's belly," he breathed, swallowing a hard lump of emotion. "You can see _tiny_ _toes._ It- it's _amazing."_

Zevran smiled wistfully at him; then both men looked up as Flora shuffled across the chamber towards them, ambitiously clutching the jar of pickled herring, a long-handled copper kettle, and a cluster of linen handkerchiefs.

"I'm waddling like a duck," the queen grumbled as Alistair sprang up to assist her. "I can't even _walk properly_ anymore."

" _Cuac, cuac,"_ piped up Zevran, rapidly transforming the sad smile into a beam. "Ah, is that my midnight snack, _querida?"_

 _Good luck,_ mouthed Alistair, pulling a surreptitious face over his wife's head as she sat back down on the low stool. _They are disgusting._

Flora caught the tail end of his expression and stuck her tongue out at him, setting the jar at her feet and reaching for the kettle. Carefully, she tipped out some of the steaming water onto a square of linen and wrung out the excess.

"It's a shame it wasn't raining," she breathed, dabbing at the elf's bloodied face with a northerner's firm hand. "Some of this might have been washed away."

With each pass of the damp linen, the tattooed stripes came gradually into view. Zevran tilted his head, his dark eyes following the movement of her hand.

"One more day on the open road," Alistair said, sitting down on the bed and unfolding the map across his thighs. "Well, one and a half. And then we'll be safely in Highever. Where there's Mabari, and guards, and loyal retainers. Sweetheart, how big do you reckon your pups are now? Crab and Lobster?"

" _Cod_ and Lobster," corrected Flora, using bitten nails to scrape away a smear of dried blood from Zevran's cheekbone. "I think they're the size of… of a horse?"

"A _horse?"_

"Mm," replied the queen, vaguely. "Tilt your head back, Zevran."

The fire crackled in the hearth, the loose shutter quivered but held fast against the northern wind. For the first time in his life, the elf closed his eyes, leaned his head against the rim of the bath and presented the slender vulnerability of his cocoa-brown throat to another person. He could hear Flora humming to herself in her hoarse, slightly flat voice; her fingers brushing across the contours of his throat.

"I don't think Mabari come in horse-size, my love," replied Alistair, squinting down at the map. "Is this a river?"

"Mm, it's called the _Vyrnwy,"_ replied Flora, feeling Zevran's pulse surge beneath her fingertips. Assuming that the cause of this increased heartbeat was the exposure of his neck, she touched his cheek with a reassuring thumb; tracing the elongated, fading marks tattooed there a decade prior. To her mild confusion, this did not calm the elf down- instead, his pulse throbbed with even greater vigour.

"Is there a crossing over the river, baby?" Alistair asked, brow furrowed. "I can't tell if this mark is a bridge, or a smudge. Or a drop of ale."

"There's a bridge," Flora replied, wringing out the linen a final time before edging the cloth around Zevran's forehead, where clumps of brownish red still clung to the roots of the hair. "Sometimes it gets washed away, if there's been a storm. I was never allowed out of Herring, but my dad crossed it a few times."

Alistair grimaced, envisioning broken bridges and further delays.

"All done," Flora announced, smoothing her hand maternally over the top of Zevran's damp hair. "Fresh as a tadpole."

Zevran looked up at her, and for a moment there was such rawness in his ink-black gaze that she flinched. Impulsively Flora leaned forward, her stomach pressing against the side of the bathtub, and kissed the elf on his damp, tattooed cheek. He closed his eyes for a moment, elegant throat flexing as he swallowed.

"Ah, _mi sirenita,"_ he said, very soft. "You lied to me."

"Eeeh?"

"You said earlier that your lips couldn't _heal_ any more."

Flora stared at him, unsure what to say. Zevran then rose to his feet with ostentatious languidity; water streaming down the finely hewn contours of his muscled form.

"As payment: here is one last thrill before motherhood begins," he announced, with exaggerated flair. "Behold - a feast for the eyes!"

"Must you always _flaunt_ yourself?!" protested Alistair, as Flora cackled and put her hands over her face. "Maker's Breath."

The elf winked, stepping out of the bath and reaching for the shirt and breeches that the queen had laid out for him. Since they belonged to Alistair, the garments were simultaneously too broad and too long. Still, Zevran made do; knotting the shirt at the waist to show off a biscuit-coloured midriff, and stealing Alistair's belt from the shutters to keep up the trousers.

"May I dismantle the barricade to seek out my own chamber, _mi rey_?" he asked, eyeing the dresser dragged before the door. "Unless, of course, you require a _personal bodyguard_ for _mi sirenita_."

"I can watch my wife tonight," Alistair replied, eyeing Flora as she hung their damp clothing above the hearth. "Thank you for dealing with the dwarf. Your room is just over the passage, next door to the newlyweds."

" _Newlyweds?!"_ The elf's eyes lit up. "I wonder if they need any assistance with the consummation. You know what these inexperienced young husbands are like – they sometimes require a bit of _encouragement."_

Zevran giggled at Alistair, who immediately scowled – not appreciating the reminder that he had fallen asleep _twice_ on his own wedding night.

" _Night,_ Zev!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Zevran's story actually really makes me sad! What a tragic backstory! Actually, all the main companions have sad backstories – Zevran, Leliana, Alistair… even Wynne, when you look at what happened with her son.

Anyway, this was a sweet chapter to write! Also a loooong one, lol. I'm so knackered, I've been out running every single night after work this week for four or five miles… I want to try and get back up to 10k by the end of the month…. Anyway, that has NOTHING to do with my story, hehe.

THOSE DAMNED DWARVES! Omg, the Orzammar chapters feel like they were such a long time ago, haha! It'll be my two year anniversary on on the 1st February, I'm quite excited (especially since I completely forgot about the first one, oops!)

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	141. The Motherless Babe

Chapter 141: The Motherless Babe

Once the elf had navigated his way through the barricade and the door had been firmly fastened in his wake, Alistair made one final patrol of the room; checking the key in the lock and fixing the shutters across the window. He even opened the wardrobe to check amidst the empty shelves, and ducked down to eye the cobwebbed alcove beneath the bed.

Already nestled amidst the blankets with cushions wedged beneath her sore spine, Flora watched her husband reassure himself once more that they were alone. She made no comment at first, but when Alistair rattled the key for a third time to check that it was turned fast; an entreating squeak emerged from her throat.

"Husband!"

Alistair turned to face her and Flora reached out a hand, her grey eyes wide and imploring, slender fingers extended into the shadow like bait.

"Sweet wife," he murmured, abandoning the key and striding across the room; clambering out of the breeches one leg at a time as he did so. Flora beamed at him, shifting herself across on the rag-stuffed mattress so that the king had room to clamber in beside her.

As Alistair reached out to draw the moth-eaten velvet curtains closed around the bed, he dropped a hand to retrieve his unsheathed sword. Lifting it by the hilt, the muscles in his arm flexing, he set the blade carefully down on his side of the bed. Flora, who had nestled herself into her usual spot on his chest, eyed the naked sword with vague misgiving.

"What if you roll over and it _impales_ you?"

"Then I'll regret my decision very much in the morning," he replied, curling an arm around her shoulders. "Rest on me more, my love. I don't want an _inch_ of air between us tonight."

Flora obediently followed his gesture, heaving herself up bodily against the broad muscle of his chest. Alistair rested his chin on top of her head, exhaling long and low as he felt a twitch of movement beneath his fingers; a small rump pressed up against the confines of it's mother's belly.

"Now they _both_ have hiccups," she mumbled, putting a hand beneath her navel. "Ooh, it feels so peculiar."

Alistair reached down to cover her palm with hers, swallowing a sudden lump of emotion that rose in his throat.

"They've clearly been at the ale," he replied, throatily. "Little inebriates."

"No, they have bones," Flora replied, solemnly. "They aren't jellyfish."

Alistair bit back a grin, and did not elaborate on the difference between _inebriates_ and _invertebrates_. Instead, he kissed the side of his wife's head and stroked away some of the fine baby-hairs that curled around her ears.

"They've both turned over," Flora whispered into the shadow, her fingers moving around the now-familiar contours of her belly. "Wynne said that they would. They're getting ready to be born."

 _Please stop growing for a little bit,_ she thought to herself, grimly. _You already seem too big to… to fit._

Alistair, who knew the importance of positioning in the womb from assisting with foaling, let out an unsteady exhalation of relief. Not quite trusting himself to speak, he contented himself with drawing the warm, sturdy body of his wife even closer to his chest; nuzzling his face into her shoulder.

"Have you thought any more about names?" he asked against her hair, the words emerging muffled. "Zevran keeps suggesting _Zevran,_ Teagan likes _Alistair,_ as in _Alistair II_ – which is not happening in this Age or the next – and Gilmore likes _Balreglian,_ who was apparently some heroic bann from the Steel Age."

"Bal- Bal _– Balrog?!"_ mumbled Flora sleepily, pulling the blankets up to her chin. "We can't have a name that I can't _say_ properly."

"Wynne says that we should just call them Baby Boy Theirin and Baby Girl Theirin until we decide on names that are suitable for _recording in historical archives,"_ Alistair replied, gazing up at the faded crimson velvet of the bed canopy.

"Well, _I_ call them Kick and Fidget," she replied, idly kneading his muscled forearm with her thumbs. "I don't know if those are Chantry-approved names."

The young king laughed softly, his eyes bruising with tenderness.

"I don't think many priestesses would dare to oppose the Hero of Ferelden when it comes to the naming of her babies, my love."

As Flora's breathing settled into the rhythm of sleep, Alistair glanced once more towards the sword at his side; reassured by the glint of the dull metal.

The wind continued to circle the tavern for the next few hours, prying at shutters and testing the strength of doors. It managed to work free a few slate tiles from the tavern roof – flinging them triumphantly to the gravel – but overall, _The Flagon and Blessing_ stood squat and steadfast against the temperamental air. It was a northern dwelling, built for endurance rather than aesthetic, and the majority of guests within slept peaceful and undisturbed.

Unfortunately, the king of Ferelden was not experiencing a restful slumber. Every sly rattle at the window caused the adrenaline to surge in his veins, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. He could hear the snores of his companions from the surrounding chambers, the quiet conversation of the guards outside, the soft shuffle of the Mabari's paws as they patrolled the corridor; yet none of these reassuring sounds proved much comfort.

Fortunately for Alistair, Flora had also woken up in the early hours of the morning, roused by the general discomfort of carrying two large infants as a slender-built girl. He had nuzzled his face against her bare shoulder in silent greeting, and then tentatively begun to kiss her neck; lips meandering with soft purpose over the delicate skin of her throat. To his delight, she had pressed herself against him with drowsy enthusiasm, her fingers tugging at the strings of her nightshirt.

A short while later, the queen of Ferelden clutched helplessly at the cushions, her fingers scrambling without success for purchase in the bed-linen. A flush of excitement had spread across her breasts, up her neck, and stained her cheeks a deep pink; beads of sweat forming on her forehead as soft pants escaped her throat. The blankets below moved with increasing vigour, the patterned wool distorted by the shoulders of a grown man beneath them. The king had been immersed between his wife's thighs for the past half-candle, distracting himself from thoughts of danger with the pleasures of intimacy.

"Please," she croaked, feeling hot breath against her thigh. "Please- "

Just as Alistair returned to this most enjoyable of husbandly duties, Flora inhaled sharply; sitting up straight against the cushions.

"Stop, stop!"

To her alarm, her husband emerged from the blankets with unsheathed blade already in hand.

"What's wrong?!"

"Aah! You took the _sword_ down there?!"

"I have to be ready at all times, my love!" Alistair retorted throatily, hair rumpled and cheeks flushed. "What is it?"

The wide-eyed Flora clutched the blankets to her breast, her hair falling in a loose tangle over her shoulders.

"That baby is crying again," she breathed, a crease of distress furrowing itself into her brow. "Can you hear it?"

Alistair leaned up on a muscled forearm, canting his head in the direction of Flora's gesture. Sure enough, a plaintive grizzle was just about audible through the party wall; the sound muffled by the crackling of the hearth.

"Sweetheart, babies _cry,"_ he replied, eyes dropping instinctively to his wife's swollen stomach. "It's what they do. Cry, and eat, and - "

Flora let out an incoherent grumble, pushing back the blankets and tugging aside the faded bed-hangings. The mustard woollen dressing-robe lay crumpled on the floorboards; she manoeuvred herself into it while Alistair scrambled to follow her.

"You can stay here if you like," she whispered, fastening the final wooden button over her breasts. "I'm just going to quickly see what's wrong."

The king bit back a snort at the notion that he would let his wife wander the corridors of an unfamiliar dwelling at night.

"Here, sweetheart," he said hastily, rising from the tangled blankets and crossing the room towards the makeshift barricade before the door. "I'll get this out of the way. But wait a moment before you go charging down the corridor – I'm not in a fit state to be seen in public yet."

Flora turned in confusion towards her husband; her gaze dropping to his flagrant arousal.

"Oh! Oh."

Once Alistair had calmed himself enough to don boots and breeches, he shoved the dresser away from the door. Flora ventured out into the tavern passageway, as one of the yawning guards followed at a tactful distance. The Mabari also trotted in the queen's wake, their ears pricked with curiosity.

Alistair's longer stride – worth two of Flora's shorter steps – soon brought him within reach of her. He slid his arm around her waist as she slowed, ducking to press his face into her neck and whisper in her ear.

"I was in sight of the finishing line just then, and you deprived me of my prize," he murmured throatily; the intimacy of his words making it clear what he was talking about. "But I'll be enjoying the _sweet nectar of victory_ later, I assure you."

As if his meaning was not obvious, the king slid a surreptitious hand between the buttons of his wife's dressing robe; his palm cupping her full breast while a callused thumb circled a nipple with slow provocation. Flora inhaled unsteadily, leaning back against his chest.

"Do you want me to stop, sweetheart?"

"N- no _\- "_

"Is everything alright?"

The bann's chamber door opened from somewhere behind them; followed by sounds of movement within Wynne's room.

Alistair hastily withdrew his groping fingers while Flora composed herself, returning her thoughts to the task at hand. The thin grizzle had fallen quiet for a few minutes, but now resumed once again; weak and plaintive. A man's exhausted murmur could be heard alongside it, the words unintelligible but the plea within them clear. Both sounds were echoing from behind a nearby door, the chamber adjacent to the one ascribed to the royal couple.

Flora padded forwards, heedless of her bare feet, and came to a halt before the door. With a deep breath - resolving just to query whether everything was well - she reached up and rapped her knuckles gently on the wood.

The baby's grizzling continued, but the soft urging of the man paused, replaced with the sound of footsteps. The door opened to reveal a man in his forties; the richly tanned skin and dark hair suggesting that – like their companion, Morrigan - he was at least part-Chasind. Yet the richness had been drained from his colouring, he appeared grey and faded, tiredness creasing his eyes and grief engraving new furrows into his brow. In his arms, he clutched a bundle of linen that emitted a thin, reedy wail, one scrawny arm flailing upwards desperately.

"I'm sorry for the noise, your majesties," he beseeched, clearly having been informed about the royal guests by the tavern-keeper. "Please don't have us turned out."

His eyes slid from Flora to the imposing figure of Alistair at her back; then to where the unimpressed Royal Guard stood a few paces behind.

"Of course not," Alistair assured him, the smooth, confident mantle of a king firmly settled over his broad shoulders. "My wife heard your child crying, and wanted to know if all was well."

A flicker of grief passed across the man's face as he dropped his gaze to the squirming bundle in his arms. The scrawny infant was only a few weeks old, it's face crumpled in distress as a thin, continuous whimper emerged from its throat. There was no mother to be seen anywhere in the man's untidy chamber, nor was there any evidence of female occupation. Suddenly, the cries of a malnourished baby and the weary sadness of it's father made a terrible sense. Alistair inhaled unsteadily, resisting the urge to put his arm around his own childbearing queen; confronted with a man living the nightmare that the king himself had refused to even _contemplate._

"My wife – my Marla – got childbed fever," the man offered in explanation, his voice still hoarse with disbelief. "It's the second wife I've lost to it. Now our son is like to die from malnourishing."

The baby's grizzle of hunger resumed, and Flora felt the odd ache throbbing in her breast once more. It finally made a strange sort of sense; focusing on the whimpering infant, she barely paid heed to the man's explanation.

The father crossed the room, which was far smaller than the one assigned to the royal couple – a narrow bed alongside one wall, a faded armchair before a smoking hearth. Awkwardly, he manoeuvred the babe into the crook of his elbow while dipping his finger into a nearby bowl of cow's milk. The baby grimaced as the finger was offered, turning its face away so that milk smeared across its flushed cheek.

"He won't take it from my finger," the man said helplessly, as one of the guards went to build up the fire. "Not enough to survive. He… he don't understand why his mother isn't here."

"Where are you travelling to?" asked the king softly, sympathy writ raw across his handsome features.

The father gave a helpless shrug, struggling to keep a grip on his agitated infant. It had refused the milk-covered finger and was flailing it's arms; the cries desperate and angry.

"In honesty, I don't know, King Alistair," he replied over the sound of the distressed baby. "I don't know who would hire a Chasind with a babe. My tribe wouldn't take me back, I married out of it when I took my Marla as a bride. I thought perhaps I might travel to Orlais, or the Marches, look for work. Pay for a wet-nurse for my son so that he… he might survive."

"What's your trade?" asked Teagan, who had joined the group in the increasingly crowded chamber.

"A carpenter, my lord," replied the man, then swore under his breath as the squalling infant turned it's head away once again from the offered finger. "Ah, Maker- "

In frustration, he let the baby droop from his arm and turned back to the bowl of milk. As he did so, his harried gaze fell on Flora, who had stepped into his path. Wordlessly, she held out her arms; her pale gaze firm and compelling. The man stared down at her for a moment, his weary face contorted in stark disbelief.

"Your – your majesty?!"

Taking matters into her own hands, Flora reached out to gently extract the wailing bundle. The queen then shuffled over to the armchair before the fire; lowering herself to the faded cushions as the baby nuzzled its face hungrily against her wool-covered chest. Reaching up to unbutton the mustard dressing robe, Flora bared one of her breasts and cradled the infant in the crook of her arm. Guided by innate urge, the snuffling baby's hungry mouth fixed itself immediately around her nipple, it's cheeks moving frantically as it suckled. The former spirit healer - used to listening to her own inner compulsions - had been driven to act purely by instinct; now, slightly dazed, she clutched the babe and let herself grow accustomed to the new sensation.

"Hm," she breathed, touching the baby's downy head as it gazed up at her with wide, bleary eyes. "Much better, eh?"

The baby put a greedy little hand on her breast, the tiny fingers spread like a starfish against the skin.

Alistair, who had moved across the chamber as though in a dream, stared down at his wife in speechless wonder; watching her whisper indistinctly to the hungry infant as it nursed. If he had not been king, or they had not been before others, the bright gleam in his eyes would soon have converted to tears on his cheeks.

"Maker's Breath, Lola," he murmured, using the endearment he customarily used when they were alone. "How – how do you know what to do?"

"Dunno," replied Flora vaguely, fascinated by the baby's fixed stare and the pull of it's cheeks.. "I… I just do _."_

"It's instinctual," offered Wynne softly from the doorway. The senior enchanter's white hair fell in an unwound skein over her shoulders; she had clearly been roused by the noise and come to see what was going on. "Nobody needs to teach you, child."

Alistair crouched down on the moth-eaten rug beside the armchair, staring mesmerised up at his wife. Utterly careless of the presence of others, she was sprawled back against the faded velvet, her own swollen stomach resting atop her crossed legs. The mustard dressing gown was hanging loose, one fawn-coloured thigh and a breast bared; the baby waved small fingers as it lay nestled in the crook of her elbow, hungrily drawing in as much as it could gulp down. Flora's head rested against the side of the armchair, full lips slightly parted and rain-grey irises dreamily unfocused. Ribbons of dark crimson fell loose over her shoulders, in rich contrast to the pale creaminess of her skin. Despite the tired circles beneath her eyes, the grubbiness of her small feet and the lurid hideousness of the mustard dressing robe; there was something strangely compelling about the queen nursing the suckling infant.

"Flora," the king said thickly, the name coming out like a prayer. "I've never seen you look more beautiful than you do at this moment. Maker's Breath."

Flora smiled back at him shyly, something tender and unspoken passing between them.

 _Soon, it'll be our children feeding at the breast. The babies that we accidentally made at Ostagar; the greatest and best mistake of our lives._

Meanwhile the father stared, speechless, at his suckling son; tentative strands of hope beginning to mix with the disbelief.

"My lady," he breathed, his harassed brain only just starting to make the connections between the deep crimson hair and the distinctive, arcing white scarring across Flora's exposed shoulder. "Aren't you – the lass that ended the Blight?"

Flora nodded her head, leaning back drowsily against the leaking stuffing of the cushion.

"Mm," she mumbled, feeling the baby's eyes fixed unblinking on her face. "Not just me, though."

 _Silver Knight; Golden Lady. I wish you were still with me. I miss you every day._

The man had only just grasped the reality of the situation – that the _Hero of Ferelden, slayer of Archdemons,_ was feeding his child.

"The queen is the _Blight-ender?"_ he croaked, paling further as Teagan gave a nod of confirmation. "Ah! Your majesty! I… I'm so… how can I repay- "

Stumbling towards the armchair, the father made to kneel. Flora reached out a hand to halt him, the seawater-pale eyes fixing themselves on his quivering face. The baby had fallen asleep at her breast with fingers curled into little fists, full and contented.

"Don't," she said, softly so not to wake the sated infant. "I'm happy to help. If you need work, my brother, Fergus, would employ you. We're on our way to see him now."

"Fergus," repeated the man, wonderingly. "Teyrn Cousland?"

She nodded, tucking the child's blanket back into place while turning her gaze on Alistair. The king cleared his throat and roused himself from his dreamy reverie; rising to his feet to face the trembling father.

"The teyrn is rebuilding Castle Cousland's defences, so he's in need of skilled craftsmen," he explained, watching Flora from the corner of his eye. "We're on the road to Highever. You're welcome to join our company."

"Then you can afford a wet-nurse," added his wife, returning the sleeping bundle back to the speechless father. "And I'll feed the baby in the meantime."

"Your – your majesty! I- I can't… I can't say how much I… I…appreciate - "

The man trailed off, a chaotic miasma of emotions writ over his face. Flora absent-mindedly buttoned the woollen dressing robe back up, stifling a yawn.

 _The reason Alistair agreed to become king was to protect the country,_ she thought to herself, watching sheer relief settle across the new father's face as he watched his child sleep full-bellied and contented. _My job is to help the people living within it._

"Well, our twins aren't here yet," she replied quietly, feeling a little press within her belly. "And your baby needs help. The _purpose_ of the queen of Ferelden is to serve its people, as best she can. Even down to… the smallest ones."

Flora made to clamber to her feet, but Alistair was already there; reaching down to assist her gently upright. Once she was standing, he put a strong arm around her waist, keeping her close at his side.

"Ready for bed, my love?" he murmured, feeling her yawn against him.

"Mm."

A short while later, the king and queen of Ferelden rested amidst the blankets of their rented bed, the weathered velvet hangings drawn tightly closed. Both of them were naked and she was tucked in her customary position beneath his arm, his forefinger tracing the plump swell of her breast.

"How did it feel?" he murmured curiously, brushing his thumb very gently across her nipple.

"A bit ticklish," Flora replied, stifling a yawn. "But nice. I felt… helpful. Poor little baby with no mama."

Alistair drew up the blankets around his wife, ensuring that she got the lion's share of the embroidered wool. She rested her head against his shoulder, curling a strand of hair absentmindedly around her finger. Something fidgeted within her belly and she glanced down; seeing the outline of a small hand or heel nudging against the skin.

Alistair, whose eyes had also been drawn to the movement, inhaled a deep, unsteady gulp of air. Reaching out, he touched the tip of his callused finger to the distortion of flesh, stroking it with awed tenderness.

"Lo, look - it's _right there._ Maker's Breath. I wonder if that's our son or our daughter?"

"Dunno," replied Flora, sleepily. "Baby Boy Theirin, is that you?"

She patted the curve of her stomach, feeling a hard little nudge in response.

"Hm. Maybe!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: The historical name for childbed sickness is puerperal fever, or sepsis in other words – and it's one of the grimmest phenomena in the history of humankind. In some hospitals in the early-mid 1800s, the mortality rate of new mothers was up to forty percent! Ironically, male doctors contributed to this increased death rate because they treated other diseased patients , or did post-mortems, and then went straight to assist in labour (before germ theory in 1861, nobody would have seen any problem with this. Germs were visible under microscopes, but people assumed that they were the by-product of a disease transmitted by miasma, not the actual cause of disease). The survival rate in wards run by midwives were much higher, because they didn't handle diseased matter.

Lol sorry for that random little lecture! I've done a bit of research work on Semmelweiss, a professor of midwifery in the 1840s who tried to get the other doctors to wash their hands in lime chloride (an acid with antibacterial properties) before they entered the maternity ward. Unfortunately, nobody believed that his ideas were valid (this was before germ theory) and he died in an insane asylum. So tragic!

This was a very sweet chapter to write, especially after all the Carta dwarf kidnapping plot nastiness of recent chapters! For some reason, I've become very attached to the idea of Flora's fucking hideous, luridly mustard coloured woollen dressing gown. I love the visual contrast of this beautiful girl clad in possibly the ugliest garment ever fabricated, hahaha. I don't know why!

No update until Wednesday because there's a loooot of late night stuff to do in work over the next couple of days, sigh! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	142. A Story From Antiva

Chapter 142: A Story From Antiva 

The next morning the royal company prepared to leave just after dawn; wanting to take advantage of the fine weather. The bags were re-packed, the horses watered and the broken wheel on the cart mended by the innkeeper's handy son. Teagan and Ser Gilmore had consulted with the owner of the tavern and were reasonably confident as to their route, while the scouts had ridden on ahead to ensure that no trees had come down in the night.

They had received another set of letters while staying at the inn – Leliana's ravens proving once again their worth when it came to tracking down their recipients. While the last few belongings were packed onto the carts, those with letters opened them in the main room of the tavern. There was a long missive from Eamon to Alistair, a note from Leliana herself to Zevran, another letter from the Chancellor intended for his brother. Wynne had received a letter from Irving; a rolled up sheaf of parchment nearly a foot in length.

There was also a letter from Loghain, delivered by messenger, and addressed to both king and queen. Noticing the seal of Vigil's Keep on the front, Alistair had taken it hastily, glancing down at his wife. Flora was seated in the armchair before the hearth, the baby feeding contently at the breast with small fingers drifting over her chest; her brow furrowed as she puzzled over a simple note from Leliana.

Wynne noticed the king taking the letter to one side, reading it with brow furrowed. Checking that Flora was preoccupied, the senior enchanter sidled over to Alistair's elbow, giving him a pointed nudge. Alistair startled, reflexively flattening the letter against his chest.

"If you're going to jump a foot in the air like that, Florence will certainly work out that something is wrong," reprimanded Wynne gently, as the king exhaled and lowered the letter. "What's the latest news from the east?"

Alistair lowered his voice, grateful that Teagan had stepped forwards to assist Flora and thus keep her distracted.

"The Wardens have found _something_ in the Blackmarsh – a Darkspawn that _talks,_ Wynne! I can't get my head around it. I've always just pictured them as snarling, incoherent _beasts._ How in the Maker did it learn the King's Tongue?"

Wynne let out a soft sigh of incredulity, her pale blue eyes thoughtful.

"I suppose the Darkspawn could change over time, as would any other race. What does it try and talk _about?"_

Alistair shook his head, with silverite shot through both his words and his hazel stare.

"I don't know, and I don't care. For once, Loghain and I are on the same page: Ferelden is no place for Darkspawn of _any_ sort. I _won't_ have the safety of my people compromised, Wynne – I won't risk it."

The king glanced once more towards his fat-bellied queen. Flora had the baby resting atop her swollen abdomen as it suckled greedily at her breast; her attention half-on the letter from Leliana. She kept getting distracted by the baby's focused stare, which was solemn and unblinkingly fixed on her face. Teagan crouched beside the armchair, one finger moving slowly beneath the individual words of the letter.

"No, petal," he was saying, patiently. "H-I-G-H –ever. _Highever."_

"And you've still not mentioned a word of all this to your wife?" Wynne enquired, gently. "Alistair, she's not a child that needs to be sheltered from bad news. This girl has survived demons, dragons and Darkspawn!"

"I know," replied Alistair, watching his wife press a kiss to the baby's soft, downy head. "She has a spirit stronger than anyone I've ever met. But I can't have her running off to Vigil's Keep in an effort to 'help' – she's not a Warden anymore, she's got no magic, she's _three weeks from giving birth."_

"Most likely less than that," observed Wynne, looking at the great mound of Flora's stomach. "Those are some well-built infants, and I think they're probably ready to meet the world soon."

An involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Alistair's mouth. At the same time, a bright determination settled in his eyes; blunt and uncompromising.

"Flo has to be focused on the birth now," he said, quiet and yet utterly steely. "I won't have her distracted – or distressed – over events in Blackmarsh that she can do nothing about."

The royal company left the _Flagon and Blessing_ soon afterwards, beneath an ominously grey-clouded sky. The carpenter and his infant son had no horse of their own – they had been travelling on foot. Baggage and belongings were shifted around in one of the wagons, and a space made for them to sit. The man, whose name was Conall, was still mute with disbelief at his sudden change in fortunes.

Damp hung in the air like freshly washed linen; mist swathed the tops of the surrounding pines like the veils worn by Rivaini brides. In the distance echoed the sound of the Waking Sea chewing angrily at the cliff-face, the waves teased into tall white caps by a stiff eastern wind. Yet the road that led to Highever did not follow the coastline, but meandered vaguely inland. Their route would take them first through a sprawling wood by the name of Mirning, then across a river-bridge and over a granite moor known across Ferelden for the quality of its stone. Their accommodation for the night would be in neither tent nor tavern, but in a manor belonging to a loyal Cousland knight by the name of Ser Camuel.

The Mirning woods turned out to be dark and pleasant. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the thick overhead canopy in gleaming columns; illuminating the vast trunks and tangled bushes. It was a fertile forest, with clumps of mushrooms sprouting between emergent roots and myriad berries weighting down the low-level foliage.

Flora had been snoring on Alistair's chest for the majority of the morning; weary from the thrice-interrupted night. The king held his wife with a strong arm, keeping her steady on the saddle as they followed the woodland trail. His head kept swivelling from side to side, recalling how the Carta dwarves had made their attack from the cover of trees the previous day.

"Alistair, if you keep twisting your head this way and that, it's going to come off," chided Wynne eventually, tired of his twitchiness. "Or you'll make yourself dizzy and tumble from the saddle."

Alistair, who had never fallen from horseback in his life, looked indignant.

"We need a distraction," continued the senior enchanter, stern-faced as she clutched the reins. "Ah, if only our bard were here!"

"Then _I_ will tell a story," piped up Zevran, with a disarming smile. "One from my homeland, one that you have not already heard. And – do not worry – it does not involve my own personal escapades. We have infant company, after all."

The king nodded eagerly, his interest piqued. Alistair had always enjoyed hearing stories, especially ones with exotic origins. There had once been a cook from Nevarra working in Eamon's kitchens that had told the most _fascinating_ foreign stories about evil countesses, and enchanted mirrors, and storms that blew sand waist-high into the streets. Alistair had listened to her soft, accented tones for hours at a time; until Isolde had decided that an _Orlesian_ cook was more fashionable, and sent the Nevarran away.

"The Antivan countryside is abundant with white-flowered almond trees; near-covered in great, blossoming orchards," began Zevran, his richly accented voice taking on a melodic timbre. "Yet the almond tree is not native to my homeland. There is a legend that the trees were brought into Antiva to make a sad queen smile."

The company fell quiet as they listened to the elf. Even the guards stopped their graphic discussion about the unpleasantries that they would inflict on any Carta dwarf that came their way. The sound of the elf's voice wove seamlessly into the soft tapestry of the woods; the rustles from the undergrowth; the whispering of a nearby stream. The horse's hooves and rolling cart-wheels were muffled against the mossy earth.

"Once, in the Steel Age, a great Antivan king named Limean extended the reach of his empire far beyond the boundaries of today's Antiva. He won many battles and captured the people whom he defeated as slaves. One expedition even went as far as the snowy reaches of the Anderfels."

Flora, who had been half-dozing, roused herself to listen. Like her husband, she adored hearing stories – whether it was a familiar Ferelden folklore, or some tale from distant lands.

"The Antivan king fell in love with a slave-girl from these snow-covered mountains, who had eyes like chips of ice and hair like spun gold. He married her and brought her back to Antiva. They were happy for some years, but after a while – the queen grew sadder and sadder."

Zevran shot a keen smile around at his audience to ensure that they were all paying heed. Each member of the royal company – including the father and his new baby – were listening astutely.

"The king despaired of ever seeing his wife smile again. He asked his favourite poet why the queen was so miserable, and the poet replied that the queen wanted to see winter once more. The king was now in torment, since this would be an impossible thing in the balmy climate of Antiva."

"She was probably also sad because she was enslaved, then forced to marry her captor," observed Wynne drily under her breath, promptly _shushed_ by Alistair.

"Then one day, the king had an idea. He ordered for thousands of almond trees to be imported from Rivain and planted on the slopes around the palace. When the trees blossomed, it appeared as though the ground was covered in snow. At long last, the queen smiled."

The company was silent for a moment; a bird calling out high and strident in the green-tinged air overhead.

"My friend, you _should_ have become a bard," Teagan said after a moment, a wry smile curving across his face. "You've got a knack for storytelling."

Zevran grinned, leaning back in the saddle and plucking several berries from a nearby bush as they passed.

"Ah, but I do not have patience for socialising," he replied, rolling liquid-dark eyes. "Or the manners for it."

Meanwhile, Alistair – who had inferred his own meaning from the Antivan tale – was murmuring anxiously in his own displaced queen's ear.

"I'll transform the cove by the Royal Palace into a northern beach if you want it, my love! I'll… I'll have shingle and shipwrecks brought down from the Storm Coast to make it look authentic. I don't want you to feel homesick living in the east."

"You could move the villagers of Herring into the castle to make it even _more authentic,"_ replied Flora solemnly, then giggled as she felt her husband physically recoil.

"Ah – I… uh…."

The queen swivelled in the saddle and pecked her husband fondly on his bronze-stubbled chin; inhaling the familiar leather-grease and soap smell of him.

"I'm only joking," she whispered, earnestly. "And I don't need a northern beach to make me smile. You're all the home I need."

Alistair dropped the reins and put both arms around her, gripping the horse's flanks with strong thighs as he nuzzled his face into his own queen's neck.

"I love you, sweet wife."

"I love you too," she replied, squeaking as the short bristles on his chin quivered against her skin. "Eeeh, that tickles!"

They continued on for the rest of the day, their breaks determined by the intermittent grizzling of the hungry baby. Alistair was both stunned and impressed by the fact that such a tiny infant required such extensive feeding. Every time that their small procession drew to a halt beneath the wooded canopy, the king would watch the cheeks of the demanding little creature move frantically as it gulped down nourishment; one hand on Flora's breast and the other tangling tiny fingers within her hair. The queen had been taken aback by how easily nursing the infant had come to her – the whole experience felt oddly as though she had been doing it for years.

On one occasion, just after they had crossed the river – fortunately, the bridge had survived last night's storm – Alistair tore his eyes away from where his wife perched on the wagon step with babe in arms. With a foul taste in his mouth and a growing sense of nausea rooting itself in his belly, he caught the carpenter's attention.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked, fighting back the instinct that warned him off the question hovering on his lips.

The carpenter looked both astonished and terrified, bowing while simultaneously casting up wide, deep brown eyes.

"Your- _Your_ _Majesty!_ Of course, anything."

Alistair opened his mouth to speak and then decided that the wagon was too near; the other members of the company gathered close-by on the wide earthen road. The king strode several yards towards the grassy river bank, allowing the rushing of the rain-augmented waters to disguise his words. The carpenter followed, with trepidation writ clearly across his weary features.

"King Alistair?"

"I'm sorry to ask this," Alistair said, rueful but utterly intent. "But, I… I need to know."

The man glanced at the king's bright, anxious face, his eyes sliding sideways to where the queen was weighed down by her overripe belly.

"You want to know the particulars of how my Nesi died," he replied, quietly. "My wife."

 _The one who died in childbed,_ Alistair thought to himself. _Like Zevran's mother. Like my own mother._

The king went a shade paler beneath the natural olive of his skin; but when he spoke, his voice was pure, steely silverite.

"The queen _will_ survive the birth," Alistair said, matter-of-factly. "There's no other possible outcome. She's going to be _absolutely fine,_ but…"

Conall looked up with rueful resignation; one new father regarding another.

"But you still want to know," he replied, steeling himself visibly. "Aye, well – it's the least I can do."

Once more, the carpenter's gaze swung towards his suckling son; dark eyes softening as he watched the baby feed to fullness.

"The birth itself weren't the problem. Took less than three candles. Babe was born healthy, Nesi seemed well. For one night, I was the happiest man in Thedas. Then, the next morning, she… woke with a fever."

Alistair grimaced, the involuntary reaction of one who knew full-well how the story was going to end.

"Just a mild fever, and a rash across her belly. I thought it was nothing serious, but my poor Nesi was terrified – I know _now_ that she knew what it meant. By midday, her skin felt as though it were aflame. By sundown, her stomach had swollen up with foul miasmas, and she… she weren't talking no sense. She died before the dawn of next day. It was so _fast."_

The man recited this string of events dispassionately, as though recanting the troubles of somebody else. Only his eyes, pulsing with anguish, gave away the torrid emotion beneath the calm.

"Flo says that in Herring, the midwife washes down everything with saltwater," Alistair breathed, forgetting about formalities in the circumstances. "She says that they hardly ever got a case of childbed fever, though she couldn't explain why."

The carpenter, whose wife was long beyond the aid of salt-water, gave a sad half-shrug.

"It's in the hands of the Maker, I suppose. He chooses who He wants to draw to Him."

"Well, He's not having Flo," retorted Alistair, immediately. "She's _mine,_ for the next five decades."

"Who's not having me?" piped up Flora, who had finished with the baby and brought it back to its father.

An alarmed Alistair turned to his wife, worried that she might have caught the gist of their conversation. But Flora appeared contented enough, carefully detangling tiny fingers from her hair.

"The Carta," he said after a moment, picking the slightly-lesser of two evils. "You're mine forever, darling."

"Like a limpet stuck to a rock," Flora replied cheerfully, nuzzling into the baby's cheek before handing it back. "Or a hook through a fish-eye!"

"Eurgh! Darling!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: I wanted to finish the chapter on a slightly funnier note because the second part was quite grim- puerperal fever is something that gets me every time, and it's still a problem in much of the developing world today!

The almond story is based on a Spanish folk story! I thought it was very sweet, and I love the whole story within a story thing!

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	143. A Happy Reunion

Chapter 143: A Happy Reunion

The nearer the royal company came to Highever, the more civilised the roadway became;graduating from humble dirt track to wide, earthen street. There were sign-posts at regular intervals when the route branched, channels dug at the edges of the road to drain excess water, and even the occasional lamp-post. The terrain was still unmistakably northern – the forests sprung up from craggy spurs of basalt and they were constantly travelling either up or down-hill – yet, the further _east_ they went, the more docile the landscape became. The wild temper of the Storm Coast was dissipated with its proximity to Highever; diluted by calmer seas and more favourable climate.

Yet the town itself lay out of reach for the day – the royal company still had twenty miles of quarry-filled land to traverse before they reached the capital of Fergus' teyrnir. Instead, they would be spending the night at a manor owned by a loyal Cousland retainer, a knight by the name of Ser Cambuel. He had been one of Bryce Cousland's most long-standing servants; who had fought at the teyrn's side on innumerable occasions, over many decades. A chance occurrence – a robbery at one of the farms on his land – had called him away from Highever before Rendon Howe's attack; he was thus spared the blade that was dealt to so many other Cousland retainers.

They reached the edge of the manor's land just as the sun sunk below the western horizon; shadows massing themselves in the dips between the hills. The manor itself was a good-sized building, constructed from grey Highever stone on an unusually flat expanse of land. A square tower with a crenelated roof rose up at its centre, with two short wings extending out to each side. The western wing, with its more open windows and elegant stone detailing, appeared to be a later addition to the original Storm Age construction.

As they rode towards the squat silhouette of the manor, Alistair realised that this night's accommodation signalled their return to more formal society. Hastily, the king of Ferelden retrieved the golden band of authority from where it was nestled in a nearby saddlebag; flattening down his rumpled golden hair with a hasty palm before placing the band atop his head.

"My beauty," he murmured next to Flora, running a thumb affectionately over the curved pink shell of her ear. "Ready for all this rigmarole again, love?"

Flora had already dug out her own slender band from the inner pocket of her tunic. Her hair proved more temperamental than Alistair's; with some liberal application of water from the king's pouch, they managed to tame it sufficient to position the band on her brow. Flora reached up to swivel the inlaid pearl to the front of her forehead, stifling a yawn as a blaze of torchlight caught her eye.

Ser Cambuel and his entire household – two gangly adolescent sons, a pack of over-excited Mabari and a cluster of servants – were gathered on the gravel forecourt before the main doorway, awaiting the royal company's arrival. Men with lanterns on long poles had been sent to stand at the side of the road leading up to the manor; illuminating the last few hundred yards of their journey. Fortunately, a full moon had risen early and added a soft, pewter glow to their surroundings.

The men were clad from head to toe in Highever navy; the banners hanging above the iron-studded doorway bore the Cousland laurel interspersed with the knight's own insignia. Ser Cambuel himself was a tall and powerfully built soldier, with short-cropped greying hair and a hawkish intensity to his well-worn features.

As the royal company drew to a halt on the gravelled forecourt, the entire household bent double at the waist, the torchlight flickering erratically as the lantern-bearers also bowed.

"Greetings, King Alistair!" the old knight declared, as Alistair gave a measured gesture signifying _at ease._ "It is my great honour to host you tonight. Please, let my men take your horses and baggage – I have dinner, and a warm hearth ready."

"Well, you had me at _dinner,"_ replied Alistair cheerfully, dropping agilely to the gravel and reaching up his arms to his wife. "Down we come, darling."

Flora eased herself down alongside him, hiding a grimace at the persistent aching of her body. She was beginning to regret her previous stubbornness in refusing to ride in the wagon with the baggage. This was something that she had once protested against so vehemently that she now felt unable to back-track on her words.

The greying knight stared at the queen for a long moment, gesturing silently for one lantern-bearer to bring their imprisoned flame closer. Ser Cambuel's astonished gaze took in Flora's fine-boned features, the full, sulky mouth, the sea-grey eyes and – most tellingly – the cloud of rich oxblood hair in a single heartbeat; the colour draining from his face until only the pigmented spots of age remained.

"By the Maker," he croaked, dropping to a knee on the forecourt with a crunch of gravel. "Bryce's wee girl, all grown. Who would've thought it?"

Once more, his household and retainers bowed deeply at the waist. Flora, whose memory had flickered in brief, distant recognition on seeing the man's craggy face, now stared down at the top of the man's head. Truthfully, she had forgotten how to react when being bowed to – after all, it had not happened in over two months.

Fortunately, Ser Cambuel's joints were too arthritic to permit him to kneel for long. Soon, he had risen to his impressive height once again, barking instructions to excitable stable lads while simultaneously introducing his sons to the royal couple.

"This is my Bart," he said proudly, gesturing to the gangly elder of the two adolescent boys. "And my youngest, Harry. My oldest boy is off squiring in Amaranthine."

Ser Cambuel's two sons shifted from foot to foot on the gravel, sneaking darting glances between the tall, golden-haired king and his solemn-faced queen. There was an edge of disbelief to their gaze when settling on the latter. It was hard for them to reconcile their mental image of the army-leading, Archdemon-slaying _Hero of Ferelden_ with the short, sleepy-eyed girl before them; only a few years their senior and heavy with child.

"Right, then," said Alistair, conscious of the boys' curious stares. "What have we got for dinner, ser?"

With their horses and baggage in the care of the knight's servants, the royal company were led through the front door and into the manor's entrance chamber. A candelabra of entwined antlers hung overhead, while a series of faded family portraits hung above the staircase – each one spotted with damp and age.

Ser Cambuel directed them towards the main hall – a high, draughty space too narrow to accommodate all the items that had been crammed into it. It held a long, solid wooden table clustered with chairs, several suits of dust-covered armour, standing candelabras made from cast iron, and a harp missing most of its strings tucked into one corner. By the look of the engravings on the furniture and brandings on the metalwork, much of it had once resided in Castle Cousland.

Seeing that the Chasind carpenter was hovering uncertainly near the back of the room with the infant in his arms, Flora nudged Alistair's elbow. The king hastily stopped admiring the engraving on a nearby suit of armour and cleared his throat, turning to the nearby knight.

"This man is travelling with us to Highever," he explained, gesturing. "Would you be able to accommodate him and send up food?"

Ser Cambuel had begun to nod even before Alistair had finished his request, instructing a nearby servant to show the new father to the guest quarters.

 _I'll come in to feed the baby later_ , Flora mouthed as he was guided away; glimpsing a swell of gratitude in the man's dark eyes.

Alistair was shown to the seat of honour at the head of the table; with Flora seated to his right, and the knight on his left. Flora had another seat conspicuously empty on her other side, which she eyed in confusion for a moment before getting distracted by the musings of her companions.

As the servants brought out poached pears and brandied apples – huge jugs of cream were already on the table - Wynne and Zevran continued their argument from earlier. Although the timbre of the conversation was light, the topic was a serious one – the position of Circles in modern Theodesian society. Wynne was trying to persuade the elf that the structures were not _prisons_ ; in Ferelden at least, a Harrowed mage was free to leave the Circle at will.

"But that is not the same for all Circles across Thedas," replied Zevran, skilfully bisecting a wine-poached pear with his blade. "In the Marches, mages and Templars are as prisoners and jailers. In Antiva, they are guarded with equal strictness. I am uncertain why Ferelden is so different."

"We Fereldans value our freedom," interjected Alistair, swallowing an overlarge mouthful with some difficulty. "Even the nobility here need the support of their freemen, which is given or withdrawn as necessary. There are no serfs or bond-slaves in this land."

"That's a good point, Alistair," added Wynne, dabbing her mouth with a napkin in a far more elegant manner. "I wonder if an innate concept of liberty _pervades_ through the culture of Ferelden – perhaps, even through the stone walls of the Circles?"

Flora, who was not a great participant in intellectual discussion at the best of times, felt even less inclined to do so when she was tired. Letting the conversation pass back and forth above her head, she concentrated on spearing the pear-halves with her fork.

"It's all a bit too high-minded for dinner, don't you think, Flossie?" whispered a dry, amused and entirely familiar voice in her ear. "My university tutor once told me that intellectual conversation whilst eating contributed to _pernicious indigestion."_

Flora let out a squeal so loud and piercing that Wynne dropped her fork with a clatter and the Royal guards sprung to attention. Launching herself upwards with remarkable dexterity considering her size, the queen hurtled around her seat and flung herself straight into the receiving arms of her slender, scholarly brother.

" _Finiaahhhh-aaah- ahhhh!"_

The moment that her cheek collided with the fine velvet of Finian's tunic, Flora burst into a bout of uncontrollable weeping; part due to the instability of her body and part due to genuine delight at seeing her brother again. Over the past two months, the queen had found herself sorely missing Finian, and Fergus too. Despite their relatively recent return into her life, Flora had rapidly branded them as _family_ in her own consciousness.

"By Andraste," observed the astonished Finian, whose elegantly-clad frame stood out in stark contrast to the rustic backdrop of the knight's hall. "You've almost as much width as you've height, Floss."

Flora inhaled a great gulp of the distinctive sandalwood perfume that her brother favoured, her fingers winding themselves in the plush fabric of his garb. Too overcome to form coherent words, she continued to sniffle fervently; caught in the throes of emotion.

The others in the royal company also rose to greet Finian, albeit at a more measured rate. Wynne delivered the young arl fond peck on the cheek, Teagan gripped his arm and Alistair embraced him the best he could manage with Flora still clinging on like a particularly tenacious barnacle. Zevran greeted his past lover with more deliberate nonchalance; although his smouldering eyes promised _a proper greeting, later._

"I thought you were meeting us at Highever," Alistair observed, inwardly delighted at his wife's abject happiness. Her disappointment at Herring had lingered with the king, and he was inordinately relieved that she seemed as equally enamoured with her birth-family as she had been with her adoptive one.

"Fergus is still there to oversee preparations," Finian replied, stroking an affectionate hand over his sister's dark-red head. "But I thought I'd come and escort you to Highever myself. Flossie, you're getting my tunic _soggy._ Do you know how much Nevarran velvet costs? No, I expect not."

The two younger Cousland siblings resembled each other more closely than the eldest; they shared the same autumnal colouring, full mouths and delicately-hewn bone structure. Although both of them had been left irrevocably marked by the final battle, Finian's scars were more blatant – he wore a patch to hide an empty eye-socket, and a lurid pink scar curled its way down the side of his cheek. Instead of bemoaning the marring of his handsome features, Finian had embraced his newly piratical appearance. He had grown out his fox-fur curls to shoulder length, and his smile had grown a rakish edge to it.

Flora pressed her face into her brother's sinewy chest, not yet willing to release him. Finian gently drew himself back to elbow's length, his remaining eye angling itself up and down his sister's overripe body.

"Floss, I dare say that being with child suits you," he observed, surveying her flushed cheeks. "You look very well, though almost ready to _burst!"_

" _Burst?!_ Can… can that _happen?!"_

The arl of Amaranthine laughed as his little sister shot him an appalled look, reaching out to chuck her gently under the chin.

"I'm jesting, sweetheart. Come on, let's sit and finish dinner."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Hurray! Now we're into the latter stages of the progress, it's time to start bringing back some familiar faces. Finian's back, and then we'll be back at Highever with Fergus! It was nice to cheer Flora up a little bit, since her return to Herring was so anti-climatic. It's funny to see how attached she is to Finian now, especially re-reading the chapter where they first met at Redcliffe Castle. Finian brought along two Templars and a mage cage to capture his 'powerful sorceress' sister; Flora threw herself into the lake and swam back to Redcliffe village to get away from him. Ahahahaa!

In other news I feel literally dead after my colleague dragged me out for a massive marathon! Well… it was not actually a marathon, it was about five miles… we're training for a 10K in March and last night I came back from work and fell asleep on the sofa at 7pm and slept for 13 hours! EMBARASSING!

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	144. The Strength of Symbols

Chapter 144: The Strength of Symbols

The old Cousland knight proudly gestured in a parade of servants, each bearing a silver platter and bowl. The main course consisted of cold-cut meats: miniature pastries stuffed with shredded pork, strips of beef in a cinnamon sauce and sliced eel in a spicy purée. The mystery of the empty chair at Flora's side was at last solved as Finian lowered himself down elegantly; his ale-cup immediately filled by a hovering manservant.

"How is Fergus?" demanded Flora, her fingers wandering along her brother's elegantly stitched sleeve. "And how are my puppies, Cod and Lobster?"

"Fergus is occupying himself with the teyrnir's business to distract him from the fact that he's the only Cousland left in Highever," replied Finian, a note of ruefulness sounding through the words. "He'll be glad to see you, little sister. And your pups are thriving. They were definitely the pick of the litter – they're strong as cart-horses and as quick as Orlesian whippets. They get into the pantry, and beneath everybody's feet."

Flora smiled, although she was troubled at Finian's allusion to their elder brother's loneliness. A year ago, Fergus had been residing at Castle Cousland with two healthy, if ageing, parents; a wife and a young heir of his own. Now, he slept in the grand bedchamber alone; a teyrn's crown on his head and a faded mark on his finger where his wedding band had once rested.

"So, how have you all found life on the road?" Finian enquired, flashing a white-toothed smile around at the company. "Everybody – save for the ladies – looks in good need of a shave and a haircut."

Even he spoke the middle Cousland sibling eyed his sister's uneven ponytail, which appeared suspiciously as though it had been shorn with a _knife._

"You should try the canvas and campbed lifestyle, _amor,"_ Zevran replied, with a smile equal in brightness. "It is _deeply_ character building."

Finian laughed, leaning back in his chair to gesture for more wine.

"I think I'll stick to fireplaces and four-posters, Zev _._ Travelling from Redcliffe to South Reach involved enough tents to last me a lifetime."

"How are you finding the arling of Amaranthine?" Alistair asked, managing to swallow three beef pastries at once. "Thank you for your letters, by the way. They've been very... _informative."_

The young arl- who had spent five years in Orlais, and was reasonably adept at subterfuge – flashed the king a quick, darting smile of acknowledgement. Alistair, blunt as a neglected dagger, returned the subtle glance with a pointed stare. For the past two months, Finian, Alistair, Teagan and Loghain had been exchanging letters on the situation involving the sentient Darkspawn and events in the Blackmarsh. A battered leather satchel had traversed hundreds of miles over the weeks; increasingly stuffed with correspondence, reports and the occasional glass-bottled sample.

Most of the company noticed the silent exchange - save for Flora, who was ill-temperedly slicing up the jellied eel into squares on her plate. In addition to their aversion to meat, the infants in her belly had also become increasingly fussy about the _type_ of marine creature consumed by their mother. Eels had just joined the _unwelcome_ list; alongside crab, lobster and other shellfish.

 _You little fiends,_ she thought darkly to herself. _If you start having issues with salmon, we've got a serious problem._

"Ah, it's going as well as it can be," Finian replied, setting his fork down on his plate and leaning back as a servant moved in to take it away. "When I arrived in Amaranthine, the mayor and guild-masters greeted me with a formal letter of apology on behalf of their recalcitrant former arl, and a plea not to hold Howe's actions against them. The son-of-a-hound left his arling in a deplorable state after usurping our father at Highever – I've never seen a town more neglected in my life. I spent the first _two weeks_ buried in paperwork, and the next two sitting in assize courts to try and restore some law and order."

There came a metal scrape from Alistair's seat – the king had speared a pastry so viciously that the tongs of his fork had bent against his plate.

"Rendon Howe's actions stained the honour of all Fereldan nobility," he replied, bluntly. "When the Landsmeet come together in the new year, they'll strip Howe of any legitimate claim he ever had to Amaranthine. The only mention of him in public record will be his crimes against the Couslands."

Flora, who had dissected her eel so thoroughly that it now resembled a jellied mass, looked up in confusion.

"But Arl Howe is dead," she pointed out, recalling the raw, meaty taste of the old man's brains in her mouth. "I broke his skull open. There was blood everywhere."

" _Florence! We are eating!"_ hissed the senior enchanter, nostrils flaring.

"It's _symbolic_ , Floss," Finian explained, dabbing his mouth with his linen handkerchief. "It sends a certain message. You know, like this did during the Blight- "

He tugged gently at the low, oxblood ponytail tied with crimson ribbon at the nape of her neck.

"Or the heads on spikes above the city gates," Zevran chimed in, helpfully. _"Criminalise at your own risk."_

Flora, who always turned her eyes away from the rotting heads as they rode beneath them, gave a little nod.

"Oh, I see."

Something pushed against her bladder and she duly clambered to her feet, head swivelling in search of the nearest privy. One of the royal guards, who had guessed the queen's purpose, stepped forward with a bow.

"This way, your majesty."

Alistair had put down his fork the moment that Flora had heaved herself upright, rising far more gracefully in comparison. Gesturing for the old knight and his sons to remain seated, the king followed in his wife's wake. Finian speared a sweetmeat with a fork, watching the royal couple as they left the main hall.

"How is our new Theirin treating my little sister?" he enquired, light and purposeful. "I hope he's been taking good care of her. It can't have been easy for Flo travelling around all these months."

"I don't think I've ever seen a more attentive or affectionate husband," replied Wynne honestly, her pale blue eyes softening. "When Alistair awakens, his first thought is of his wife. Throughout the day, her wellbeing is his foremost concern. And he doesn't go to sleep at night until she's settled."

"He sticks to her side like a flea on a Mabari," added Teagan wryly as the servants brought out the next series of dishes. "She's not even left alone to visit the privy."

"Good," retorted Finian indignantly, nostrils twitching as a pungent, over-herbed stew was placed in a great vat before him. "I mean – I'm not _surprised_. They've always been joined at the hip. But I'm glad that Alistair has undertaken the duty of husband with as much dedication as he has done the role of _king."_

" _Sí,_ and he's impatient to become a _papa_ ," the elf added, with only the slightest hint of wistfulness to his tone. "You would not believe him to be a man of only one-and-twenty. He is eager for fatherhood."

The middle Cousland sibling gave an approving nod, a faint smile playing about his features.

"Well, I look forward to becoming an uncle… again."

For the briefest moment, the light-hearted grin faltered, a flicker of sadness passing across Finian's scarred, handsome features. The melancholy lasted only a moment before he was smiling once more, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Poor Floss, those babes look as though they're going to be _gargantuan._ She's the size of a galleon in full sail."

Flora, returning to the table with Alistair at her side, let out a squeal of mild indignation as she overhead Finn's comment. Yet her outrage was tempered by her brother's naval reference; she settled for swatting gently at his arm with her fingers as she reclaimed her seat.

A pair of servants stocked the hearth with fresh cedar logs, their pleasant perfume wafting into the room. The chamber was dimly lit by free-standing candelabras; on account of the royal visit, the Cousland knight had brought out the beeswax candles used for special occasions. These gave off a warm, waxy light that cast a soft and mellow glow, illuminating the faces of those seated around the table.

Teagan, Alistair, Finian and Ser Cambuel spent a lengthy time discussing horses. The conversation meandered from the equine trade fair in Tantervale, to the cost of horse-shoes in the north compared with the east; growing increasingly animated as they discussed the merits of the Fereldan Forder compared to the Free Marches Ranger.

Flora focused on devouring her herbed stew, letting their chatter drift above her head. Wynne and Zevran exchanged idle conversation over their own bowls; making gentle jibes about the inexplicable enthusiasm of Fereldan nobility when it came to horses. When there came a natural lull in conversation, the senior enchanter attempted to steer the conversation down a more cerebral route.

"Are you still planning to build a university within Amaranthine at some point, Finian?"

Finian nodded, swallowing a mouthful of spiced capon and washing it down with mead.

"In the _very distant_ future, Wynne. I see no reason why Orlais should possess Thedas' only academic institute. Ferelden produces a great many scholars and great minds – look at yourself, for example."

"I wasn't fishing for compliments, dear boy," replied Wynne, with a benevolent smile. "But, thank you. I've always believed that it's generally _healthier_ for society when the Chantry is not the sole source of information."

"And the students at a Fereldan university will have less to distract them than those in Orlais," chimed in Alistair, trying not to laugh. "Based on some of the stories you've told about your days in Val Royeaux, Finn, there seemed to be quite a lot of _extra-curricular activities_ going on!"

Everybody laughed, save for Flora, who had not grasped Alistair's implicit meaning. She did not know what _extra-curricular activities_ meant _,_ and had only the vaguest understanding of what a university actually _was._ Once the phase 'for great minds' had emerged from Wynne's throat, the queen had realised that the world of academia and herself would never be compatible.

Finian noticed his sister's quietness, and reached out to squeeze her arm gently with his fingers.

"So, Flossie… what was it like returning to Herring? I'm surprised that you've not brought it up – I've been preparing myself for _endless monologues of praise!"_

Even as he spoke, Finian became aware of the rest of the royal company gesticulating at him. Wynne's head moved infinitesimally from side to side, Alistair was mouthing something unintelligible, and Zevran's pointed stare could have sliced through the capon.

Yet it was too late; the question hung in the cedar-scented air like a crimson banner.

Flora, who did not want to burst into tears before the Cousland knight, took a deep and steadying breath. With great effort, she managed to summon the stoic inscrutability of expression that had served her well before Loghain, and had saved her before Rendon Howe. She had worn this grave solemnity before an army of ten thousand; knowing that they drew comfort from her cool, implacable calm.

"Fine," she replied, the word scraping at her throat like a knife as it emerged. "It was… fine."

Finian, realising that he had somehow made a grave tactical error, sought to divert the conversational direction with the skill of one educated within Orlais.

"So, everybody at Castle Cousland is eagerly awaiting your arrival!" he continued, cheerfully. "I think you'll be very comfortable there, lamb. Fergus has had a birthing chamber especially prepared- _aargh!"_

This was in response to Alistair throwing his dessert bowl of gingered cherries over Finian's lap, the aromatic syrup flooding the table and dripping onto the young arl's tunic. Servants immediately sprang forwards to clean up the mess; even as the rest of the company gaped, king grasped Cousland by the arm and steered him up and towards the doorway.

"Sorry, Finn - I've a spare tunic that'll fit you! Follow me!"

Once they were in the manor's entrance hall, Alistair spoke with a hovering manservant, requesting that one of his own tunics be brought from his baggage. Finian cast his eye around the dim, wood-panelled space – which was dominated by a smoking hearth and an overbearing staircase – then turned a reproachful Cousland-pale stare on Alistair.

"I can teach you a dozen methods of conversational interruption that don't involve hurling _food_ onto one's calfskin breeches!"

"Sorry," the king replied, hastily. "That… actually sounds quite _useful_ – but I had to find a way to stop you just then. Floss is determined to have the twins in Denerim. She thinks we're just stopping for one night at Highever."

Finian let out an astonished bark of laughter, one eyebrow shooting into his russet hairline as he shrugged his arms from his tunic.

"Maker's Breath! She's huge with babe. How far gone is she now?"

"Thirty three weeks," replied Alistair immediately, with the quickness of a man who had been counting the days and hours. "I know, Finn. It's madness to even consider trying to get Flo back to Denerim; I won't risk her going into labour on the road."

"The castle at Highever is more than equipped to deal with the birth of a baby," replied Finian, his brows drawing close together. "Generations of Couslands have been born there. Why is Floss so _insistent_ on returning to the capital? She's not from there."

Alistair sighed, raising his eyes to the engraved stonework above the smoking hearth. The Cousland laurel was depicted in pride of place, positioned even above the knight's own suit of arms. As he gazed up at the symbol of his wife's newly rediscovered heritage, several emotions passed over his face in rapid succession; anxiety chief amongst them.

"Wynne's got a theory," he said, heavily. "Flo is terrified about the birth – she doesn't deal well with pain, and everybody keeps talking about how _large_ the babies are, and she's even more scared about not being able to heal herself. Denerim is a place which is known to her; we've lived in the palace for months and the city is the place where she slew the Archdemon and won victory over the Darkspawn."

"And so she plans on drawing strength from those memories," murmured Finian, admiring the old mage's insight. "Whereas Highever – well. She barely knew the place as a child, and… and then our own _parents_ sent her away to try and preserve Cousland honour. It stands to reason that she'd feel unsure of herself there."

The king inclined his head; the young arl had just replicated Wynne's theory almost word for word.

"Flo won't talk about it," he replied, with a helpless shrug of the shoulder. "I don't think she wants to hurt anybody's feelings, lest of all you or Fergus."

"My poor little sister," Finian replied, glancing reflexively behind him as though he could see through the wood-panelled wall to where Flora was sitting at the dining table. "I think I understand, as much as I'm capable. Still, Alistair, you know that she _can't_ risk the journey to Denerim in her condition. Those infants will be here in a few _weeks –_ possibly less than that!

Alistair nodded grimly, veins of anxiety running through his bruised hazel gaze.

"Believe me, Finn, I know."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I liked this little chapter! I love me a bit of Finian, and it's nice to write a fancy dinner table chat! There haven't been many of those over the past couple of months, hehe.

Poor old Flo is a little bit deluded, in that she thinks they can make the ten day journey back to Denerim – just not an option! But she's been terrified of giving birth ever since the Blight ended – the thought of hours of pain and bleeding, _without_ her spirits to help her… it's very traumatic. So she wants to give birth in the capital, which is where she summoned the armies, where she defeated the Archdemon and overcame Rendon Howe…. Not in Highever, which is a strange and unfamiliar place to her. Denerim is symbolic of strength, while Highever is unknown.

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	145. The Teyrn and the Teyrna

Chapter 145: The Teyrn and the Teyrna

Back in the main hall, Wynne and one of Ser Cambuel's adolescent sons had just finished a very civilised conversation over the dessert platters. They had discussed the various rebuilding committees that had sprung up like mushrooms across Ferelden after the Blight; South Reach, they had heard, had just been purged of its final remaining undead by a contingent of the Royal Army. Mages armed with purification spells would now be moving in to cleanse the soil and remove any last remnants of corruption.

Ser Cambuel smiled benevolently down the table at the more mature of his sons; then shot a chiding look at the other, who had gawped at Flora incessantly for the past two hours.

"Ser Cambuel?"

"Your Majesty!" The old knight spun around in his seat so rapidly that he knocked his fork into his lap. Retrieving it, he bowed his head in the face of Flora's pale, solemn stare. "Yes, my lady? Is there anything I might have brought for you? Some wine? Honeyed pears?"

"No, thank you," replied Flora softly, half-watching the servants pile more logs into the guttering hearth. "Could you tell me about what the old teyrn and teyrna were like?"

"You don't… remember your parents, my lady?"

Flora shook her head, swivelling her eyes away from the fire's enthusiastic consumption of the wood. It reminded her strangely of the old Chantry at Lothering; the one that she had burnt to the ground in a makeshift pyre of remembrance for all those that had been slain within its walls.

 _I hope you've found some sort of peace,_ she thought to herself, the mad priestess' face rising to the forefront of the anonymous crowd. _I won't ever forget the towns that were taken from us: Lothering, Honnleath, South Reach. Their names are marked on me forever, indelible as the Archdemon's scars._

Flora looked down reflexively at the white, arcing discolouration on the backs of her hands, turning them over to see the corresponding marks on her palms.

 _It's like the creature's soul passed straight through my body,_ she thought wonderingly to herself. _The mark on my shoulder is where it entered, the one on my back is where it left. It entered at my hip, and left through my thigh._

 _How strange; I still don't understand. Nobody else who was on the rooftop that night – Wynne, Zevran, Loghain, Leliana – will talk to me about the Archdemon's death. I know Alistair has terrible dreams about it still, ones where he wakes up screaming in raw and ragged anguish; and the guards come bursting into the bedchamber with swords drawn._

 _But I survived: that's the important thing. And the baby –_ babies _survived too._

"No, I don't remember much about my – my parents," she continued, forcing her mind back to the present and the knight's curious gaze. "I remember an old lady who used to get cross with me a lot. Apparently that's not my mother?"

"No, Queen Florence," replied Ser Cambuel, trying to hide his sorrow. "That would've been your Nan, not the teyrna."

The knight inhaled deeply, realising that Flora had not been exaggerating the claim that she remembered very little of her parents.

"Your father was a great man," he began, then automatically launched into the rendition of Bryce Cousland's achievements that Flora had heard countless times – the daring escape from White River, the dozen Orlesian warships destroyed in the Battle of Denerim Harbour, the medal of valour from Maric.

Flora listened patiently to the liturgy of familiar tales and then reached out across Alistair's empty place to put her fingers on the knight's elbow. This successfully stopped Ser Cambuel in his tracks. The knight blinked across at her, awed at the contact.

"My – my lady?"

"What was he like as a _person?"_ she asked, quietly. "I don't remember anything except a – a deep laugh that used to scare me a little, I think."

"Ah," said the old knight, comprehending what Flora desired to know. "Of course, you were just a bairn when you were…"

He trailed off, not quite sure how to articulate what had happened to the youngest of the Cousland progeny.

"Disowned?" suggested Zevran, with a smile as bright as a polished dagger. "Exiled? Cast out from the family bosom on account of the _terrible_ crime of being a mage?"

Wynne silenced the elf with a reproving glower, her nostrils flaring.

" _Honestly!"_ she muttered, on the verge of digging a sharp elbow into their companion's ribs. "We're in _polite company_ here."

"When I left," Flora said firmly, as though she had possessed any choice in the matter. "What was the teyr- _my father_ like?"

The queen was aware that Finian and Fergus flinched each time that she referred to Pel as _papa._ She was trying to get herself into the habit of referring to Bryce Cousland as _father,_ but it was hard to overcome habits fifteen years in the making.

Ser Cambuel cleared his throat, the mists of reminiscence settling over his fading features. He must have been handsome several decades prior; a wealth of scars – badges of long service – were visible at the sleeves and neck of his finespun tunic.

"He liked music," he began, eventually. "The old northern folk songs. There was a lutist by the name of Fiedal who played for the teyrn for two decades. He had a good voice – the teyrn, I'm talking about – although he wouldn't sing sober."

The tone-deaf Flora listened avidly, tilting her cheek to receive a returning Alistair's kiss. The king sat down beside his wife, planting one surreptitious palm on her thigh beneath the table. She nestled her own fingers between his broad ones, comforted by the strong, familiar warmth of his hand.

"The teyrn was interested in silver-smithing too, your majesty," the knight continued, warming to the subject. "He once took a jewel-crafting kit as a prize from an Orlesian _chevalier_ , and found that he had a talent for it. He made your mother all sorts of creations from Fereldan ore – hammered bronze torcs, earrings of gold filigree."

Flora looked down at the gold ring on her finger – the one engraved with _F – C,_ that she had once given to Alistair but which he had returned after the revelation of her Cousland heritage – and _wondered_.

"Was he… nice?" she asked, hoping to find something in common with this shadowy figure that had an indelible connection with herself. "Kind?"

"He was popular, aye – I'm not sure I would call him _kind._ More like _firm but fair._ He cared a great deal for the wellbeing of the people of Highever; donated the castle's own granaries when the harvest failed six summers ago."

Flora tilted her head thoughtfully to one side, trying to form a mental picture of a man who was now almost a year dead. She wished that she could recall the ghostly apparition of Bryce Cousland summoned in the Temple of Sacred Ashes; believing it unimportant at the time, she had not bothered to remember the careworn, aristocratic features.

"What about my mother?"

Finian, who had just returned from changing his tunic, pricked his ears in response to the question. Biting his tongue before he could interrupt the old knight, the arl sat back down beside his newfound sister.

Ser Cambuel smiled sadly, small lines of regret creasing themselves into the corners of his eyes.

"The lady Eleanor? Ah, by the time she were two dozen years old, she was captain of her own vessel and had sunk four enemy warships. The Orlesians were more frightened of her than they were of her father, and that's no small claim – Fearchar Mac Eanraig was the scourge of the Waking Sea in his time."

The last of the platters and dishes were taken away, the servants unobtrusively placing cups of spiced mead and honey ale in their place. Encouraged by Flora's rapt fascination; the knight continued to reminisce.

"The teyrna had a wit sharper than a blade - her mind could run rings around most others. I think the master Finian must've inherited her brains."

Alistair sensed his wife slumping in her seat beside him. He was aware that Flora was asking such questions in an attempt to forge a bond between herself and the parents who had sent her away. Unfortunately, based on what she had heard so far – _pleasant singing voice, dexterous with the fingers, captain of a pirate ship, sharp-witted –_ there seemed to be little in common between them.

Ser Cambuel was also looking at Flora, his curious gaze taking in this finely-hewn, feminine manifestation of the family traits. Finian, seated at the queen's side, shared many of the same features – the full, sulky mouth, the high cheekbones and the autumnal colouring.

"Funny how each of you inherited the Cousland looks," he murmured, almost to himself. "Odds were that at least one of the three should've got the Mac Eanraig nose, or their dark hair."

" _Dark_ hair?" asked Flora, curious. "My mother was dark haired? I… I don't remember what she looked like."

"By the time we were born, it had already faded to grey," Finian chimed in, taking a sip of spiced mead. "But Fergus remembers when it was dark. Black as a starless night, apparently."

Suddenly, Flora felt a great weariness settle upon her like a leaden mantle. Unsure whether it was due to her swollen body, or the realisation that she had _nothing_ in common with her birth-parents; she squeezed Alistair's hand and caught his eye.

"I'm tired," she whispered, swallowing a lump in her throat. "I'm going to feed the baby and then go to bed."

 _Feed the baby?_ Finian mouthed at Zevran in confusion, his eyebrows shooting upwards. _They've not been born yet!_

Alistair nodded, lifting their entwined fingers and pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said, directing his words to the old knight. "Could you show us to our chamber, and have a bath brought up?"

Later, after the Chasind babe had been fed and the rest of the company settled into their own chambers, the king and queen took themselves to bed. The knight had guided them personally to their quarters, apologising for the room's confined nature. Alistair had hastened to reassure Ser Cambuel that he and his wife had spent much of the past year sleeping beneath canvas and so anything with a solid roof seemed luxurious in contrast, no matter the dimensions.

The chamber ascribed to the royal couple was small but finely decorated. There was a pattern of black, white and red stonework on the floor, the walls were constructed from creamy Highever limestone, and the leaded windows were each topped with a crescent of stained glass. The dark wood furniture was sturdy and Fereldan-made, the bed-hangings a rich navy lambswool.

After the bath had come and gone, and the queen changed into nightclothes; Alistair blew out most of the candle. He placed his sword within arm's reach before clambering into bed alongside his wife. He raised his arm and Flora curled herself into him, shifting several times until she had found a relatively comfortable position. Alistair was just about to lower his arm when she let out a little grunt of dissatisfaction, squirming around once again.

"I can't get comfortable," she grumbled, as he dropped a sympathetic kiss to the top of her rumpled head. "I'm so big, now. I've _never_ been big."

"Now you know how I felt when I was growing up," replied Alistair, reaching for a nearby cushion and sliding it beneath the base of Flora's spine. "Except _my_ problem was that I was all long limbs and clumsiness. I kept knocking things over, much to everyone's annoyance. Is that better, baby?"

" _Much_ better," Flora breathed, nestling into the crook of his arm. "Why are you the _best_ husband ever?"

"Because I never even thought I'd be lucky enough to _marry_ , and – by some miracle – I've ended up with the most wonderful woman in Thedas," replied Alistair immediately, as a delighted Flora nuzzled her face against his naked shoulder.

"I love you," she mumbled, the words muffled by flesh and muscle. "As fish love water."

Alistair repeated the sentiment, pulling the blankets up high around his yawning wife's shoulders. From outside in the corridor, they heard a door open and shut - footsteps in the corridor - then another door opening a short distance away.

"Is that Zev going to Finn, or Finn going to Zev, do you reckon?" he murmured, amused. "At least neither of their rooms is next to ours; you need to get as much sleep as you can, my love."

"I think it's my brother," replied Flora, yawning. "Because we _heard_ something. Alistair, I'm worried."

Alistair inhaled, reflexively pulling her even more tightly into his side.

"Tell me, darling – I'll sort it out, whatever it is!"

 _I'm worried about the birth, and you can't sort that for me,_ Flora thought grimly to herself; but then continued with the matter that had been weighing on her mind since dinner.

"Fergus must be lonely," she said, in a small and anxious voice. "He's all alone at Highever. Apart from the servants and knights, I suppose. But he doesn't have any family there, anymore. He's living in the place where his parents – _our_ parents – and his wife, and child, were _murdered."_

Tears that had nothing to do with the hormonal imbalance within her body pooled on Flora's eyelashes; she sniffed and turned her face against the firm, reassuring muscle of her husband's chest. Alistair sighed, feeling his insides curdle with horror and sympathy for a man who had been through one of the worst ordeals imaginable. One hand lifted to cup the back of his wife's head, scratching his fingers gently into her hair.

"I know, Lola. I – I'll just make sure that I request his presence frequently in Denerim. He can have a steward managing Highever; the teyrnir is established enough to run itself. After all, my father used to have Bryce Cousland stay in the capital for months at a time."

Flora nodded, recalling the immediate proximity of the Cousland quarters to their own bedchamber in the Royal Palace.

"Yes," she replied, cheering. "Then he can be with us, and with his niece and nephew. Thank you."

"My sweet girl, you don't need to thank me," the king replied, astounded. "Anything within my power that I can do for your brothers – speak the word and it's _done."_

Flora beamed, nestling her ungainly body more closely into the crook of his arm. For several minutes the royal couple lay together in companionable silence, listening to the soft rhythms of night-time echo around them. The fire gnawed quietly away at the logs piled into the hearth; every so often, a rush of sparks flew up into the chimney breast with a joyous hiss. On the other side of the doorway, the Royal Guard murmured quietly amongst themselves as they finalised the watch rota for the night. The ever-vigilant Mabari had already begun to patrol the corridors. The clever hounds were increasingly protective of the Theirin's fat-bellied mate as delivery of the royal heirs neared; each servant who arrived with wood, or ale, was sniffed suspiciously before being allowed to continue down the corridor.

Outside the Cousland knight's squat, dual-winged manor, a light drizzle had begun to fall. Rain pattered against the slate-tiled roof and rolled in continuous streams down the windows. In the warm, cedar-scented bedchamber, Alistair grew drowsy listening to the sound of the drizzle. He wondered at the strangeness of finding the sound of rain soothing; when to be actually _rained on_ was deeply unpleasant.

 _Unless you're my wife,_ he thought fondly to himself, listening to Flora's soft snores. Her face was buried in his armpit; one arm flung across his chest, the other draped over the edge of the bed. The king reached up to twine his fingers with her own, squeezing her warm hand within his callused palm.

 _Sweet dreams,_ Alistair almost said out of habit, then remembered that his queen had been severed from the Fade; and that her nights were now a submersion into an unconscious void.

"Sleep tight," he murmured instead, craning his neck to kiss the volcanic cloud of hair. "Until the morning, darling."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I feel a bit sorry for Flo here – it's obvious that she's trying to forge new connection with her Cousland heritage, in the wake of her disastrous return to Herring. Unfortunately, she's finding that she doesn't have much in common with her birth parents… although, to be fair, they've only discussed pretty surface-level traits.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	146. The King's Nightmare

Chapter 146: The King's Nightmare

Unfortunately, the young Theirin's own night would not prove to be a restful one. In the small hours of the morning, just after the guards had changed their watch, the king tossed and turned within the blankets. Sweat rose to his forehead in great beads, his skin was mottled with angry red patches and his fingers clutched compulsively at the embroidered wool. Incoherent, indecipherable words slipped from his throat; the only thing certain was that they were some sort of plea.

A while earlier – when Alistair had still been sleeping peacefully - Flora had eased herself free of his arms. She ventured forth from the bedchamber to first ease the ache in her bladder, then headed into the Chasind carpenter's chamber to nurse the motherless babe. She was accompanied by two guards – they were taking no chances after the Carta's kidnapping attempt – as well as the larger of the royal Mabari.

The baby suckled hungrily at the breast for half a candle, gazing fixedly up at Flora with small, feather-light fingers wandering over her collarbone. Flora peered back down at it, fascinated by the intensity of it's furrowed-brow focus. Finally, once the baby had fallen into a satiated daze, the similarly-sleepy queen handed it back to the grateful father.

Holding the mustard wool loosely across her breasts, Flora waited for the guard to open the door to the couple's bedchamber. Once she was back inside the warm, wood-scented room, it took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim, fire-lit space. She shifted patiently on the patterned tiles, the stone cold against her feet; and then her attention was captured by a soft grunt of distress from the bed.

Flora blinked, still mired in the contented afterglow of feeding the baby. Her pale gaze was then caught by her husband's powerful frame contorting itself helplessly against the mattress; tossing and turning at the mercy of his agitated mind.

The queen shot across the room at remarkable speed – considering her size – and clambered into the nest of blankets beside Alistair. Without hesitation she wound her arms around his neck and drew his perspiring forehead down to her bare shoulder.

"Alistair," she breathed, feeling his erratic breath against her skin. "Alistair. Alistair, Alistair."

Her groping hand found his clenched fist; fingers squirming into his rigid grasp until they were anchored together. Alistair inhaled a ragged gulp of air, his eyelids snapping open in the crimson-tinged firelight.

"Aah- Flo- _Flora-_ "

"I'm here."

Instinct drove him to reach for his wife, and found Flora already burrowing into his side; her arms wound tightly around his shoulders. With a choked groan of relief, Alistair manoeuvred her bodily into his lap; feeling her warm and solid against his bare chest. She nuzzled her face into his sweaty shoulder, feeling the throb of his racing pulse against cheek.

"Brother-warden," Flora whispered, using a name that had not been relevant for months. "I'm here."

She pressed her lips to his stubbled jaw, tasting the salt of his perspiration; over and over, until his face had been warmed by her affection. Alistair reached out and received handfuls of lurid mustard wool instead of flesh. With a frustrated grunt, he thrust the dressing robe from Flora's shoulders and held his wife's plump nakedness in his arms. Reassured by the warmth of her bare skin and the steady thud of her heart, the king exhaled unsteadily. He embraced her hard enough to force the air from her lungs, a groan of relief slipping from his throat.

"Thank the Maker," he breathed, inhaling the woodsmoke-scent of her hair as he buried his face in the mass of dark red. _"Thank the Maker._ My own sweet wife. You're here."

Flora rested her chin on Alistair's shoulder, stroking the downy golden hairs at the nape of his neck; letting him seek reassurance in the solid, ripe physicality of her body. Gradually, she felt his frantic heartbeat slow, the erratic breath settling into a more even rhythm. Yet Alistair was not yet ready to loosen his grip, determined to keep his best friend clamped to his side as long as possible.

"Are you… worried about the birth?" she whispered after several minutes, letting her thumb meander in slow patterns over the back of his neck. "You've had bad dreams about that before."

"No," he replied, almost immediately. "You're going to be fine. You're going to be _amazing_ at childbirth, sweetheart. Seeing you with the carpenter's baby – you're a natural mother."

Flora took a deep breath of warm air, oddly reassured by his confidence.

"Then you dreamt about the… other thing?" she enquired tentatively, receiving a grim and wordless nod in confirmation.

 _The moment when my spirits died,_ the queen thought to herself, kissing her husband's ear. _Or, were broken apart so completely that they may as well be dead. The rooftop at Fort Drakon; the fires in the sky; Loghain bleeding from a ragged stump of a knee._

 _The Archdemon, wounded and incandescent with rage; ancient hatred in its eyes and fury spilling in molten gouts from its snakelike jaw._

 _The realisation that someone had to take up the blade, and that someone had to be me. Drawing the shield across the rooftop so that nobody could try and intervene._

Flora had no memory of the Archdemon's death; nor of her own part in it. She remembered well enough summoning her barrier, creating a half-inch wide, thoroughly insurmountable gulf between herself and her companions. She also remembered yielding ownership of her body to her spirits in the Fade, and feeling astonishment at the ease with which her oldest companions claimed control.

 _They could have possessed me in a heartbeat, at any point in my life. I would have no more been able to resist them than I could the incoming tide. Yet, they didn't._

"I still can't remember anything about the Archdemon's- " she began, trailing off as Alistair shook his head, the pain raw as a fresh wound.

" _Don't_ ask me about that night, darling," he replied, hoarsely. "I can't bring myself to speak of it yet. It – it was the single worst moment of my life, watching you… watching you- ah, _Maker-_ "

Alistair flinched as though the memory had struck him physically in the face, and Flora immediately felt guilty. She put her arms around his neck once more and kissed him on the mouth; letting her lips offer a wordless apology. He drew her down into the blankets with an embrace that did not cease for a heartbeat; her swollen body a welcome weight against his chest.

"Alistair," Flora whispered, nestling her cheek into the cushion. "Guess what?"

"Wh- what?"

She smiled sleepily at him, their heads inches apart on the pillow.

"Today is the first day of Kingsway."

"The beginning of autumn," replied Alistair, admiring the fullness of his wife's mouth. "Eamon thinks it's going to be a good harvest."

Flora nodded solemnly, her soft grey eyes resting on his face.

"It's also a year since Duncan came to the Circle and saw me shielding the apothecary from Jowan's blood magic," she continued, quietly. "So, it's been a year since- "

"Since… I met you," Alistair breathed in wonder, finishing her sentence. "Maker's Breath. Has it only been a year, my love? It feels as though I've known you all my life."

The king leaned forwards impulsively to kiss his fat-bellied queen, his former sister-warden; the girl who had once stood barefoot in a southern swamp with a sheaf of old treaties clutched in her fist. _Well, we'll MAKE the armies listen to us, then,_ she had said, with her distinctive blend of obstinacy and northern practicality. _We have the treaties. They have to help us._

As Flora had hoped, this fact had distracted Alistair sufficient from his misery. This also sent his emotions careening off into a wildly different direction; his hazel irises bruising into a darker, interested hue as his gaze dropped to her ripe nakedness. She brought up a hand to rest lightly on the back of his neck as his lips moved from her mouth to her throat; each kiss pressing a brand of desire into her skin.

"My beautiful, best girl," he murmured throatily and Flora smiled at him, aware that her cheeks were flooding with colour. Alistair always admired her blushes – as a redhead, she had never been able to disguise them - and tonight was no exception. He stared unblinking down at her, pupils now blown wide and black; the tip of his tongue running unconsciously over his lips, as though he wished to devour her there and then.

"Lo, do you- " he asked with some difficulty, the need tangling his words together. "Do you want- "

Flora, who always _wanted,_ already had her fingers at the buttons of his sleep-trousers.

Some time later she clung to her husband's shoulders as he laboured above her, keeping his weight propped up on strong arms. Alistair's head hung low and guttural pants emerged from his throat; the hot, mead-laced breath warmed her face and neck. Broad shoulders moved in even rhythm, the corded muscle flexing with each carefully controlled thrust; even in the throes of desire, the king managed to rein in his baser urges.

 _How can it have only been a year since we met?_ Flora thought wonderingly to herself, reaching up to run her fingers through his sweat-limp strands of burnished hair. _My life is tangled with yours like knotted-up fishing line, hardened with salt and impossible to separate._

The tenderness of her gesture in the middle of their lovemaking caught Alistair's attention and he promptly arrested the snap of his hips. The king gazed speechless down at his bride for several long moments, a bead of perspiration rolling from his forehead onto her throat.

"I... wish I had the words to give you the tribute you deserve, Lo," he said throatily, the words emerging unsteady. "I would write verses about you. Whole _epic poems,_ about your bravery, and your kindness, and your – your beauty. Maker's Breath, but you're _gorgeous."_

"I don't need epic poems," she replied, letting her fingers linger on the strong angle of his jaw. "Three words are enough."

As usual, he did not hesitate to give them.

"I love you, sweet wife."

"I love you too, Alistair," Flora whispered into her husband's ear, as his lips dropped to her sweaty collarbone.

"Mm, say my name in that sexy voice of yours again."

Unfortunately, the night's intimacy ended in ignominious disaster. As a sweating Alistair was pursuing his own climax above her, Flora felt a pang within her belly. In a moment of sheer panic – assuming that she was in labour – the queen let out a banshee-like yowl of terror. The horrified Alistair, believing that he had accidentally _hurt_ his wife through his exertions, launched himself out of her so violently that he went careening off the end of the bed and crashed onto the floorboards.

The next moment, the guards burst into the chamber with their swords drawn. Teagan followed a heartbeat later, a lantern held aloft and his own blade unsheathed. Wynne, Zevran and Finian, whose rooms were further down the passage, took mere seconds to arrive. Finian had taken a minute to don his trousers, whereas the naked Zevran had the young arl's silk tunic tied incongruously around his waist.

The crowd looked down at the king as he sprawled on the rug, Wynne hastily averting her eyes. They then swivelled their collective gaze to Flora, who was clutching the blankets to her chest as she sat in bed. It did not take a scholar's genius to work out what had just happened; Zevran covered up an immature snicker with dexterous tan fingers.

"Oh," Flora said, beaming at them all in relief. "It's just indigestion. I thought the babies were coming."

"Maker's Breath, darling!" squawked Alistair, clambering to his feet while clutching a cushion before his deflating loins. "I think my heart just skipped about eighteen beats."

"Ooh! Sorry!"

The next morning – the first day of Kingsway - dawned clear and cloudless. The early-risen sun had a distinctive pale cast to it that was unique to the north of Ferelden. A cool golden light hung in the air like spun silk, loaning the rugged terrain an odd sort of beauty. The Waking Sea continued to seethe against the stepped basalt cliffs, but it was more of a low grumble than a fuming, foaming rage. The fir trees stood out dark against the landscape like the bristles of painters' brushes; their deciduous companions clinging to their leaves as though conscious that the time of parting was at hand.

Within the Cousland knight's squat, dual-winged manor, the royal company was preparing to make the second-last leg of their journey. According to Finian, the journey to Highever would take only a handful of hours – and they should expect to be greeted by crowds on arrival. The occupants of the second-largest town in Ferelden were excited to see their handsome new Theirin; he might not have been a northerner, but at least he had _married_ one. Alistair Theirin's brother and father had each married women from the south, much to the teyrnir's dismay.

The citizens of Highever were also eager to set eyes on their newly-rediscovered young Cousland, Bryce's long-lost daughter. Those old enough in the town could remember glimpsing a child riding with her father almost two decades prior; a prized little girl with the features of a porcelain doll and a petulant expression. According to rumour – gossip corroborated by Maric's two visits in the span of six months – a betrothal between this young Cousland daughter and Maric's heir, Cailan, would soon be announced.

Then, with no warning or explanation, the _teyrnina_ was no longer seen riding on the saddle with her father. As months passed with no glimpses of the young redhead, rumours abounded – she'd been taken by the sweating sickness, she'd been sent to Orlais as a political manoeuvre, or to receive etiquette training in preparation for the throne. There were even a few perfidious rumours that the southern teyrn, Loghain Mac Tir, had some part in the Cousland daughter's disappearance; after all, his own daughter was now lined up as Cailan's bride. The years passed, and the memories of the little doll-faced redhead faded; the people of Highever forgot that there had once been a _third_ Cousland child. She blew out of the mind like a leaf caught in a draught, too insubstantial to leave an impression.

Yet in recent months, the name _Florence Cousland_ had been on everyone's lips; her return from obscurity was the favourite chatter of Highever's wives, and mulled over extensively in public taverns by its husbands. The Cousland had returned – a _mage!_ and a _Grey Warden?! –_ and had brought an army with her to end the Blight; when all Loghain Mac Tir had done was argue with the Landsmeet and pontificate in Denerim.

Florence Cousland had inadvertently continued to provide ample material for those in Highever who loved drama; _she's the Theirin prince's mistress, she slew the Archdemon while five months heavy with babe, she's lost her magic, she's married the King!_ The men who had accompanied Teyrn Fergus to the final battle in Denerim had told their fascinated wives that the lady Cousland was very beautiful, but rarely smiled; that she had eyes as cold as the Waking Sea, but was rumoured to be kind at heart.

Now, the king's progress had finally reached its penultimate stage – and the moment that the people had been anticipating for _months_ was here. Their new Theirin, and his bride would make their arrival; and Highever would set eyes on its long-lost Cousland at last.

Yet ten miles still lay between the royal company and Ferelden's second largest city, and the morning was off to a rather unfortunate start. As the other members of the royal company handed off their baggage to the knight's servants; wails of misery echoed down the corridor. They were emerging from behind the king and queen's chamber door – before long, a small crowd had gathered.

"Why aren't we bursting in?!" Finian demanded in a low hiss, buttoning up the sleeves of his tunic wrongly in his agitation. "My little sister is in floods of tears! I have to go to her."

"Relax," crooned Zevran, correcting the ill-fastened buttons. "If there was anything _truly_ wrong, the Mabari would be in a frenzy."

Sure enough, the Mabari hounds were still sprawled lazily across the flagstones of the hallway; ears twitching as they watched dust motes dance in shafts of sunlight.

"The elf is right," agreed Teagan, extending a hand to rap his knuckles firmly against the wood. "Florence has wept over spilled ale and misspelled words during the course of this progress."

As Finian's face contorted in astonishment – he was more used to a stoic little sister who had never let herself be seen crying in public – Wynne joined the small crowd in the passageway.

"It's most likely some bodily imbalance caused by the babes," she began, ears pricking as she heard footsteps approaching over the floorboards. "It doesn't mean that- "

Just then Alistair himself opened the door, trying very hard to suppress a grin. The king, aware that they would be making a very public entrance into Highever, was clad in a tawny fur-edged tunic, the gold band of authority resting atop a nearby dresser. He was half-shaved, the thin blade still in his hand as he gestured them into the chamber.

"You'd better come in," Alistair said with careful solemnity, seeing the alarm on Finian's face. "Poor Flo is hysterical. She's _split her breeches_."

Sure enough, the queen lay slumped on the bed clad in shirt and smallclothes; utter devastation writ across her fine-boned face and her hair strewn in myriad directions. Beside her on the blankets lay the offending garment, the tear in the leather obvious even at a distance.

"Ah," said Teagan diplomatically as Zevran let out a wicked giggle. "That's… unfortunate."

"It was bound to happen sooner or later," Wynne added briskly, striding across the chamber to rummage amidst the queen's baggage. "The seams of those breeches have been sorely tested for months."

At this, Flora let out another mournful wail, hiding her face in the bearskin. Alistair put the shaving blade down on the dresser, striding across to sit on the bed beside his weeping wife. Reaching out, he placed a hand on her head; stroking the round curve of her skull with his fingers.

"Come now, sweetheart," he murmured, as Flora turned wet and anguished eyes towards him. "We've been stuffing you into those breeches for a while now – remember yesterday morning? It took _half a candle_ for us to get them on."

Flora sniffled, swiping her fingers dejectedly against the blankets. Meanwhile, Wynne held up two of Leliana's maternity gown options, struggling to keep herself from looking appalled. One was bright pink, with ruffles all down the chest and a three-foot long train. The other was covered in tiny yellow polka dots, and appeared strangely _diseased._

"Here, Florence," she said, clearing her throat. "Two… possible options for you."

Finian's face contorted in horror, while Zevran's shoulders shook with the effort of suppressing his giggles.

"Leliana must have been feeling in a particularly _Orlesian_ mood when she picked these out," the senior enchanter added, unable to hide a grimace as she eyed the train on the pink gown. "If we've some scissors, we can take off some of this… _excess ornamentation."_

Flora shot the two gowns a malevolent stare, wishing that she had burnt them in the _Flagon and Blessing's_ hearth.

"I won't go out looking like a… a horrible dessert," she mumbled, with northern obstinacy. "I'll cut a head-hole in this blanket and wear it."

"At least you know that would fit," replied Finian sweetly, then yelped as he received a cushion in the face courtesy of his irate sister.

"Then I'm going to go NAKED," bellowed Flora, brushing her hair from her eyes. "That will give the people of Highever something more to gossip about, eh? Eehhh?!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Well, this chapter ended up being traumatic for both Alistair and Flora, oh dear! Although poor Alistair, I bet anyone who's lived through the Blight would have some horrible nightmares. Flora is lucky in some ways that she's severed from the Fade and can't have dreams! And… poor Flora… the days of her wearing breeches are now well and truly over, lol. She clung stubbornly onto those leather trousers right up to the bitter end, hehehe.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	147. The North Road To Highever

Chapter 147: The North Road To Highever

As a gleeful Zevran opened his mouth to encourage the queen's naked entrance into Highever, Finian hastily backed towards the door.

"I'll ask Cambuel if he's got anything suitable. His wife is dead, but there must be women-folk somewhere in the manor."

Alistair nodded, absentmindedly slicing off a few more patches of stubble as he caressed his miserable queen's ear.

"Alistair, the horses and carts will be ready by mid-morning," Teagan explained, carefully straight-faced. "It'll take about four hours to reach Highever. Fergus is going to meet us at the town gates so we can ride up to Castle Cousland together."

"Sounds good, uncle," Alistair replied, then swore under his breath as he accidentally nicked the edge of his jaw with the small blade. "Ah, Maker's Breath – this knife is definitely blunt. Highever will have a grinding wheel, won't they?"

"Aye, for certain. I'll see you both when we break our fast," Teagan offered, his pale green Guerrin gaze dropping to where Flora lay miserable amidst the blankets. "Ah, cheer up, poppet. You could wear a cheesecloth sack and still be the most beautiful girl in the room."

"By leagues," agreed Alistair, as Flora shot the diseased-looking maternity gown a hateful glower.

"I'd _rather_ wear a sack!"

Just then, there came a sound guaranteed to distract Flora from her own hormonal woes: the high and distressed wail of a hungry infant. The carpenter was hovering in the chamber doorway with his babe in arms, eyeing the guards and clearly uncertain as to whether he was allowed to enter. The Mabari were staring at him with nostrils flared; aware that he presented little threat but taking no chances.

Flora immediately stopped weeping over the day's attire, pushing herself to sit upright on the blankets. Alistair gestured hastily for the father to come in, the baby's grizzle rising to a demanding crescendo as it was carried across the room.

"I'm sorry, your majesties," the man mumbled apologetically, noticing Flora's tear-stained cheeks. "He's hungry."

The baby's mouth opened and closed, the lips working thin air; tiny fists bunched up in anger. Flora had already shrugged the shirt from her shoulder, her arms extending outwards. At once, the trauma of the polka-dot maternity gowns was forgotten; the queen's attention now fully focused on the squalling infant.

"Baby," she breathed, taking the creature and cradling it to her breast. "Sssh, ssh."

The baby's cheeks began to pull hungrily, tiny fingers spread across the pale curve of skin. It let out a soft, scratchy sigh and Flora kissed the top of its head, leaning back against the pillows. A serene, slightly dazed expression had settled across her fine-boned features; still entranced by the new sensation.

"King Alistair?"

A messenger clad in worn travelling leathers was hovering at the doorway, clutching a sealed scroll in his hands. One of the guards had lowered his pike across the door; extra vigilant since the attempted ambush by the Carta dwarf.

Alistair tore his eyes from his wife with great reluctance, taking three steps away from the bed before turning back and ducking to press his lips to Flora's upturned cheek. He simultaneously reached down to brush his fingers very lightly over the top of the baby's downy head; caressing the curve of it's fragile skull.

The messenger waited patiently for the king to venture out into the hallway, dropping into a bow as Alistair appeared in the doorway.

"King Alistair, I've a message from the Warden-Commanders of Ferelden!"

" _Ssh,"_ hissed Alistair, glancing over at his nursing wife. "Not so loud!"

The messenger immediately looked contrite, shuffling his feet awkwardly on the floorboards. They waited for a secretary clad in Highever colours to pass by with a pile of books in his arms; then for two giggling maids to retrieve a mound of laundry from the adjacent chamber. Finally, they were alone in the corridor – save for the guards and Mabari – and the king immediately reached out to take the scroll. It was sealed with the griffin stamped in crimson wax, blobs of hardened pigment splattered over the ribbon.

With a glance over his shoulder to check that Flora was still occupied with the baby, Alistair broke apart the seal and unfurled the scroll. His eyes moved over its contents once, twice, and then a third time; recognising Loghain's spidery hand and Leonie Caron's name.

 _I agree, Alistair,_ the former teyrn had written in his characteristically terse style. _No negotiations. Darkspawn, free-willed or no, have no place within Ferelden. Caron will take a unit into the Dragonbone Wastes and end this nonsense for good._

At the end of the note, beneath the Orlesian co-commander's signature, Loghain had added a final brief note; wishing the queen a quick and easy delivery of the babes, and a rapid recovery afterwards. Alistair eyed Loghain's well-wishes with reluctant appreciation, before turning to look for a quill.

Once he had scribed a quick response in the knight's study – a cramped chamber which also served as a diminutive library and a storage room – Alistair folded the sheet of parchment in two. Tilting a candle above the fold, he used the engraved Theirin emblem on his finger to press into the soft wax.

Hurrying back down the corridor in his haste to return to his wife, the king almost collided with Finian. The young arl had a garment of dove-grey material folded over his arm; the product of a half-candle spent scouring the manor.

"I had to pay a maidservant coin for this," Finian said, with a cheerful shrug. "Turns out that our host has no feminine clothes in his own cupboards or closets."

"Were you _expecting_ him to?"

"You never know! Anyway, I'll leave it to you to persuade Flossie into a _dress._ You know how she loathes them."

Alistair took the gown, reaching down to scratch one of the Mabari behind the ears as he approached the bedchamber. He met the carpenter with sleepy and full babe in arms on the way; the father bowing with some difficulty on seeing the king.

"Your Majesty!"

"You don't need to bow each time you see me," Alistair reminded him, hastily. "You're part of our company."

"I don't know how to thank you both," the man replied, eyes raw with earnestness. "Queen Florence has saved my boy's life, I'm sure of it. He's put on more weight in the past two days than he did over two _weeks."_

"Well, I'm very glad to hear it," the king said, absentmindedly fingering the soft grey lambswool of the robe. "We plan to leave in the next candle-length, and we ought to be at Highever by midday."

"Yes, your majesty!"

Once he had returned to the bedchamber, Alistair found his best friend drowsy amidst the cushions and blankets, slumped over her own swollen stomach with her breast still bared and strands of dark crimson hair falling loose over her shoulders. He suddenly wanted nothing more to crawl into the blankets and take her in his arms; to lie beside the warmth of her for the rest of the morning.

Yet, from outside drifted up the sound of horses, carts and men readying for departure; gravel crunching and leather packs being loaded against wood. A crowd of people in Highever lined the streets, and a young teyrn impatiently awaited his sister.

 _I'm at once the most powerful man in Ferelden,_ Alistair thought to himself, _and the most powerless._

Sitting on the side of the bed, he reached out and touched the top of Flora's head, stroking fingers around the edge of her oxblood hairline. A yawning Flora grimaced, reaching up blindly to anchor Alistair's hand in hers, bringing it to her face and rubbing her cheek into his palm.

"Mnghh-"

He opened his mouth to apologise for _something –_ the necessity of her rising from bed, the golden shackle of a crown that left no mark – and then she opened her eyes fully.

"Oh no! I didn't fall asleep, did I?"

"I wish I could let you rest," Alistair breathed, squeezing her fingers with something akin to anguish. "These… these duties and obligations are all my fault. Because- "

He canted his head helplessly towards the wooden dresser, where the two golden bands of authority sat waiting with an expectant lustre. Flora pushed herself upwards with a little grunt, weighed down by the ripe mound of her belly. She spared the crowns a brief glance before drawing his gaze physically back to her, fingers gently tilting his chin.

"Who in Ferelden _rests_ on a weekday?" Flora asked, the question stern and rhetorical. "If I were a _fat-bellied_ fishwife in Herring, I'd be out picking cockles from the tide-leavings, or mending the nets. If I belonged to a free man, I'd be pulling up water, or sweeping, or mending shirts, _regardless of my childbearing stomach._ If I were an arlessa, I'd be riding around my arling, setting disputes, sitting in assize courts – _right up until the birth_. If I were a silk merchant, I'd be worrying about shipments and paying rent for my market stall, _no matter how restless my womb."_

This was an uncharacteristically long speech for the queen. Flora could happily monologue and declaim in public when the occasion called for it; in private, she spoke in the short, irregular patois of the north.

Alistair blinked at her and Flora smiled, stroking his smooth, fresh-shaved chin with a thumb.

"Everybody in Ferelden has duties and obligations," she breathed, earnestly. "And I'm happy to carry out mine, regardless of my stomach. You have nothing to be sorry for, husband."

"Sweet wife!"

Alistair leaned forward to cup her cheek; she was no longer flexible and so waited for him to kiss her. He planted his lips first to Flora's cheek and then against her full, deceptively sulky mouth, wishing suddenly that they had more time for other purposes than sleep.

"So am I going to ride naked into Highever with my hair covering me?" Flora asked, mildly intrigued. "Zevran once told me a story about an Antivan princess who did that, once."

Alistair held up the grey gown that Finian had scavenged, forcing his mind back to the matter at hand.

"Here, love. I think this ought to fit – your brother said he purchased it from a buxom, girthy-waisted serving-girl."

"Hmph!" grumbled Flora, who had only worn a dress on _one_ occasion in the past six months – her wedding day. "We'll see."

Twenty minutes later and the long-lost daughter of Bryce Cousland stood before the mirror, viewing the garb in which she would make her grand return to Highever. The grey dress was spun from soft lambswool, cut low in the front and laced with black silk, the draped sleeves hanging low against the skirt. The plainness of the gown was in stark contrast to the rich tumble of oxblood hair falling loose down her back; the golden band and wedding rings points of lustrous brightness against the grey.

Flora eyed the low-cut neckline suspiciously, more used to high collars and baggy woollen jumpers.

"I suppose at least it'll be easy to feed the baby," she said at last, working a knot from her hair with her fingers.

Alistair, whose mind had travelled down other paths as he admired his wife's cleavage, gave himself an internal shake.

"You look stunning, my dear," he said, picking up a thick rope of crimson hair and letting it settle against the grey wool. "A beauty like yours doesn't need a fancy gown. I wish I could ravage you right now."

"I can feel cold air around my nethers," replied Flora, both alarmed and fascinated. "What if it's _windy_ in Highever? Dresses are so _impractical."_

The company bade farewell to Ser Cambuel, who expressed his sorrow that he would not be able to accompany them on the road to Highever. The monthly assize court – the first since the Blight – was in session later that day, and he had been called in to supervise proceedings. He finished his apology with the presentation of a gift to the king and queen; a silver-gilt mirror with glass so perfect that it resembled the frigid surface of a glacial lake. The mirror, packed securely in a velvet padded case, went into the wagon with the rest of the baggage.

The royal company set out mid-morning along the northern highway, a wide, earthen road which would take them directly to Highever. Their number had grown with the arrival of Finian and the Cousland retainers that had accompanied him; there were now over two dozen horses and several wagons within the procession. As befitted the first day of Kingsway, the sun was low and gave off little heat, a round, white pinprick almost lost against the translucent sky. The air had a crisp, autumnal brightness to it; sharpening the landscape until the lines of fir-trees stood out like the bristles of a hairbrush.

Finian was on excellent entertaining form; his wit honed by months free of the Blight's overbearing menace. As they rode through a sun-dappled wood, he told stories of Ser Cambuel's escapades with their late father; in his thirties, the word _rogue_ might not have been applied wrongly to Bryce Cousland.

"And then," Finian continued with relish, ducking back in the saddle to avoid an overhanging branch. "Our father ended up having to _buy_ the entire cart – flea-bitten donkey and all – from the farmer. Of course, he didn't want a donkey, so Cambuel suggested that he set it free."

"You don't _set donkeys free,"_ interjected Wynne in astonishment.

"Well, he _tried_ to set it free – and the donkey ended up following them all the way back to Highever," cackled Finian, a wicked light dancing in his pale eye. "He ended up having to house it in the stables alongside his purebred Fereldan Forders."

Alistair let out a snort of amusement, reaching up to hold back the low-hanging foliage so it didn't make contact with his wife's head. The Mabari were trotting beside the hooves of the king's horse, snapping at stray leaves.

"I've been drinking with Bryce Cousland before," Teagan offered, as the horses crossed a bridge beside a thin silver ribbon of a waterfall. "The man had a great sense of humour in his cups. And he had a spirit's luck in gambling – is there a spirit of Fortune?"

"No," replied Wynne, admiring the view of the great valley that had opened up to the east. "This is beautiful scenery, Finian. I've never been to this part of the _teyrnir_ before."

The company drew to a halt on a grassy outcrop, where a break in the trees allowed them to see the lie of the nearby land. A long, oxbow lake lay in the cleft of the shallow valley, fed by a number of thin waterfalls. The hillsides bristled with rough outcrops, jutting crags and exposed bluffs of stone. It was this irregularity of landscape that alluded to the source of Highever's ancient wealth – and the true reason why Howe had wished to claim the teyrnir. Ores both mundane and precious lay in abundance beneath the northern earth, so plentiful that rich veins of metal were exposed with every subsidence of soil. There were more mines and quarries beneath Highever's soil than in the rest of the arlings combined – and the town itself contained smithies that were renowned in south-eastern Thedas for the purity of their metalwork.

"That's the old copper mine that Ferg and I explored when we were young. See, just by that waterfall to the east?"

Finian pointed out a distant rocky outcrop, the face of the mine little more than a quarried indent within the cliff.

"That vein's been depleted for a generation. Bandits have a nasty habit of making their home there, so the Cousland knights go and clear them out every few months. They think it good sport."

Alistair lifted an arm to pick out a spot of pale, sunlit stone nestled amidst the pines; catching the watery midday sunlight like a shred of glass. Finian – who had almost grown used to his restricted field of vision – canted his head to follow Alistair's pointed finger.

"Good eye," the young arl said, admiringly. "That's the tallest of the Alamarri standing stones. The woods on the far side of the lake are littered with them – Father had each one marked down on a map, and there are at least two dozen. The largest is as thick as a tree-trunk, and I've got no _idea_ how in the Maker's name it was rooted in place. They must weigh several cart loads _each."_

"Magic, I would expect," murmured Zevran, nudging his mare to stand in a patch of watery sunlight. "Or else the Alamarri were half-man, half-troll, and possessed bestial strength."

Alistair - who had a secret fascination with runic artefacts and arcane oddities - hoped that they would get a chance to inspect one of these standing stones during their visit to Highever.

"Perhaps we'll get a chance to visit one," added the elf, voicing the king's desires aloud.

"I don't think we'll have time on _this_ visit," piped up Flora from Alistair's saddle, earnest and apologetic. "We're only going to be in Highever for one night before we head back to Denerim."

 _For the birth,_ the queen thought to herself, grimly. _I need to be in a place which I know well. Highever, in my mind, is a place made only of strange, half-memories; like faces caught in the instant before the candle is blown out._

The pause that followed her reply stretched out until it became both awkward and obvious. Alistair could feel Finian's pale grey eye boring into him, and raised his own gaze to the tree line. Teagan let out an embarrassed cough, and Zevran – who would not lie to his emancipator – merely smiled at her with his face studiously neutral.

Flora was not an overly suspicious person; in truth, she was a northerner for whom silences, coughs and grunts were perfectly acceptable forms of communication. Yet, _this_ pause had elongated itself to an unusual length. She blinked, frowned, and then opened her mouth to begin a question.

Just then – to the rest of the company's immense relief – the carpenter's baby woke up, the demands of its stomach a more constant alarm than any dawn cockerel. It immediately began to squirm against it's father's chest, throwing up small fists and squealing a loud demand. Flora, instinctively swivelling towards the hungry cries, forgot her query and held out her arms.

"Lunchtime!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Please excuse all my gratuitous headcanon in this bit of the story! Welllll, p much all of this story has been headcanon – except for the Awakenings stuff – but I just made up all the stuff about Highever being rich in ore, and the Alamarri standing stones. Since I've made the weather on the northern coast so damp and drizzly, I couldn't have agriculture as the teyrnir's main souce of income, so I thought mining was a good alternative!

I think Flo has made a good point – even if she was a fisherman's wife in Herring, she'd still be physically active right up until the birth. Alistair might feel guilty about making her get out of bed, but Flora isn't bothered by it at all, lol.

No update til Friday, my gorge husband is back from a trip to America to see his invalid mother (slight exaggeration, she had an operation lol) and I want to spend lots of time with him in the evenings this week!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	148. Highever

Chapter 148: Highever 

The royal company rode down the sloping road into the wood valley, past a gently-turning water-wheel and its accompanying mill. The miller and his wife stood in the doorway and gazed curiously at the approaching retinue; when they spotted the Cousland colours worn by Finian, they both bowed deep at the waist.

"Mornin', young lord!" called out the miller, recognising Finian's distinctive colouring. "Didn't we see you riding out this way yesterday? Said you had something important to collect?"

"Aye," replied Finian, proudly. "And now I've collected her. My little sister, the lady Florence. The _Hero of Ferelden."_

The miller and his wife immediately elbowed each other out of the way in their haste to gain a better view, eyes widening as the king's great bay mare came into view, bearing the royal couple. The king - who had the same long limbs and gilded colouring as his steed - sat easily atop the saddle with one large, capable hand clutching the reins. His queen – Bryce Cousland's daughter – sat gravely before him, anchored in place with a muscled arm around her swollen stomach. The cold beauty of her pale-eyed, solemn-lipped features stood out stark against her plain, dove-grey gown. The distinctive oxblood hair, red as Antivan port-wine, fell loose and unruly over her shoulders.

"Blight-ender!" called out the miller's wife, who was less shy than her husband. "Hail, blight-ender! Thank you, my lady!"

The woman held up her flour-covered hand in a salute as the royal horse passed by, her eyes bright and grateful. The queen turned her head and shot a shy smile down at the miller's wife; the deceptive coldness of her features melting away.

The road took them down to the bank of the oxbow lake, then meandered north in rough parallel with the shoreline. The midday sun was beginning a slow arc behind a silver-edged mist that hung low over the pines. With every league they rode, the mist descended lower; creeping inch by inch below the tree-line. Zevran declared an omen of rain, and both Cousland siblings assured him simultaneously that the clouds held no rain; that it was a sea-fog that would clear within a few hours.

"Fog or rain, one ends up soaked to the skin regardless," muttered Zevran, pulling his travel cloak tighter around himself. "I cannot wait until Highever, and a warm hearth. I have heard that Castle Cousland has at least one fireplace in _every_ chamber, even the servants' quarters."

"It does," replied Finian, gesturing the scouts towards the right branch in the road ahead. "But most of them don't get lit. They'd need half of Brecilian's lumber to last through the day otherwise!"

"I care not for the Brecilian Forest," said Zevran, the corner of his lip curling. "It is full of werewolves, demons and displeased elves."

Sure enough, the mist soon descended around the royal company as they rode through the pine-forest. Fortunately, it was not the opaque miasma of the Storm Coast, but a thin vapour that blurred instead of obscuring. The scouts hastily lit torches and Wynne held her staff aloft; the combined glow was more than sufficient for them to continue their journey.

Taking advantage of the murk, Alistair nuzzled his face against his wife's neck, aware that within the next few hours, they would be firmly back in the public eye. He had brushed her hair to the side and was pressing light kisses to her ear between whispers of affection. Flora's cheeks had blossomed with delight; she listened avidly to her husband's soft, purposefully-expressed desire.

"Is there an inch of your body that I've not kissed since we've been married?" he murmured, grinning as she let out a squeal. "If there is, tell me, and I'll devote a candle-length to it later."

"I can't think of anywhere," she whispered back, honestly. "You've been very _thorough."_

Alistair's smile widened a fraction, his eyes bruising with pleasurable recollection.

"Well, I feel like revisiting some _old favourites_ tonight," he breathed, wishing that the mist was a little more obscuring. "How does that sound to you, baby?"

"Yes! Yeeees!" replied the unsubtle Flora. "Yeeees!"

Alistair was about to edge his fingers surreptitiously around the swell of his new wife's breast, when Finian – who was riding ahead - released a precisely aimed branch. The wet fringe of pine hit the king directly in the face. Alistair spluttered, spitting out a mouthful of pine needles.

"Aah! Maker's Breath!"

"Stop groping my sister on the saddle!"

"I don't mind!" said the sister in question, eagerly.

Fortunately, the mist was too insipid to survive for long against the cool, relentless glare of an early autumn sun. The salt-edged vapour dissipated as the royal company came out of the wood, the rich mineral-plains of Highever opening up before them.

The cliff-edge was a distant line on the horizon, yet before the coast came a great, disorientating swathe of open quarries; the earth broken as though the Maker had slammed a celestial fist onto the terrain. Many of these quarries were still in use, laced with wooden scaffolding and swarming with tiny, ant-sized workers. Abandoned stoneworks left gaping hollows in the rock, solid granite was carved open in ragged chunks. Grassy hillocks marked the entrances to mines, many of them accompanied by stables for cart-pulling mules. There were as many strands of rich metal beneath the grassy hills of Highever as there were veins in the body; it was the source of the teynir's vast and much-envied wealth. Most of the men in the town worked in either mine or quarry, or in some profession related to the trade.

Yet Flora's eyes skimmed over the quarries like a swooping sea-bird; lifting instead to the horizon. The town of Highever had sprawled outwards in three directions from the fishing village it had once been, restricted on one face by the drop down to the sea. The buildings were constructed from the dark limestone and slate found in the surrounding cliffs; there must have been several hundred rooftops clustered in irregular formation within the boundary of the town. Twenty thousand people dwelt within the teyrnir's capital – and the figure had swelled by a quarter during the Blight.

Highever was also the only settlement outside Denerim to boast a full-height defensive wall - South Reach's had been more a fortified barricade. Flagpoles sporting the colours of Highever and the Couslands jutted proudly every dozen metres; the long banners twisting in the northern wind.

Impressive as the town was, it was dwarfed utterly by the limestone and granite mass that rose menacingly from the edifice beyond. Castle Cousland sprawled atop an exposed spur of rock; eight vast, barrel-like towers and three squat barbicans connected by defensive walls a full ten metres in height. A postern gate allowed access by water and even in the weak light of autumn, the glint of portcullis gates across the other entrances could be seen. It was a structure confident in its architectural impregnability, stern and utterly formidable. The navy and forest green banners of Cousland hung proudly over the walls; fresh-made, from the richness of their colours.

Still a mile distant from the town, the royal company halted at the edge of the wood and took in the impressive view.

"Is it bigger than Denerim Castle?" asked Alistair at last, superimposing his memory of the Royal Palace over this sprawling limestone behemoth. "Maker's Breath, it must have taken _decades_ to build."

"It's been extended over the years," replied Teagan, vaguely recalling the building's construction from _Ferelden: A History._ "The original keep was built during the Storm Age. And I don't think it's _bigger,_ but it does have two more towers."

Flora could feel her brother's eye boring hopefully into her, and she knew full-well what he was about to ask. Not wanting to disappoint, she scoured the blurred recesses of her memory for any trace of her first home; her brow furrowing into parallel lines.

"I don't remember it," she began after a few moments, apologetically. "At least, I don't- _oh!_ "

The memory rose to the surface of her mind like a bright pebble exposed by shifting sand. The queen lifted a finger towards the eastern tower, which sat squat at the corner of the castle's inner ward. It had a distinctive crenellated pattern to the battlements, visible even at a distance.

"The kitchens were at the bottom of that tower," she breathed, uncertain why she was confident enough to utter it as a statement and not a query.

"That's right, Floss!" replied Finian, beaming. "You used to get chased out of there more often than the Mabari. Drove the cooks to distraction. Greedy little piglet!"

Flora felt the corner of her mouth twist reluctantly upwards; her brother, spotting this slight movement, let out a crow of delight.

"A smile, at last! I knew I'd coax one from you eventually, Flossie. I promise, Highever won't be as strange as you think. After all, it was your _home."_

Alistair could feel his wife tense before him on the saddle, but she was too kind to let the instinctive and vehement objection emerge from her throat. Instead, Flora let her gaze slide below the great bulwarks of Castle Cousland and down to the town; the slate-roofed buildings huddled on either side of a wide river.

"What's the river called?" she asked, as they began the final approach towards the teyrnir's capital. "Is it saltwater?"

"The Cywen," replied the young arl, shielding his eyes against the watery sunlight. "It's not salt, but it isn't drinkable. Polluted by run-off from the mines and quarries, anyone who fills his pouch from there is liable to get a _very_ sick belly. Highever gets its water from wells."

The road was well-maintained and signposted, trails leading to subsidiary villages branching off at each side. The royal company passed the occasional tavern or roadside smithy as they rode towards the town; the occupants rushing to windows and doorways as they heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Several of Finian's retainers rode on ahead, sporting the banners of both Cousland and Theirin. The royal guard, quickly reclaiming an air of professionalism, positioned themselves just behind the king and queen. The Mabari, sensing the return to civilisation, were excitable, snapping at each other playfully as they darted before the patient bay mare's hooves.

The castle seemed to expand with each hundred-metres they drew nearer, dwarfing the buildings below. Despite being perched on a natural craggy rise, it dominated the horizon in its own right; each of the eight vast towers reached seventy foot in height. There was no way to reach Castle Cousland on horseback without first passing through the town, and Finian had warned them in advance that there would be crowds.

Each member of the company was preparing themselves in their own way for public display. Zevran tied the slender braids in his hair more tightly, Wynne tucked stray silver strands back into her bun. Teagan took a quick gulp from his hip-flask; the bann was not particularly fond of being on show.

Alistair had made one last valiant attempt to flatten down his hair, trying to weight down the unruly tuft with the golden band. This was difficult to do with a single hand, since his left arm was wrapped firmly around his wife.

"I can just hang onto the saddle if you want to use both hands," Flora breathed, hearing her husband mutter darkly under his breath as the coronal nearly slipped from his head.

Alistair let out a derisive snort, abandoning the attempt to tame his unruly cowlick.

"As though I would _ever_ let you go, sweet wife," he replied, pressing his lips to the back of her head. "Not in this Age or the next. Hair be damned!"

Flora smiled at him, grateful for the momentary distraction from the growing apprehension in the pit of her stomach. The last hour of the journey had been strange and disconcerting; her mind had pulled like a troublesome fish on the line when the great castle came into view.

 _I was born there,_ she had thought incredulously to herself. _I lived the first quarter of my life within those wards and walls._

 _Will returning here feel more like coming home than when we visited Herring?_

"Wynne," she called across the company in an effort to distract herself. "Wynne?"

The senior enchanter stopped adjusting her bun and nudged her horse forward with a skillful knee.

"Yes, Florence?"

"Do I look presentable?"

Wynne cast a quick glance over the queen, taking in the loose abundance of oxblood hair and the full-lipped solemnity of the face. The rich brown of the travel cloak was bundled around her, obscuring the prominent swell of her stomach.

"You look exactly as they will expect you to look," she replied, briskly. "A Fereldan queen with Alamarri blood running through her veins."

"Aye," chimed in Finian, riding at the other side of the royal horse. "Between you both, you'll bring back the custom of wearing leathers and fur. I – in my Orlesian-inspired silks and velvet – will be _deeply_ unfashionable!"

Flora, who had no understanding of fashion _,_ cast a vague smile at her brother and returned her pale gaze forward.

The town wall – a great bulwark quarried from the surrounding cliffs – loomed taller as they approached; the pale spear-crossed shield of Highever fluttering from alternating flagpoles.

Other flagpoles bore the Cousland laurel wreath, but embroidered in the unusual hue of grey on black. The meaning of this colour choice was clear – the town was still in mourning for their former teyrn and his murdered family.

Zevran raised an arm to gesture towards the top of the wall as they approached, raising an eyebrow.

"I see the welcoming party are already out to greet us."

Sure enough, the forms of people were beginning to take shape atop the town wall; clustered along the battlements with barely a space between them. As they caught sight of the royal company making their way up the main road, a cheer went up from amongst the masses, growing in volume as arms went up in a sea of waving hands.

 _Blight-ender! Blight-ender!_

Flora felt Alistair tighten his grip around her waist, his breath hot on the back of her neck. She did not need to look to know that he had straightened himself in the saddle, the chin lifting and the broad, Marician shoulders drawing back.

"Ready for this, my love?" he murmured, feeling the shifting of a child against his restraining arm.

Flora inhaled a deep breath of cool, coastal air, taking comfort from the salt tingling beneath her tongue. It had been months since they had processed through the streets of Denerim in triumph; rather naively, she thought that all the fuss would have blown over by now. Finian, catching sight of his sister's face, let out a soft and wry laugh.

"Did you believe that everybody would have _forgotten_ what you've done, Floss?"

She nodded; not wanting to disturb the implacable gravity of her features by speaking.

"It's only been three months, sister," her brother continued, raising his voice over the escalating sound of cheers. "A mere heartbeat of time."

There was a shiver of excitement atop the battlements as the royal company drew near to the main gate; the drawbridge lowered and portcullis raised in preparation. The tangled cries were beginning to form coherent words – _Theirin, Theirin,_ was one, since Maric's dynasty had always been popular within Highever. Another, unsurprisingly, was _Cousland! Cousland!_

Yet amidst the bellows of family names, other, more distinctive greetings rang down from the lofty top of the town wall.

" _Blight-ender! Dragon-slayer!"_

" _Welcome home, lady Florence!"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Sooo my version of Castle Cousland is inspired by Conwy Castle, which is in north Wales and is a big proper brute of a Medieval castle! Google it, it's so stunning! Anyway, poor old Flo is going to see how returning to THIS home feels!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you! Also, yesterday was my two year anniversary from when I posted the first chapter of The Lion and the Light. It doesn't read that well when I look back on it, hahaha


	149. Return to Castle Cousland

Chapter 149: Return to Castle Cousland

Flora, who had forgotten what it was like to be hailed by crowds, was grateful for Alistair's solid presence at her back. They were close enough to Highever now to make out bright, excited faces atop the town walls; the citizens jostling for position against the battlements. Children were pointing out various members of the royal company, the names of those who had accompanied King Alistair and Queen Florence on their quest to defeat the Blight had spread through Ferelden like wildfire.

Wynne lowered her eyes decorously to her horse's neck, glad that she had washed her hair that morning. Zevran was uncertain whether – in his line of work - having everybody recognise his face was a _good_ thing or not. Deciding not to worry about it at that particular moment, he preened and smiled, lifting his chin and winking at those who seemed susceptible to a handsome elf.

 _The king_ was excitedly identified by the onlookers– unnecessarily, since he stood out like a tall and broad-shouldered golden brand against the rest of the men in the procession. Flora, whose Cousland-red hair flowed down like wine over her shoulders, was also immediately pointed out.

The royal company were just about to cross the drawbridge leading beneath the main gate, when Flora had a sudden revelation.

 _Remember the high and defiant ponytail you wore during the last weeks of the Blight; which led to thousands of crimson ribbons being tied to lances and woven around the grips of sword-hilts?_

 _These things – symbols - are important. They can give more hope than a dozen speeches._

Impulsively she reached up to tug the laces of the travel cloak loose, letting the thick fur fall open to show off the ripe swell of her stomach. Sure enough, as soon as the citizens of Highever laid eyes on their queen's swollen and prominent belly, they set up an even louder cheer that resonated to the clouded heavens; a raw, triumphant edge to the roar. Rumours had spread across Ferelden that the queen was expecting twins, now, the gossipmongers were delightedly making profit on their hearsay.

 _Two heirs to the throne for the first time in years; while Orlais can claim none._

 _Infants strong enough to survive Darkspawn and demon alike._

 _Fereldan stability secured for another generation._

Alistair, after the briefest of moments, realised the purpose of Flora's action. He caressed her thigh with a tender gesture too slight to be spied on by onlookers.

 _"My beautiful queen,"_ he murmured, softly. "You bring hope to the people."

 _"They_ do," replied Flora, feeling a shifting within her stomach. "Ooh, I've got indigestion again."

The gatehouse passed above their heads, and they emerged onto a wide avenue that snaked alongside the ore-tainted river. It was lined on both sides by tall, two-story townhouses; constructed from the limestone and slate typical of most buildings in the region. The crossed spear of Highever and the laurel wreath of Cousland were suspended from every post and railing, banners several yards in length fluttering in the northern breeze.

The streets were thronged with people, three-deep on each side of the road. They hung over the balconies and clung to lamp-posts, faces bright with excitement and curiosity; many of them sporting the crimson ribbon tied to their wrists or knotted into skeins of hair. Soldiers from the garrison stood at intervals to keep the crowd in order, but even they had raised the visors on their helmets to better see the royal company.

Flora felt her mind give an odd twinge of recognition as they processed down this main avenue, following the iron-tinged course of the river. It was a strange feeling to have one's _mind_ flutter in recognition when one's _eyes_ felt as though they were viewing a place for the first time.

 _I know this bridge,_ she thought to herself with a shiver as they approached a great three-arched span that crossed the river at its widest point. _I don't know why._

"Theirin!"

"Cousland, Cousland! _The Hero of Ferelden!"_

The cries came up from either side, distinctive and ragged amidst the voiceless cheers. Alistair turned a genial smile from side to side; naturally charismatic, engaging with crowds had always been easy for him. He gripped his queen around her waist, with a strong and protective arm across her belly, his chin raised and handsome face lit with pride.

Finian had raised a hand to acknowledge their cries, the people of Highever loved well the light-hearted and irreverent younger son of Bryce Cousland. It was a mark of their high regard that they did not hold Finian's five-year sojourn in Orlais against him.

Children scuttled at the fringes of the crowd, weaving their way through the legs of their elders. Many of them did not understand the reason for all the fuss and commotion; yet they embraced the change in usual routine with delight. They tossed flowers and sea-shells before the hooves of the horses, waving crimson ribbons from grubby fists and mangling the pronunciation of the king's name.

"Ferrin! Ferring! King _Lister!"_

Yet they did not mispronounce _Cousland;_ a name that every child of Highever was intimately familiar with.

The royal procession passed over the wide bridge, entering a market square almost as large as the one in Denerim. The workshops of blacksmiths, silversmiths and jewellery makers lined three of the four faces of the square; subsidiaries of the region's subterranean industry. A Chantry dominated the eastern wing of the square, its pointed roof reaching up several dozen yards in height; stained glass windows gleaming dully in the muted afternoon sunlight. The Chantry Mother in her tall hat, flanked by a gaggle of religious sisters, had come out to see the royal arrival. The priestesses gathered on the auctioneer's platform to keep them apart from the excitable throngs.

As they rode through the square Finian glanced across at his solemn-faced sister, whose grave public reputation had preceded her. Indeed, the crowds would have felt disconcerted if their queen was _not_ sporting the stoic implacability she was famous for. It was rumoured that the youngest Cousland had turned eyes of cold ambivalence on the Archdemon itself before slaying it.

Sure enough, Flora was gazing coolly ahead; her profile stern and elegantly hewn as some marble statue. Her chin was raised, the corners of her mouth turned downwards in a slight frown _._ Finian smiled inwardly at the strange paradox of his sister; whose haughty beauty and pale, unnerving eyes belied the compassion beneath. The young arl of Amaranthine knew too that Flora's grim neutrality of expression was a mask for her nervousness. He was gratified to see that Alistair was also aware of his wife's apprehension; the king was murmuring in his queen's ear as she leaned back against his chest.

The afternoon sun was inching leisurely towards the western horizon, filling the limestone streets with a cold, burnished light unique to Ferelden's northern coast. The people of Highever continued to jostle to get the best view of the royal procession as it left the market square; children scampering excitedly in the wake of the horses.

At the head of the procession, the scouts – who had turned flag-bearer for this entrance into Highever – carried the banners of Theirin and Cousland proudly aloft. Crimson and navy blue heraldry glided down the centre of the street like ships at sail. They passed the great guild-hall of miners and quarriers, a vast limestone building with an ornately carved edifice; a counting-house that had been locked up fast so that the owners could see the royal entrance; and so many taverns that Flora lost count. The garrison – a squat and utilitarian building that sat at the corner of a junction – had its soldiery standing in neat rows before it. They saluted the king's horse as it passed by, those that had fought in the final battle against the Darkspawn horde made an extra show of respect towards Finian, who had led them.

"Almost there now, Floss," the young arl called in a low voice across their horses, shielding his eyes against the sun. "Just round this corner. I hope the rain holds off."

Castle Cousland had been a continual, unseen presence during their procession through the town; although hidden from sight by the rooftops, the buildings were still bathed in its vast shadow. Now, as the royal procession passed back over the ore-tainted river, Flora felt her heart lurch inexplicably within her chest.

 _This is it,_ she found herself thinking, with a faint edge of apprehension. _This is where you were born. This was your home._

Alistair leaned forwards in the saddle, pressing a kiss to his wife's ear. He kept his lips against Flora's hair for a moment; inhaling the sea-salt and soap scent of her. She leaned herself against him, more grateful than she could articulate for the solid comfort of his presence.

 _Deep breath; chin up; eyes straight._

As the queen was readying herself, the royal procession rounded a corner and Castle Cousland rose up before them in all its vast and sprawling majesty. It swelled from a low plateau like some organic growth; craggy and rough-hewn as the limestone cliffs below. It was the largest structure that the company had seen in two months, the fortresses of Redcliffe and South Reach combined would have fit easily within its outer walls. Eight towers jutted at intervals towards the heavens, the high battlements bristled with a hundred flagpoles; fresh-embroidered banners hung down in bright splashes of colour against the limestone walls. It was ancient, magnificent and utterly formidable; the sheer scale of the structure was enough to steal the breath from one's lungs. Even the two towers flanking the approach to the castle were impressive; squat and solid as great stone barrels.

Zevran let out a low whistle, reluctantly impressed.

"Alistair, you may need to add an extra wing or two onto Denerim Castle," he breathed, eyebrows wedged in his hairline. "If you wish to compete with _this."_

"Denerim Castle is in much better condition," Finian replied, kindly. "There's always a dozen places that need repairing in this place. That easternmost tower hasn't had a solid roof in years."

Yet Alistair was not listening, was barely paying attention to the towering stonework after an initial glance. He was far more concerned with his wife, who had gone as white as a sheet; the usual fair skin paling to the unhealthy alabaster of Orlesian porcelain.

"My love," he whispered urgently in Flora's ear, dropping the reins and trusting the intelligent mare to follow its stable-mates. "My sweet girl. Are you alright? Talk to me."

Yet Flora was floundering in a mire of tangled half-memories, flickers of recognition darting through her mind like silverfish.

 _I know this place. I remember those towers at either side of the approach._

Flora raised a hand to point out the eastern bulwark, her fingers trembling.

"I once tried to sneak into the town to explore," she whispered, more to herself. "I got as far as that tower before they caught me...?"

Her voice rose at the end, as though it were a question. Finian, brow furrowed at his sister's paleness, gave a nod in response.

"Aye, and then Father swooped down on you like some exasperated eagle; put you over his shoulder and carried you kicking and screaming back to the inner ward."

Flora shot another quick, anxious glance at the sprawling landscape of towers, walls and formidable keeps that lay ahead. The barbican – a fortified gateway nearly sixty foot in height – was looming rapidly before them. To either side, the Cousland heraldry hung down in long banners of ink-dark navy.

She felt Alistair's fingers winding themselves into hers, strong and warm; their palms sealing together with familiar pressure. Zevran and Wynne had also instinctively nudged their horses closer on seeing the colour drain from their former Warden's face. Now the elf shot Flora a bright and reassuring smile, teeth in stark, white contrast to the rich tawniness of his skin.

"Come now, Florence," murmured the senior enchanter, and there was a stern, motherly kindness in the words. "Sit up straight: you're slouching."

Flora took a deep breath and did as the elderly mage suggested, stiffening herself in the saddle as best she could. Alistair's fingers were still wrapped tight around her own; she felt his lips brush against his hair as he murmured into her ear.

"I'm not letting go of your hand until you wish it, my love."

"Please, don't."

 _"Never,_ darling!"

As they approached the gatehouse on the external bailey, the sharp-eyed elf caught sight of a familiar figure standing in the centre of the stone archway. The figure was flanked by many others, yet stood out from the crowd due to the golden band of authority resting atop his head.

"Ah, the teyrn has come out to greet us!"

Flora inhaled unsteadily, shifting against Alistair to crane her neck. Sure enough, her eldest brother was only two dozen yards away, his solid and muscular frame clad in richly dyed navy lambswool. Fergus' russet hair had been trimmed into a close-cropped beard that made him seem older than his thirty-one years; Flora recalled a comment that Alistair had once made about the _facial hair of authority._

Castle Cousland, as befitted one of the great strongholds of Thedas, contained both an outer and an inner wall; twin baileys running parallel for dual defence. The outer ward of the castle contained the stables, the garrisons and the armouries, as well as Highever's administrative quarters. The inner ward was home to the family quarters, the Mabari kennels and the treasury.

The royal procession passed beneath two portcullises into the outer ward, the hooves of their horses clattering against the cobblestones. The entire Cousland household seemed to have been gathered in the courtyard – almost three hundred knights, servants and retainers in total – clad in navy livery and organised into neat rows. The teyrn stood at their forefront with his bailiff and captain at his side, a grin of pleasure spreading over his face as he caught sight of his siblings.

Fergus strode forward to take hold of the king's horse as it came to a stop, his careworn face suddenly seeming years younger. Flora found herself beaming shyly back down at him, delighted at this reunion with her eldest brother.

"Maker's Breath, but I'm glad to see you, Floss," he breathed, reaching up strong, thickly muscled arms towards the saddle. "Let's get you down from there."

Flora put an arm around Fergus's neck as he lifted her with exceptional care to the cobblestones. Around them, the other horses and carts of the royal company had come to a halt, the Cousland knights calling out greetings to various acquaintances as stable-boys came running forth to take the horses. A pack of Mabari were scampering excitably around the horses; the impeccably trained royal steeds were as used to dogs as they were men, and barely flickered a nostril in response. The royal hounds sniffed the new arrivals, priding themselves on their own dignified demeanour.

Once Flora's feet were on solid ground, she reached out her arms towards her elder brother. Fergus embraced her with tender care, conscious of the precious cargo contained within his sister's swollen stomach.

"You look radiant, pet," he said, drawing back a fraction to look her up and down. "Alistair, she suits being fat-bellied with babe."

"Oh, I'll have her fat-bellied many times over," replied Alistair easily as king and teyrn greeted one another. "Thank you for the escort here."

Fergus nodded, glancing quickly around. With the professional efficiency that resulted from being part of a teyrn's household, the carts and horses of the royal procession were already being taken care of. Retainers clad in Highever navy were offering trays of warm apple cider to the members of the company, which Finian was happily availing himself of. Dark clouds had gathered overhead, and there came an ominous rumble from somewhere above the open ocean.

"I was going to show you around Highever today," the new teyrn said, grimacing skywards. "But it looks as though rain is in the air, and I don't want Floss to get wet in her condition."

If Flora had been listening, she would naturally have raised a great protest – she was a northerner, she was used to rain, she _liked_ the rain – but the queen was too busy gazing around at the lofty edifices of Castle Cousland. Wide-eyed, she took in the towers that seemed to reach the clouds; the battlements that loomed almost as high, the hanging banners a dozen feet in length. There was a chapel nestled within the base of the outer curtain-wall, complete with a bowing Chantry sister; while high wooden scaffolding was built up around a crumbling buttress. People clad in Highever colours swarmed everywhere like ants; much like the Royal Palace in Denerim, Castle Cousland was a public building. The town garrison used its archery range, which the local sheriff presided over assize courts in a lower chamber of the barbican.

 _I know this place,_ she thought to herself, in astonishment. _Not well, but there's a flimsy construct in my mind made from tissue and kindling._

Fergus was watching his sister, an unreadable expression writ across his tired, handsome face. Flora's pale eyes were moving from the towers and the barbican gate, travelling along battlements and up flagpoles to see the fluttering, laurel-wreath pennants.

"Do you… do you remember anything, Floss?"

The query came from Finian, who came to a halt alongside his siblings.

For the first time in fifteen years, the three Cousland children stood together in the centre of the sprawling courtyard, surrounded by the ancient stone walls of their ancestral home. Both of the brothers were peering at their sister, whose eyes were as wide and round as silver coins.

"Yes," she said eventually, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "I remember – something. Lethy Gate?"

The queen raised a finger to point at the vast barbican they had just passed beneath. Alistair, ever vigilant, noticed that his wife's nails had been freshly bitten; they had been a quarter-inch in length the previous morning. The moment that Flora lowered her hand, he reclaimed it in his own, clasping their fingers tightly together.

 _"Elethea_ Gate," corrected Fergus, a wistful grimace of reminiscence half-curling his mouth. "You could never pronounce it as a child. Elethea Cousland was our Alamarri ancestor."

The clouds then did what they had been threatening to do for hours; setting free a misting autumnal drizzle that drifted down between the towers and threatened to soak everything uncovered within the courtyard. The servants hastened to take the last of the baggage inside; the horses were being fed and watered in the stables. An inquisitive Zevran, already eager at the prospect of exploring such a vast and labyrinthine residence with relatively free rein, let out a feline squeal of dismay.

"If the family reunion is finished, may I suggest we retire inside? I cannot stand this _northern_ drizzle."

Fergus nodded, casting a quick glance upwards.

"Come on, let's get you to your chambers."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaaaah this was such a fun chapter to write! I'm trained as a medievalist, but the past few years I've been doing a ton of military history at work because of the WWI centenary – and that's certainly not going to change this year! So it was nice to actually describe a medieval style structure and use some of the architectural vocabulary that I've not had a chance to deploy for ages, hehe :P Anyway, I know my description of Castle Cousland doesn't much resemble the map from in-game, but I wanted to create something a little different in structure from Bioware's single-storey labyrinth! I suppose they were probably limited by the game engine – or they were (rightly) like _well, this bit of the game is only the first 15 minutes so why render an entire Medieval castle?!_ Which is fair enough, hehehe

Poor old Flo is having a great deal of odd deja vu here!

Replying to reviews in the views, thank you!


	150. The Queen's Mabari

Chapter 150: The Queen's Mabari

The royal company followed Fergus across the cobblestones, various Cousland knights hailing them as they passed. The men acknowledged the king with due reverence, and the teyrn with easy familiarity; but each knight also wished to pay respect to the newly returned lady Cousland, and so their journey through the courtyard lasted longer than expected.

"My lady! Welcome back to Highever!"

"Lady Cousland – _your majesty._ Fergus, you were right – she's a pearl!"

One particular young knight, his ink-black hair tumbling in loose curls down his back, dropped gallantly to his knees before the queen. The effect was spoiled slightly by the presence of a puddle – to his credit, the knight did not flinch. He took the astonished Flora's hand and kissed her fingers with reverence.

" _Of every kinnë tre,_

 _The hawthorne blowëth swetest,_

 _Of every kinnë tre._

 _My lemman she shall be!"_

"How interesting," said the polite Flora, who had no idea what the knight had just said but assumed that he had addressed her in some foreign tongue. "I once dressed up as a lemon for a Circle costume ball."

"Get up, Geraint, and put your tongue back in your mouth," the teyrn directed irritably at the kneeling knight. "Stop spouting your terrible poetry at every pretty girl within the teyrnir. And my little sister is _definitely_ off-limits."

Alistair, fully cognisant of the fact that most men would be shooting second, third and fourth glances at his wife for the next four decades, snorted under his breath; standing up a little straighter to show his extra inches in height.

They passed beneath an inner barbican gate, which stood only a fraction less high than its external counterpart. This limestone archway led the way into the inner ward of Castle Cousland; which was still easily large enough to fit the main keep of Redcliffe Castle within its high walls. Large, rectangular expanses of grass stretched out in wings from a low, circular pool, the turf bisected by cobbled paths. On the far side of the expanse, a kitchen garden grew abundant against the base of a tower; on the near side were a dozen training dummies and banded archery targets.

The drizzle had begun to fall by this point, a light spattering which threatened to become something more sinister.

"Once you've been settled in your chambers, come to my quarters and you can fill me in on all that's happened," Fergus was saying over his shoulder, striding across the cobbles towards an unassuming wooden door. "We'll take the shorter route."

"You don't want to show Floss the great hall?" interjected Finian, shielding his face against the weeping skies. "It might help to prompt a few more of her memories."

"We'll eat there tomorrow," replied the teyrn, firmly. "Does that sound alright to you, Flor- Florence- ?"

But Flora had removed her hand from Alistair's – the corners of the king's mouth turning down reflexively as he felt her detach herself – and was heading off purposefully across the cobblestones. Despite not having been within the great, crumbling walls of Castle Cousland in fifteen years, she had absolute confidence about her destination, chin raised and jaw set stubbornly. The servants and retainers in her path scattered like frightened birds. One dropped an armful of linens in sheer shock at the sudden, startling presence of the long-lost Cousland daughter; solemn-faced and purposeful, volcanic hair falling loose down her back. The royal Mabari had already begun to move in the queen's wake, cutting across the grass to flank the Theirin's mate.

"Where's my wife going?" Alistair asked plaintively, every tendon and sinew in his body straining to follow her across the cobblestones. "Those cobbles aren't slippery, are they?"

Finian and Fergus glanced at one another, and then a sudden grin of realisation spread across the younger's face; the lurid scar flexing on his cheek.

"Ferg, you _know_ where she's going!"

Finian was delighted that some innate bearing – like a compass, hidden deep within the mind– had remained within his sister. Before the young arl could explain further, a sudden noise broke out from the base of the squat barrel-tower; a high-pitched, yapping that was almost immediately joined by a frenzied second.

"Ah, of course," the teyrn breathed, comprehension dawning. "Of _course_ a Cousland would want to see her Mabari before she retires."

They set off across the cobblestones, Zevran moving swiftly in an effort to avoid the increasingly heavy drizzle. As always, even while he was focused on removing himself from the source of the damp, the elf was taking stock of his surroundings. He had already noticed the unusually large number of guards positioned around the castle – there were armed navy-clad retainers posted at every doorway, and at regular intervals on the ramparts. In the wake of the terrible events of the previous year, the teyrn was taking no chances with the safety of his remaining family.

"How have Flo's pups grown?" demanded Alistair as they headed towards the kennels. "Strong? _Loyal?_ Intimidating enough to devour the manhood of anyone who threatens my queen?"

Fergus laughed, fine lines creasing at the corner of his eyes.

"They will be," he promised, amused. "I need to train them a few weeks more, and then they'll be ready to go. I tell you, I won't miss bellowing _Cod! Lobster!_ across the yard. I've received more than one unwanted seafood platter from the kitchens."

The guards posted at the base of the tower stood to attention as the teyrn approached; one of them hastening to open the door for the royal company.

"My lord – your majesty!"

"At ease, Fred," replied Fergus, gesturing his companions into the tower. "Welcome to the Highever kennels."

Alistair, who loved Mabari, inhaled with anticipation; following in the eldest Cousland's wake as he ushered them through the doorway.

The Highever kennels were second only in size to those at the Royal Palace in Denerim. They took up the entire ground floor of the north-eastern tower, and had four full-time hound-masters catering to their every need. Blankets and furs were piled up against the walls; troughs of food and clean water lined the adjacent corridor. Two great hearths were smouldering away, projecting heat into the cavernous space. The sounds of barking and yapping echoed to the vaulted ceiling; over two dozen Mabari dwelt within Fergus's kennels. Most were out wandering the castle, but a few mothers remained with their litters; one grizzled and grey Mabari snorted before the hearth and another tawny hound with a bandaged paw had its snout buried in the food-trough.

Flora was already kneeling on the flagstones with her arms held out; Cod and Lobster cavorted eagerly about her, demented with excitement. Emitting high-pitched yaps, they contorted long-limbed and chunky bodies around her in a fit of hysteric delight. Even in their delirium, the intelligent pups were careful not to be too rough with their mistress, sensitive to her swollen belly. The two royal hounds – who looked disdainfully at the exuberant puppies – stood at a watchful distance, keeping an eye on their antics.

"Maker, they're _huge!"_ Alistair breathed, striding across the circular chamber towards them. The pups immediately scampered to greet him and the crouching king held out his hands for them to lick; grinning as tiny claws scrabbled for purchase against his breeches.

"Aye, they're a good size for bitches," Fergus replied proudly, petting the head of the limping hound who had come to meet them. "Sound muscle on them, and sharp as a bard's dagger."

"And they know who their mistress is," added Zevran, watching as the puppies skittered back to Flora in all their flailing, long-limbed clumsiness. She held out her arms and one of them scrambled onto her thigh, licking her cheek with a yap of delight.

"Well, I've conditioned them to Flossie," Fergus replied, gesturing to a nearby straw basket lined with unravelling bluish-grey wool. "They've been sleeping with those old fisherman's jumpers of hers since they were born. They know her scent better than any other."

Flora nuzzled her face against the top of Cod's head; remembering in astonishment how small they had been when she had last seen them within the kennels of the Royal Palace at Denerim. They had been no larger than Alistair's hand, blind and fragile; she had cradled both of them on the swell of her stomach as they whimpered.

The puppy, which felt chunky and strong beneath the soft velvet fur, licked her chin. On seeing that its sister was getting more attention, Lobster immediately began to prance in circles; yelping and whining. Flora held out an arm and the puppy flung itself hard against the queen's thigh. One of the royal Mabari let out a little growl of warning at the puppy's enthusiasm, and the younger softened the vigour of its affection, draping itself over Flora's knee instead. It sniffed her stomach, then nudged the swollen flesh gently with its soft, wet nose. Immediately there came a responding nudge from within; one infant communicating wordlessly with another.

"I wish we could take them with us when we leave tomorrow evening," Flora said wistfully, rubbing the pup's ear between finger and thumb. "You're coming with us to Denerim, aren't you, Fergus?"

Zevran, convinced that they ought to be _honest_ with the queen about their plans to remain in Highever for the birth, rolled his liquid-dark eyes and let out a grunt. Wynne, who agreed with the elf, released a sigh under her breath. Finian and Teagan looked at one another, identical grimaces writ across their faces.

The teyrn darted a glance at the king, who had a similar look of despair.

 _I can't tell my wife a barefaced lie,_ Alistair's hazel gaze entreated. _Please, Fergus. You know the danger if she goes into labour on the road._

"Florence, there… there's meant to be a storm coming in tomorrow night," said Fergus heavily, after a moment. "A really nasty one. As your elder brother, I couldn't in good conscience let you leave until it blows over. It could be the first of the big autumn storms."

Flora blinked, swivelling her pale eyes up to rest on her brother.

"The sky didn't _look_ like it was brewing up a storm," she countered, her brow furrowing. "Oh, but maybe it looks different since we're further east?"

Fergus seized the convenient explanation, nodding frantically while Alistair swallowed a hard lump of guilt.

"That must be it, Floss," the teyrn said, heavily. "Anyway, it won't do you any harm to stay here a little longer."

Flora left her puppies with a kiss and a promise that she would come and see them again tomorrow. Their heartbroken whimpers at her departure provoked sniffles from the hormonal queen; she was supported with an arm around her waist from her husband as they left the kennels.

"They're so sad!" she bleated, turning tearful, anguished eyes on her companions. "They were _crying!"_

"Dogs can't cry," replied Fergus, ushering them hastily through the door and out into the inner ward of the castle.

"Maybe I should sleep in the kennels with them tonight!"

There came a half-dozen vehement replies in the negative, from all directions.

"They can't be over-indulged, petal," replied Teagan, who had raised more than one litter of Mabari pups as a youth. "Otherwise they'll grow soft and spoiled. They need to be toughened up."

Flora nodded in understanding; despite recent events, she still cherished the kernel of Herring grit lodged within her heart.

Fortunately, in line with Fergus' desperate lie, the skies were growing dark and menacing. The eight vast barrel-towers of Castle Cousland loomed upwards like sentries against the darkness; as though their high ramparts and fluttering pennants were the first line of defence against some opposing army gathering overhead. The drizzle from earlier had graduated to plump drops of rain that burst apart when hitting the cobbles, running down cracks and puddling on the grass.

Servants scuttled the long length of the courtyard clutching bundles of linen, carpentry tools, scrolls and silver platters, ducking into doorways that were closest to their intended destination. Much like the Royal Palace at Denerim, Castle Cousland had grown organically over the Ages; with each teyrn wanting to put their mark on the place by adding an extra tower or extension. There was therefore no rational order to the chambers, wings and myriad passageways. Some corridors ended abruptly in a stone wall, others led to tiny courtyards; vast halls with eight smouldering hearths were located beside garrisons or servant-quarters. It was a labyrinth that possessed a warren of tunnels dug around its foundations, and was also rumoured to contain a dozen secret passages.

"That's Ferelden Tower. It was built by our grandfather, William Cousland," Fergus explained, gesturing up at one lofty citadel constructed from a darker mineral than its companions. "That tower has walls of pyrestone, which is a dozen times stronger than limestone. He intended it as a bastion that would be strong enough to repel the Orlesians. When Ferelden was occupied by the Empire and taxed heavily, our grandfather held out there with a few other loyalists to avoid paying up. Highever was never successfully subjugated by the _chevaliers –_ even though sometimes the teyrn and townspeople were holed up in that tower for months. Every few years, the Orlesians would make a half-hearted attempt to lay siege to our grandfather, and each time he would defy them. Eventually they would need to divert troops to some other troublesome area, and William Cousland emerged triumphant."

"How did they survive in there for months?" Alistair asked, gazing up at the squat and impregnable citadel. It had no windows wider than two-inch arrow slits; the marks of many past assaults scarring the lower reaches of the stone.

"There's a well in the lower cellar," Finian replied, trying to shield his russet curls from the incessant rain. "And tunnels that lead out into the town. The Orlesians could never work out how the rebels had seemingly endless supplies of food."

"It's meant to be lucky to touch the base of Ferelden Tower," Wynne added, recalling a legend from one of the various history tomes that she had read over the years. "Speaking of notable features, which set of ramparts did the doomed lovers leap from?"

Finian made a vague gesture eastwards, as the company's heads swivelled as one.

"Near the main gate. It's hard to see the battlements from this angle."

"Doomed lovers?" enquired Zevran, curiously. "Please, enlighten us. I wish to be distracted from this rain."

"Teyrn Ardal Cousland had a younger daughter whom he wanted to marry to a nearby arl's son," Finian began, giving up on protecting his _coiffure_ from the drizzle. "It was a political match, and the girl protested. She was in love with the castle farrier, had been for some years. When it became clear that they would not get permission to marry, they both leapt to their deaths from the battlements near the main gate."

Alistair grimaced, glancing down to where Flora padded patiently at his side; their fingers entwined as usual. Fortunately, she did not seem to be listening to the tragic tale – her eyes were fixed into the distance, her free hand rested on her aching breast.

"Let's go through the east postern gate," began Fergus, then his brow furrowed. "Wait, is that a _baby_ crying?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: All the stuff about the legends and lore of Castle Cousland is pure headcanon, so apologies for that! But every castle has a ton of stories attached to it, and if Bioware won't provide any, I'll happily make up my own :P

Lol you have to love a bit of medieval poetry! The poem quoted by the flirty knight at the start is a real medieval poem, and lemman is an old word meaning 'love'. Not 'lemon', as Flora interpreted it, hehehe.

DOGGIES! Does anyone else have a Mabari real-life breed headcanon? Mine is the bull mastiff – I think they look pretty close to how Mabari are depicted in game, and they're intelligent and fiercely loyal. Anyway, it's nice to see Cod and Lobster again – when Flo first saw them at Denerim Castle, they were still squirming little worms, now they've got a bit of shape and personality.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank yooooou!


	151. The Cousland Family Tower

Chapter 151: The Cousland Family Tower

The Chasind carpenter had been hovering near one of the royal company wagons; once it was unpacked, he had taken his sleeping infant son and gone to wait beneath a stone colonnade. The baby had woken from its afternoon nap hungry and grizzling; small fists clenched and an angry expression writ across its puce features. The man held his mewling son and looked around, meeting the curious stares of several passing servants. He was sheltered from the rain beneath the colonnade; puddles were beginning to form between the cobbles of the large courtyard. The baby was nuzzling in frustration at the front of his shirt, small, demanding mouth opening and closing.

Just then, to the carpenter's relief, the royal party appeared at the end of the stone colonnade. Flora already had one arm extended; unwinding her fingers from Alistair's to tug at the laces of the grey gown. She beamed at the baby as she swooped down on it, eager to alleviate the ache in her breast.

"Your majesties," began the carpenter, relieved. "And – your lordship!"

This was in response to Fergus' arrival a moment later. The young teyrn's bluish-grey eyes widened in astonishment as he took in his sister perching on the square base of a column; cradling the babe in the corner of her arm as it latched itself hungrily onto her.

"What's this?" asked Fergus, clearly confused. _"Who_ is this?"

Flora was too preoccupied with the suckling child to answer, stroking it's downy head gently with her thumb. The carpenter mouthed for a moment, intimidated by the presence of the second-most powerful man in Ferelden. Alistair supplied an explanation instead, his eyes soft and bruised with tenderness as he gazed down at his nursing wife and the greedy little babe.

"We ran into this man at a tavern several nights ago," he began, quietly. "He's been travelling with us. His babe has no mother, and so Flo offered her services, such as they are."

There was no need to explain why the baby's mother was not around to feed her son. Childbirth was equally dangerous for a noblewoman as it was for a peasant's wife; Fergus understood this well enough.

"The queen has surely saved my boy's life," the Chasind added, the relief and gratitude raw in his words. "I can't say how indebted I am to her majesty."

"Anyway, we thought that you might have work for a carpenter here," continued Alistair, earnestly. "Then he could afford to hire a wet-nurse."

"I have skill, your lordship," the carpenter added, his voice quivering with hope. "Here – I made this for the royal nursery."

A curious Flora glanced up from the baby's soft head, watching as the man delved a hand into his leather pack. He drew out a tangle of wood and string, letting it dangle from his fingers. It was a suspended ornament, intended to hang above a child's crib; tiny wooden Mabari hung from strings, carved with intricate precision. Between the dangling hounds were placed stars and spiked crowns, each meticulously shaped and engraved.

Zevran, who always appreciated fine craftsmanship, let out a low whistle. Fergus stepped forward, his eyebrows disappearing into his russet hairline as he inspected the delicate carving of the wooden hounds.

"Maker's Breath," he said, astounded. "This is incredible. You've quite the gift, ser. And we could always do with more skilled carpenters here at the castle."

Hope flooded the Chasind's face, and he just about restrained himself from prostrating himself on the floor. Instead, he bent double at the waist, trembling with the potency of his relief. Flora smiled dazedly up at him as the babe drifted off into a sated nap on her breast; it's tiny lips parted and one small fist clenched possessively around a strand of her hair.

The teyrn turned promptly, gesturing for a hovering steward to step forwards.

"Show this man to the labourers' quarters, and find him a quiet chamber where the babe won't be disturbed," he ordered. "Give him a week's wages in advance so he can pay for a wet-nurse. Bess in the kitchens is still nursing, I believe."

This last sentence was directed to the relieved Chasind, who was muttering a profuse and unintelligible thanks.

Flora beamed, then realised that she had just fed the little babe for the last time. The carpenter was waiting patiently for her to say her goodbyes, so that he could take his son and accompany the steward. Taking a deep breath, she nuzzled her face into the top of the sleeping infant's downy head; inhaling it's warm, clean scent. After pressing several kisses against the feather-light tufts, she gently extracted her own hair from a little fist and handed it back to the father.

"Farewell, baby," she whispered, feeling a sharp, wistful pang between her ribs. "I'm happy that I was able to help you."

Alistair, hearing the faint note of distress in his wife's words, reached down to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. Flora lifted her fingers to rest between his, their wedding bands clinking gently together.

"Thank you, my queen," repeated the Chasind, also sounding remarkably close to tears. "I… I can't say how grateful I am."

"It was my pleasure," the queen replied in a small, stoic voice; visibly trying to claw back some measure of northern composure. "And thank you for the gift. It was very kind of you. Good luck to you both."

Alistair listened to his best friend's quiet, polite utterances, aware that she was in the midst of emotional turmoil. Suddenly he wished nothing more than to take her in his arms; to spend some time with just the two of them together in simple, uncomplicated companionship.

As the Chasind and babe followed the steward around the edge of the colonnade and out of sight, Flora inhaled unsteadily, aware that she was irrationally upset.

 _Soon our own babies will be here,_ she thought sternly to herself. _Our own children. This baby wasn't yours._

 _But it was the first one I fed._

Two tears broke free from Flora's lower lashes simultaneously, running in parallel trails down her cheeks. A heartbeat later, she felt strong and familiar fingers clench around her own; Alistair's low, steady voice echoing between the stone pillars of the colonnade.

"Fergus, I'm going to take Flo up to our chamber and – and settle her," he said, soft and inexorable. "Maybe let her rest for a while. Her emotions have been put through a mangle for the past few hours."

"Of course," Flora heard her elder brother reply, immediately. "Come, I'll show you to your quarters myself."

For the next fifteen minutes Flora focused on putting one foot before the other, rather than on her surroundings. They had entered the castle via one of the myriad doorways, and were now immersed in what seemed to be a labyrinth of stone passageways. There were few windows – Castle Cousland had been heavily fortified over the years – and so much of the light came from wall sconces and blazing candelabras suspended from the ceiling. Glimpses of décor caught the tail of Flora's eye – ornately carved wooden archways, engraved with the Cousland laurel and the Highever crossed spear, small courtyards open to the weeping sky, whole corridors in much need of repair. Mostly, she was gazing at her feet; padding stoically over flag-stoned corridors, worn velvet rugs and the occasional bearskin.

Alistair, who had a furtive interest in curiosities, was more observant. He secretly thought that Castle Cousland was like a hybrid of a fortress and a museum of antiquities – each twist and turn in the passage revealed something different. One corridor, aptly named the _Passage of Arms,_ was lined on each side with a dozen suits of armour; most of them from distant Ages past. The next passageway held relics from across Thedas – gifts that previous teyrns had received from their foreign counterparts. There was a cabinet filled with Neverran glasswork and Orlesian porcelain; a wickedly curved sword from Rivain and a selection of leather crafts from Antiva.

Yet the overall atmosphere of Castle Cousland was resoundingly _Fereldan._ There was no pretension in its construction – it was unapologetically plain and sturdy, valuing strength over aesthetic. Exposed wooden beams ran across the ceilings; flying buttresses held up cavernous and undecorated stone ceilings; most Fereldan of all, Mabari hounds freely wandered the halls. Antlers and other hunting trophies were fixed to the walls; accompanied by the occasional faded oil portrait.

"We've had to bring a lot of older furnishings and paintings out of storage," Fergus said in an undertone, gesturing them along yet another guarded corridor. "That bastard Howe ransacked the place last year. Destroyed some of our pieces from the Blessed Age."

"Do you remember any of this, Flo?" Finian interjected, having easily caught them up with his long-legged stride. "I know you were only a baby when you were here. Maker knows I remember sod-all from when I was five."

A weary Flora peered up, brushing a strand of thick, dark red hair from her eyes. She cast her gaze around at the ramparts – they were crossing from one tower to the next, temporarily exposed to the elements – and paused a moment before responding. Far below, a pair of Mabari frolicked on the grass with their jaws snapping at the rain; while various servants hurried to seek shelter.

"It's strange," the queen replied, in a small and distant voice. "I'm not sure how to describe it. Like… listening to a conversation in a language you spoke as a child. I recognise bits and pieces. But not enough to make sense."

Two guards hastened to open the door into the squat, round tower that marked the Cousland family's private quarters. Passages branched out from a main spiral staircase like the spokes of a wheel, each one leading to a various suite of chambers. The finer quality of décor was immediately visible on first entrance – the flagstones were covered in thick, Highever navy rugs, there were sconces every few metres, and various pieces of artwork littered the walls.

Fergus had not moved into the master chamber – which had formerly belonged to his parents – nor had he wanted to sleep within the rooms he had once shared with his wife and son. Instead, he had relocated to the chamber in which he had grown up as a youth.

As they approached the rooms that had once belonged to the old teyrn and teyrna, Fergus cleared his throat and ushered them hastily past. Flora's head swivelled towards the wooden archway and he saw a half-flicker of recognition across her fine-boned face; yet she was too weary and emotionally drained to enquire further.

"I've put you in the chamber used by King Maric when he used to visit," the new teyrn explained, striding towards the next short passageway. "He came to Highever three or four times a year, whenever our father wasn't in Denerim with him. It's just down here."

The Royal Guard, who must have been shown the way earlier, were already waiting at the entrance to the bedchamber.

Inside stretched a lofty double-height chamber, with pale limestone walls that reached to a dark wooden ceiling. A round iron ring, studded with candles, was suspended from the rafters on chains. Various patterned rugs were strewn across the flagstones, and several armchairs were gathered around a low table before the blazing hearth. The bedposts on the four-poster reached almost to the ceiling, its buttermilk yellow hangings were nearly two metres in length. To Alistair's mild relief, there was no lingering remnant of his father's presence; the chamber was comfortable enough in a soft and anonymous way.

"I hope that this'll be comfortable enough for you both," Fergus said, watching the servants place the baggage on the low armchairs. "I don't want Floss to get worn out. It must be very odd for you, pup."

Flora nodded wordlessly; she had not let go of Alistair's hand since being parted from the babe.

Fergus made to leave and then hesitated for a moment, before changing direction and heading towards his sister. Gruff and avoiding her gaze, he bent his head to press a kiss to her forehead; clearing his throat to disguise his awkwardness.

"Welcome… welcome _back_ , Floss."

Flora noticed the slight pause before the use of the word _back._ She wondered if the teyrn had originally intended to finish the sentiment with _home,_ but was unsure whether Flora viewed Castle Cousland _as_ her home. After all, she _had_ been ignominiously banished from there as a child, almost fifteen years prior.

He was correct with his initial guess– Flora did not view Highever as her home. However, she was not cruel enough to state this out loud; especially in the face of a brother who had recently lost parents, wife and child in the worst way imaginable. Instead, she reached up her arms and embraced this stockier one of her brothers, inhaling the scent of fresh-washed fabric and sword-resin as she put her cheek to his chest.

"I'm so glad to be with you and Finian again," she replied, the words muffled. "Wherever you are feels like home to me."

Fergus's grip on his newly-found sister tightened in one brief, hard clench; a spasmodic reaction to the earnestness of her response. Drawing in an uneven gulp of air, he turned quickly towards the door before she could see the gleam of tears in his eyes.

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOOHHHH poor Fergus! The story of his family is so sad. Actually, the story of what happened to all the Couslands is absolutely tragic. I know that Flora didn't have the easiest of lives- in Herring, and then in the Circle – but at least she was spared the horror of the original Cousland backstory; seeing the entire family slaughtered before their eyes.

Anyway, Flo has her own bit of angst in this chapter – saying goodbye to the Chasind baby!

Two chapters in one day today! :)


	152. A Face From The Past

Chapter 153: A Face From The Past

Once they were alone in Maric's old chamber - the silence broken only by the crackling of the hearth - Flora wilted visibly, drained in all senses of the word. Alistair, who had been watching his wife like a hawk, swooped in the moment that her head first began to droop. With a soft grunt, he lifted her into his arms and strode across to the bed. Placing her amidst the furs and blankets, he knelt to remove her boots, easing them gently from her sore feet. Next came the thin woollen socks, each one stuffed unceremoniously into the toe of a boot. Flora let out a little groan of relief, slumping back on the bed with one arm cradling the weight of her stomach.

"How is the knee, my love?"

Flora put her hands over her face and let out an unintelligible mumble. In truth, the ache in her knee had been dull and unceasing during these last few weeks of increased weight.

"Well," she whispered into her fingers, feeling sorry for herself. "I might need to borrow Loghain's wooden leg."

Alistair flinched: the confirmation that she was in pain striking him as would a physical blow. Sliding the hem of the grey gown up along the flesh of her thighs, he unwrapped the leather strapping from her knee with tender fingers. The flesh beneath was sore and swollen; he bowed his head to kiss it with tender concern.

"I'll have some salve brought up, darling," he said, impulsively. "That stuff that Teagan uses on the horses when they go lame. My poor sweetheart."

The king strode to the door; barely taking the latch in hand before an earnest Cousland retainer had sprung forwards, ears pricked and attentive. The royal Mabari, who were sprawled at ease across the corridor, shot the over-eager servant a rather pitying look.

After a brief exchange with the servant, Alistair let the door rest on the jar - it was rare that the royal couple were ever afforded true privacy – and strode back towards the bed. Flora had initially slumped onto the blankets, but found that she could no longer lie on her back due to the weight of her belly. Instead, she had rolled over onto her side, curling up with her face against the embroidered cushions. The chamber was warm and fragrant – the hearth smouldered busily away, waves of sandalwood wafting outwards from its cavernous stone mouth – and Flora was exhausted from the afternoon's myriad emotions.

Alistair sat on the edge of the bed with a low sigh, the rag-stuffed mattress yielding beneath his sturdy frame. Reaching out, he gripped his wife's bare ankle and lifted her small foot, bowing his head to kiss her naked toes. The corner of Flora's mouth twisted a fraction; a glint of wetness adding lustre to her pale gaze.

"Do you remember when we went to see my sister in Denerim?" Alistair murmured, letting her foot rest on the broad jut of his shoulder as he ran casual fingers up and down her slender calf. "And she said those terrible things. I'm glad that the reunion with your brothers has gone so much better."

"It took time for us to get on," Flora reminded him, tracing the embroidered pattern on the blanket with a drowsy fingertip. "At first, Finian chased me around Redcliffe Castle with a mage cage. And Fergus couldn't understand why I spoke and acted like a commoner."

Alistair nodded, letting his fingers wander higher up the firm flesh of her thigh.

"Mm, you have such gorgeous legs, baby. You know, seeing how well you and your brothers get on, it makes me wonder if I dismissed my sister too hastily. Well, half-sister."

"Thank you," replied Flora, unable to stop herself from pulling a face as she recalled the abrasiveness of the sour-faced washerwoman. "I think everyone deserves a second chance. Maybe you should try going to see Gallbladder again when we get back to the city."

"When we get back to Denerim, my _whole_ focus is going to be on you and our children," replied Alistair, stern and immediate. "I won't have time to waste chasing up old relatives, especially that harpy – _Gallbladder_ is the perfect name for her, since she has an excess of _gall._ No, I can't imagine that she'd be any more pleasant now that I'm king, unless she attempts to bow and scrape her way into some sort of financial recompense."

Flora looked at him silently, her cheek nested on her palm. Alistair gazed off into the heated air for a moment and then sighed, ducking to press a kiss to her thigh before letting the dress drop back into place.

"I feel like I ought to give her something, though. But I'm not willing to divert Fereldan funds into Goldanna's coffers."

 _Goldanna, not Gallbladder_ , the yawning Flora thought to herself. _I thought it sounded wrong._

"What about the income from Sheep Island?" she suggested, sleepily. "Fergus gave it to you as part of my bridal doopery."

Alistair, not entirely sure that his sweet wife was still speaking the King's Tongue, peered down at her in some perplexion.

" _Bridal doopery_ , my love? Sheep Island?"

Flora yawned even wider, her eyes closing.

"Remember," she mumbled, already half-mired in the strange dreamlessness that characterised her slumber. "What Fergus gave you when we were married."

"Ah," replied Alistair, the confusion melting away as he grasped her meaning. "Your bridal _dowry._ And of course – Wickway Island, wasn't it, love? Just off the north coast."

"Mm," his wife replied, the words stumbling together in her tiredness. "Five hundred sheep live on the island, making money. Finian told me. You could use that."

"Money-making sheep, eh?" murmured the king, pulling off his boots. "How do these woolly profiteers _make_ this money, I wonder? Blacksmithing? Carpentry?"

Flora smiled sleepily up at him, amused by the image of a sheep toiling away at the forge.

"Yes, possibly. If they're _northern_ sheep, they must be very skilled and industrious."

Alistair laughed, reaching up to draw the long curtains closed around the bed. This muffled the weak afternoon sun filtering in through the arrow-slit windows; darkening the air above the bed and creating a cocoon for a husband and wife who so rarely enjoyed privacy. Flora watched him curiously, biting at the edge of her fingernail.

"Are we going to bed? It's not even dinnertime."

"I know," the king replied, easing himself down onto the blankets and stretching out an arm towards her. "But I want to cuddle you for a bit, sweet wife."

Flora heaved her ungainly frame towards him, using elbows and feet to propel herself across the mattress. Alistair folded his long-limbed, broad-shouldered frame around the slight and swollen body of his queen; like one smaller cup nestled within a larger. He tucked her head beneath his chin, let a thigh drape over hers, their bare feet tangling together. He let out a long exhalation of relief just as she did, their breathing falling into simultaneous rhythm.

The sounds of Castle Cousland at day continued to rise muffled around the vicinity of their chamber. Mabari barked from the courtyard below, servants and guards exchanged conversation on the ramparts; all cut through with the faint knifing sound of the northern wind. Zevran and Finian had retired to a chamber for a lovers' reunion muffled by thick and ancient stone walls; to their mutual surprise, they had fallen into conversation instead. Sprawled lazily on the bearskins before the hearth, they meandered through a number of topics – Flora's reaction to returning 'home', their own recovery of Castle Cousland from hostile forces the previous spring, the upcoming birth of the royal twins.

Wynne, delighted to be staying within one of Ferelden's oldest and most important strongholds, had immediately thrown herself into the rich tapestry of Castle Cousland's history. Fergus had shown her to the tower libraries, of which there were three; great, sprawling chambers comprising a family archive, a museum of oddities and antiquities, and a general collection of texts. Inhaling greedily as she surveyed the shelves straining with books – many of which were originals with no existing copy – the senior enchanter prepared to immerse herself in academia.

Once Fergus had shown the elderly mage the libraries, he and Teagan retired to the stables. Both of them had an especial interest in horses – the teyrn had proposed a journey to the Marcher horse fair at Tantervale in the spring, which the bann readily agreed to.

Meanwhile, separated from the world by buttermilk-yellow drapery drawn tight around the bed, the two former Wardens lay stuck together like limpets. Drained by the extremities of emotion, Flora had fallen asleep with her cheek pillowed against the firm muscle of her husband's upper arm. Immersed in dreamless slumber, she snored quietly into the warm and scented air. Alistair held his royal bride, tightening his grip as he felt something stir within her belly; teeth grinding at each distant bark or call that penetrated the walls of his makeshift sanctuary.

 _My wife,_ he thought to himself, a fierce, ragged-edged pride flaring within him. _My sweet and beautiful wife. How has it been only a year since I laid eyes on you?_

Bowing his head, he pressed his mouth to Flora's bare shoulder; the soft dove-grey material of the gown had slipped down several inches. She mumbled something incoherent, fingers curling more tightly against his own.

"My life began when we met, my love," he murmured soft and earnest into her ear, lips brushing against the delicate pink shell. "There aren't words for how much I adore you."

The tenderness of his words penetrated the mist and shadow of Flora's sleeping, Fade-severed mind. Without opening her eyes, she turned her face to Alistair's neck; winding her arms around his broad-shouldered frame. He embraced her back, exhaling unsteadily; sudden tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

"I meant every word of what I said on our wedding day, Lo," the king said, throatily. "My spirit and body are sworn to your service, forever."

Flora smiled at him, shy and sleepy; the warm ochre firelight loaning colour to her pale irises.

" _My king,"_ she replied softly in response, a volumes' worth of sentiment compressed into two words.

He bowed his head to his queen's shoulder in return; she reached to cup his neck with a palm, letting her thumb trace the golden hair at the nape of his collar.

Flora fell asleep first, lulled into slumber by the warmth of the hearth and the steady, solid thud of her lover's heart. Alistair - although he had not been tired when drawing the curtains around the bed - found that his eyelids were growing increasingly heavy.

 _I hold my whole family in my arms,_ he thought to himself, with something akin to euphoria. _My_ _own family._

Afternoon slid into evening; the air darkening with each quarter-candle spent. A weak autumnal sun passed into the west without ceremony, leaving a streaked and greyish sky the same muddied shade as painter's water. As per the new teyrn's decree, the descent of the sun meant the fortification of Castle Cousland. The drawbridge was raised, the dual portcullises sunk into place on both the inner and external bailey. Several troops of night guard began their patrol; fresh from eight hours of rest during the day. No guests would be admitted past sunset, and any current visitors would have to remain within the wards of the castle until sunrise the next day.

Flora awoke somewhat disorientated from her nap. For several moments, she swivelled her gaze about her surroundings – long, yellow draped curtains with an embroidered jacquard pattern – in utter confusion.

 _Oh,_ she realised a moment later, spotting a blanket with a stitched border of entwined laurel leaves. _Of course. We're in Highever. In Castle Cousland._

 _Why is it called Castle Cousland, and not Cousland Castle?_

Un-entangling herself from a loudly snoring Alistair's embrace, Flora slithered awkwardly over to the edge of the bed and drew back one of the long curtains. There was a weight against her bladder that could not be ignored; even as she dropped her feet to the floor, something shifted within her belly and the pressure increased.

After winding the strap back around her weak knee, Flora reached for her boots. Moments later, the queen quickly realised that her feet were too swollen to fit comfortably within the confined leather. She tried valiantly to heave them on for several minutes, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead as she negotiated the ungainly lump of her stomach. Ultimately, and much to her frustration, her efforts proved in vain.

It was not yet in her nature to call for assistance. Months prior, Leliana had persuaded her that the servants were happy to perform such duties for their liege-lady, that if she were too shy to use their services, their employment might be at risk. After hearing this, Flora had tentatively begun to make small requests – a washbowl of warm water, a new roll of parchment, some new candles – always making sure that she thanked the responding servant thoroughly.

Yet requesting a _new pair of shoes_ was something that the queen of Ferelden was not yet prepared to do. It seemed somehow a greater and more inconvenient demand than a bowl of water, or stationary supplies.

Reasoning that she had no intention of going outdoors, Flora adjusted the ill-fitting grey gown on her shoulders and wandered barefoot across to the door. The servants and guards stationed in the passageway seemed astonished to see the queen without the king at her side; several of them craning their necks to see to where Alistair still lay snoring on the bed.

"Your Majesty!" bleated one servant, the words emerging to the floor as he bowed. "What can we do for you?"

"Nothing," she replied with her usual gentle bluntness, letting the inexplicable compass within her memory guide her in a certain direction down the corridor. "I'm fine, thank you."

The two royal Mabari, who had looked at one another with sheer exasperation the moment that the queen had begun her wanderings, exchanged a silent agreement. One lay back down before the chamber doorway, eyeing all who approached; the other began to pad in the wake of the fat-bellied queen.

Since Flora now moved at a gait that could reasonably be described as a _waddle,_ the hound easily caught up to her. Flora reached down to scratch the dog behind the ears, then frowned as she caught sight of the reproach in its dark, liquidous stare.

"I'm only going to the privy," she told it, sternly. "I'm not leaving the castle."

The hound did not look convinced, trotting grimly at her heels.

Flora could not explain how she knew where she was going; her body angling itself instinctively around corners and down certain passages. Castle Cousland – especially the older parts of it – was a labyrinth, with corridors branching off at irregular intervals, chambers sprouting up in unexpected places, and the occasional vast and little used hall. The furniture in many chambers was covered with linen cloth to protect it from mildew; familiar objects taking on strange shadows as the cloth distorted their silhouette.

Flora peered into several of these vast halls, the occasional flicker of memory flaring in the back of her skull.

 _Singing and laughter. Hundreds of people spilling out into the passageway, dressed in finery._

 _Was it Satinalia?_

 _Running down that long corridor with the suits of armour on each side. Being chased by someone – an old woman._

She paused before a mirror, vast and rectangular; good quality and only faintly warped with age. Somehow, she knew that it was Orlesian-made, that someone had brought it as a gift.

 _I once spent hours gazing at myself, fascinated by my own pretty face._

 _Ugh,_ Flora thought, crossing her eyes at her grown reflection. _Was I… vain? Oh, I think I was._

 _How embarrassing!_

The Mabari, unhappy at the distance they had covered from the king and it's own kennel-mate, let out a low grumble of discontent. The reproachful stare seemed to say: _there were nearer privies than this one._

Flora averted her eyes from this pointed truth, heading towards a pair of gossiping maids who were cleaning the flagstones of a nearby gallery. The wooden balcony ran the length of a mid-sized hall lying thirty feet below, though from the chamber's dead hearth and motley collection of furniture, it appeared not to be in use.

The maids looked up in astonishment, then prostrated themselves on the damp flagstones at the sight of the queen.

"Queen Florence!"

"Would you please show me the way to a privy?" asked Flora, mildly annoyed that her internal compass had let her down. "I thought there was one at the end of this passage, but I… I must have been wrong."

"There used to be one here, my lady," replied the elder of the two maids, nodding her grey-curled head. "Just off that doorway. The old teyrn had it bricked up a decade ago; the floor had rotted through. I'll show you another, if it pleases you."

"Oh," replied Flora, oddly pleased that her memory had not proved false. "Yes, please."

The rich blood-red light of a prolonged northern sunset spilled in at intervals through the arrow-slits, the first bite of evening chill lingered in the air. The queen and Mabari followed the old maid back down the gallery and down a winding staircase, which Flora found difficult to navigate with her swollen dimensions. Then it was down yet another long stretch of corridor, this one made different by an unusual pattern of herringbone tiles on the floor.

Flora could tell – from sneaking, sideways glances - that the elderly servant was desperate to talk about what she remembered of the young Florence Cousland. The maid was old enough to remember the little redheaded girl who had once been told, at the tender age of four, that she would one day be _queen of Ferelden -_ albeit as Cailan's bride.

Unfortunately, the old maid was clearly intimated by Flora's pale, unintentionally cold stare, and a face carved so finely that it could have been crafted by an artisan's blade, that she did not dare to share her memories. Flora wished – not for the first time – that she had been born with a face that exuded friendly, welcoming warmth.

 _If I'd been born with kind brown eyes, and round cheeks, and a naturally smiling mouth, people wouldn't be afraid to talk to me._

 _I can't help it that I always look stern and aloof. My face naturally sits that way._

The maid showed Flora to a privy at the end of a corridor, then scuttled off with her head bowed respectfully.

After using the privy, the queen felt the first twinge of guilt at abandoning her husband in the bedchamber. Although reason argued that she was within the heavily-guarded Castle Cousland, the most garrisoned fortress within Ferelden; sentiment suggested that Alistair would still be distraught at her prolonged absence. Castle Cousland held several hundred souls within its walls, and sprawled for acres atop the craggy limestone cliffs of the north.

 _It's not quite the same as wandering the confines of a small house or a tavern,_ Flora thought to herself as she wiped damp hands absentmindedly on her sleep-rumpled skirts.

"Shall we go back to the bedchamber?" she asked the Mabari, who gave an immediate rumble of consent. "Then, would you like some dinner? I think they'll have rabbit here."

The hound, somewhat placated, licked her hand.

Flora was unsure on the quickest route to return to Cousland Tower; fortunately, the dog had both an excellent memory, and an exceptional sense of direction. She followed it back down the corridor with the patterned herringbone tiles, then down a second passage lined with high stone archways. Candelabras in iron fixings attempted to keep the evening at bay; yet shadow massed around the bases of pillars and crept up the walls beneath the insubstantial arrow-slits.

The hound, with its preternatural senses, was leading the queen back via a far more logical route. The corridor turned a sharp right and widened, the light changing as nocturnal effluence streamed in through a series of high, arched windows. A single suit of armour stood halfway down; a lone sentinel against the encroaching shadow.

Half-way down the passage, Flora stopped in her tracks, feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Her skin prickled as though covered in arcane residue; the blood ran cold as water from the Waking Sea through the channels of her body. A shiver rippled from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck, and she drew in an unsteady breath.

 _What's wrong?_ she thought to herself in sheer bewilderment, taking a more measured gulp of air in an attempt to calm the inexplicable race of her heart. _There can't be anything wrong. The Mabari hound would growl if there was something amiss._

Even as Flora's mind sought out some rational explanation, her body was turning; rotating like the hand of some Orlesian clock towards the glimmer of dull metal caught in the tail of her eye.

There was a short, wide staircase partway down the corridor; an initial set of steps that split into two and then turned back on itself to reach some unseen upper hall. A lone painting hung on the landing; the bronze frame vast in dimension and tarnished with age. The canvas itself must have been many Ages old, the paint faded and yet possessing quality enough to preserve the long-dead artist's brush strokes.

The subject of the painting was simple enough; a knight, his helm gripped in his arm, stared coldly off into the unseen distance. The armour he wore was archaic and distinctive, the epaulettes ridged and an Alamarri symbol emblazoned at the centre of his breastplate. He had the distinctive dark red hair that marked him as a Cousland; his features were stern and hawkish, his expression guarded. A vast sword hung at his back, the blade the width of a man's muscled arm.

As she stared up at the knight, Flora felt her stomach give a single, incredulous spasm. She swayed on the spot, her knees seemingly turned to Orlesian _blancmange._ The Mabari, sensing the queen's imbalance, immediately pressed itself to her thigh with a whine; she groped blindly at its shoulder to steady herself.

 _It… can't be._

The queen crossed the flagstones and climbed the stair as though in a dream. The steps seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of her, although there were no more than a dozen of them. The Mabari hound followed close on her heels, rumbling with concern, ears pricked and alert. It was clearly confused by the source of the heir-bearer's distress; there was no obvious cause for alarm.

 _It… it can't be._

Flora came to a halt on the landing, her astonished stare fixed on the suspended painting. There was a plaque on the base of the frame, bearing the name and title of the Cousland preserved on the canvas. The letters were engraved in an old-fashioned style that she could not decipher _._

Yet Flora was not looking at the words that she could not read; she was staring at the painted manifestation of a breastplate that she knew _intimately;_ a suit of armour that she had seen each night for over fifteen years. She recognised the sword, the ridged epaulettes, the symbol engraved on the chest; she knew that there was a sheath of coppery mail beneath the breastplate and a similar engraving between the shoulders, although neither was visible on the painting.

 _It's you. How can it be you? You were severed from me three months ago._

Flora eventually became aware of a low, breathy noise and realised that it was _her;_ that she was half-keening, half-gasping for air. Dazed, she reached out and put a clammy palm on the painting, spreading her fingers across the canvas.

The moment that her hand made contact with the delicate whorls and ridges of the painted boots, the queen sunk slowly to her knees like a wilted flower. She knelt on the flagstones, bent over double, and let out a soft, incredulous whimper.

 _My Silver Knight._

 _Valour._

* * *

OOC Author Note: :P Who could it be? Which centuries-dead Cousland ancestor became a spirit of Valour after they died, then assisted their many-times-great-grand-daughter in ending the Fifth Blight? This was something that I've had in mind since I first made Flo a long-lost Cousland, but obviously she'd never seen any paintings of her Cousland ancestors until coming to the castle – so there was no way for her to know.

Two chapters in one day! I'm away visiting family in Wales until Tuesday, so a two-for-one today!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	153. The Valorous Bann Cousland

Chapter 153: The Valorous Bann Cousland

Flora lost all track of time as she hunched over on the flagstones, her mind swirling in a wild maelstrom of half-formed thoughts. The temperature dropped in slow and steady increments as evening drew on; there was no hearth to drain some of the cold and dark from this little-used stairwell. The royal hound had lain around her as she knelt, using its own body heat to insulate the swollen belly against the damp tiles.

The shadow crept up each step towards the queen, then massed around her; she noticed it only when it grew increasingly hard to make out the features of the painting. Flora raised an instinctive hand towards it, irrationally expecting a silver-gold light to erupt from beneath her fingernails. When no Fade-fuelled gleam was forthcoming, the pain was as fresh as it had been three months prior.

Whilst the queen knelt paralysed before this painted manifestation of her companion spirit, the second royal hound paced outside the bedchamber assigned to the royals. It had a keen sense of passing time, and was aware that the Theirin's fat-bellied mate had been away for too long a time. The guards assumed that Flora was with one of her brothers and were not overly worried; the Mabari was taking no chances. It began to bark out an alert, deep and throaty, pressing its muzzle against the ajar door to open it.

Alistair woke with a start, instinctively aware of a lack of pressure on his chest. Since his wife was not sprawled against him, he stretched out a clumsy arm into the void of the blankets. When his groping hand found only a cold hollow pressed into the mattress, the king's heart skipped a beat.

Telling himself sternly not to overreact – in an attempt to keep himself calm – Alistair emerged from behind the bed curtains and fumbled on his boots. The Mabari hound met him half-way across the room, liquid-dark eyes wide and insistent, ears pricked with alertness.

"King Alistair?" enquired one of the guards, turning hastily to face the king as he strode from the bedchamber.

"Where's the queen?" Alistair demanded, too impatient for politeness. "How long has she been gone?"

"To the privy I imagine, your majesty," replied one guard, glancing at his fellow officer. "And – about a candle-length."

Seeing the lack of concern on their faces, Alistair wondered for a moment if he were being over-cautious. They were, after all, in Castle Cousland, staffed by those loyal retainers who had managed to escape Howe's treachery. Both of Flora's brothers were in the immediate vicinity, as were her companions. The castle was locked up tight with its defences in full-effect; the Carta had as much chance of penetrating the fortress as a dwarf did entering the Fade.

 _But this place is strange and half-known to her,_ he thought to himself, suddenly. _I don't want her assaulted by some sudden, distressing memory after wandering into a certain chamber or passageway._

In addition, Alistair was more than aware that his wife could go into labour at any moment – Wynne had coached him on how to spot the early signs of delivery.

"Come on, Claw," he murmured to the Mabari, who tilted intelligent eyes towards him. "Let's go and find my wife."

The royal hound, who knew the queen's scent intimately, set off down the corridor with a sharp bark of assent.

Ten minutes into their search, king and Mabari ran into a laughing group consisting of their companions, Flora's brothers, and several Cousland knights. Zevran immediately called out on seeing the king, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"Did you and _mi sirenita_ enjoy your spot of afternoon delight, hm?"

Fergus and Finian groaned in simultaneous despair, Wynne rolled her pretty blue eyes to the heavens. It was clear that all assumed that the royal couple had retired early to the bedchamber for _amorous purpose._

"No," said Alistair distractedly, his eyes searching the fire-lit hall beyond even as they spoke. "Flo's not with you? Have you seen her?"

Fergus and Finian glanced at one another, as the smile slowly slid from Zevran's face.

"We haven't seen her since you two retired," Fergus replied, faint lines creasing themselves into his brow. "It's impossible for her to have left the castle. Every gate and portcullis is shut."

"This is Florence's home," chimed in an obstinate Finian, insistence running through his tone. "She's probably just gone for a look around. _Refamiliarising_ herself."

Wynne and Teagan glanced at one another, the same unspoken thought writ across their faces. The senior enchanter dipped her head in a swift and silent nod, indicating that she would have a quiet word with the young arl later.

 _This hasn't been Flora's home for fifteen years._

Alistair grimaced, his eyes bruised with anxiety. The Mabari nudged impatiently at his knee, eager to be off once again.

"My dear, take a deep breath and calm yourself," Wynne said instead, placing a reassuring hand on Alistair's elbow. "You're worrying yourself unnecessarily. She won't have left the castle, and there's no one within these wards or walls that wishes her harm."

"Aye," Fergus added, immediately. "My retainers are all trustworthy. Half of them bear scars from resisting Howe's men."

"I just want to find my wife," the king muttered, none of the usual lightness and humour in his tone. "Let's go, Claw."

Meanwhile, before the painting of the Cousland patriarch, Flora was trying her best to pull herself together and regain some semblance of composure. The Mabari had tucked itself protectively around her; the queen pressed her face into its short, velvety fur and inhaled the wood-smoke scent. She forced herself to breathe long and deep, which slowed the tremulous patter of her heart; then wiped her streaming eyes and nose on the soft grey lambswool of her trailing sleeve.

"Stop crying, Flora Cove," she whispered to herself sternly, her voice a thin and hoarse echo in the stairwell. "Stop it immediately. Don't be such a- a _jellyfish."_

The use of her old Herring name also helped to calm her. Not yet trusting the stability of her knees, Flora adjusted herself to sit on the top step; reasoning that this was at least an improvement from crouching in a huddle on the floor. The royal hound lay down beside her, with a yawn and an idle wag of its tail.

The next moment, the ears pricked and the head rose, nostrils flaring as the dog detected a familiar scent. A querying bark echoed from the lower passageway. The Mabari beside Flora echoed the sound; eager for the Theirin to come and take charge of his recalcitrant mate.

Sure enough, Alistair soon appeared at the juncture in the passageway, the relief on his face quickly dissolving into alarm as he saw Flora sitting on the top step, barefoot and with tear-stained cheeks. He did not spare a glance for the stern, painted Cousland ancestor towering in the background, taking the steps three at a time in his haste to reach his wife.

Flora held up her arms as the king swooped down on her, already reaching out to draw her into his embrace. In a heartbeat, she was tucked into the place which had never failed to make her feel secure; even during the darkest and most terrible weeks of the Blight.

 _Don't ask me what's wrong yet,_ she thought to herself, wishing that her words could somehow manifest in Alistair's skull in the same manner that her spirits had once communicated with her. _I'll be alright as long as you don't ask me what's wrong. Give me a few minutes and I'll be fine._

Alistair exhaled against his wife's hair, relieved that there seemed to be no physical complaint ailing her. A torrent of traumatic theories had rushed through his mind when he had seen her sitting on the landing – _she had fallen, she had gone into labour, some Carta dwarf had made an attempt on her from the shadows –_ but she seemed to be unharmed.

"What's wrong, my love?" he murmured tenderly into the rich, oxblood mass of hair. "Tell me, and I'll right it."

The corners of Flora's mouth immediately turned down; fresh tears following the natural contours of her cheeks as she drew an unsteady breath.

The others had gathered on the steps; Zevran's half-unsheathed blade disappeared rapidly back into the hilt after glancing around and seeing no danger. Finian, his sole eye widening in dismay, shared a startled glance with Fergus before striding to the top of the steps and crouching beside his weeping sister.

"Flossie! Is she alright?"

The question was directed to Alistair, who gave an agitated half-shrug as he clasped the distraught mother of his children to his chest.

"Well, she's not _hurt."_

"Maybe some… _distressing_ memory has come back to her?" Teagan suggested, recalling how the colour had drained from the queen's face as they approached Castle Cousland.

Now it was Fergus' turn to ascend the short flight of steps, his brow furrowed in perplexion.

"Well, Florence wouldn't remember that painting," he replied, gesturing up at the vast portrait. "It's only just been brought out from storage."

"Who is it?" Wynne asked in a distant voice, her brow furrowing as her eyes moved over the archaic armour's distinctive pattern. There was a strange pull of memory at the back of the senior enchanter's mind; almost as though she had seen this particular breastplate before.

"Sarim Cousland, the forebear of our dynasty," replied Fergus, dropping a protective hand to his sister's head. "Lived way back in the Towers Age."

"Sour-faced sod," added Finian, casting a wry glance up at the painted face of his many-times-over great-grandfather. "But responsible for some of the greatest feats in the ancestral archives. Began a war of independence against the Howes, declared himself the first Cousland bann of Highever."

Flora swung her tearful gaze from Fergus to the portrait, then croaked something incredulous and utterly incoherent. Alistair caressed his wife's wet cheek with a tender thumb, his own eyes bruised with concern.

"What was that, sweetheart?"

"That… that _man_ ," Flora whispered, flailing a limp hand in the direction of the painting. "It's my _Silver Knight."_

Alistair, who had heard Flora enthuse in reams about her spirits over the past year, found himself gaping. Fergus and Finian glanced at one another, both brothers perplexed.

"Who?"

"One of m-my spirits _."_

The silence flooded the stairwell like a burst dam; shot through with shock and stunned disbelief. Fergus and Finian stared down at their sister, then at each other, then turned their identical silver gazes to the cold stare of their legendary ancestor. Wynne, the most familiar with Flora's spirits, let out a soft sigh of satisfaction. The old mage murmured something to herself that sounded distinctly like _but,_ _of course._ She knew the Alamarri symbol on the breastplate; recognised the archaic, centuries-old style of armour. Even the sword-hilt struck a chord of familiarity, carved with an unusual ridged pattern.

"The spirit of Valour," she breathed, quietly. "Zevran, do you remember when we cleared out the warehouse of maleficar in the tunnels beneath Denerim? Florence was unconscious and we were imprisoned by the blood mage's arcane cage. And then… _do you remember?"_

The elf paled a fraction beneath the rich tan of his skin, recalling how the storage chamber had nearly shaken itself apart as the spirit tore its way impatiently through the Veil. _Valour,_ manifesting as a ghostly knight in a helm and bearing a great-sword, had slaughtered nearly two dozen maleficar in a single heartbeat. It had then conversed with the party, expressing annoyance that it's mage had fallen party to a sorcerer's cheap trick. When Flora had awoken, the spirit lectured her with the stern reproachfulness of an elder; Flora had sulked and pouted like a petulant child.

"I do believe that you are right, my dear Wynne," he murmured, shaking his head with incredulity. "It _is_ the same figure."

Alistair, after cringing at the remembrance that _he_ had been responsible for Flora's unconsciousness, tried to make some sense of the situation.

"So – Flo's many-times great-grandfather became a spirit of Valour after he died?" he said, slowly. "And then the same spirit became one of her- well, her _guardians,_ I suppose? Maker's Breath."

"A six hundred year old spirit," mused Wynne, resolving to write to Irving the moment she returned to her quarters. "I _knew_ it was powerful."

"Silver Knight g-g-gave me my shield," Flora whispered, her teeth chattering with a combination of cold and shock. "And helped me use it."

The Couslands and the royal company gazed at one another in astonishment, thinking on the ethereal, silver-gold sheath that had successfully deflected the Archdemon's wrath from Ferelden. On an individual level, Flora's shield had saved each of their lives, on more than one occasion. She had never been able to explain _how_ her shielding had worked – certainly, no one in the Circle had taught her – instead, when questioned, she gave an embarrassed smile and a shrug.

 _Dunno,_ she would reply, vaguely. _I don't think about summoning it. It just comes, like breathing._

Fergus and Finian's gazes moved as one, from their shivering sister to the patriarch of the Cousland dynasty. The irony was raw and obvious: the latest generation of Couslands had disowned their youngest progeny for her magic, when the _source_ of that magic came from their most prominent ancestor.

 _I have spent many years crafting a weapon to challenge Urthemial,_ the spirit had said in the maleficar's chamber. _I know they will succeed – it is not in our blood to fail._

"You weren't to know, Fergus," Wynne said quickly, as the colour drained from the young teyrn's face. "Nor were your parents."

Teagan, equally astounded but still in control of his limbs, stepped forward to grip a pale Fergus by the elbow. The bann withdrew a small flask of whiskey from his pocket, murmuring for the teyrn to take a draw.

Meanwhile, Alistair had just realised how cold his wife was to the touch; numb to the bone after kneeling barefoot on the stone for almost an hour. He divested himself swiftly of his own outer tunic, wrapping it around her shoulders before drawing her tightly against his side.

"Lo, you're freezing," he murmured distractedly, lifting one of her cold feet onto his thigh and rubbing her toes.

Flora was still stunned by this strange connection between her spirit and her own bloodline. Suddenly, almost two decades' worth of scolding and lecturing took on a new significance.

 _My Silver Knight was the one who taught me how to shield. They brought forth demons to test the limits of my barrier. They kept nagging me to focus, to concentrate; to keep honing my skills even when I thought I'd be locked up in the Circle forever. Compassion drifted around with their benevolent skull-face in a smile, watching us practice for hours in the Fade._

 _Why did you never tell me? You could have said something after I found out who I was._

There came no response to her silent query, and the logical part of Flora's conscious understood that her spirits would never reply to her again. Yet, seeing the stern features of Valour painted onto canvas was oddly soothing; as though a delicate skein had been sewn between herself and a past she had thought wholly severed.

Then Teagan, quiet and purposeful, was kneeling on the step below, offering the remains of the whiskey left by a pale Fergus.

"Here, poppet. It'll warm you up."

 _And calm you down,_ the bann thought, eyeing the swell of the royal heirs resting on her thighs.

Flora reached out with unsteady fingers, gripping the flask and lifting it to her lips. She took a tentative sip of whiskey, nostrils flaring at the pungent odour. Her body had once reflexively distilled alcohol into its components; transforming the 'poison' into wheat-flavoured water. Now, she was able to taste the full smoky richness of the liquor, much to her dismay. She swallowed with a grimace, the corners of her full mouth turning down.

"Ugh! Yuck."

Teagan smiled despite himself; the whiskey was from a very old and expensive stock. He reached out to take the flask back, a memory from months prior rising to the surface of his mind.

"You had the same reaction the first time I offered you brandy, on the way to the Brecilian Forest. Remember the rain had soaked right through the tent roof? It was bloody awful weather."

"Mm," mumbled Flora, grateful to be distracted from brooding over her lost spirits. "It... it was like there was more water in the sky than in the sea that night."

"Plying my wife with alcohol in tents, eh, uncle?" Alistair interjected, with a beady stare.

Teagan laughed easily, taking back the whiskey and plugging in the top with a thumb.

"She wasn't your wife back then, son," he replied, wryly. "I don't think you'd even bedded her at that point."

Wynne, whose kind and clever gaze had slid between the still stunned-into-silence teyrn, a flabbergasted Finian, and a sniffling Flora, decided to take charge of all three orphaned Cousland children.

"Right," she said, firm and decisive. "Let's go back up to your chambers, Fergus, and have dinner there. I'm sure it's warmer in your rooms than it is in any great hall, and I think we all need to get out of this cold corridor."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Happy Valentine's Day! Also, does anyone else get that thing where you're upset but keeping it together, and then someone asks you "what's wrong"…. And THE FLOODGATES OPEN! Lol that's happened to me so many times….. and if nobody asked me if I was ok, I would have been FINE! So that happens to poor old Flo in this chapter, hehe.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	154. The Regrets of Fergus Cousland

Chapter 154: The Regrets of Fergus Cousland

The senior enchanter's suggestion to retire to Fergus' chambers was a wise one, and the company quickly moved to follow her advice. The king lifted his weary queen with a grunt into his arms – even at this advanced stage of her condition, there was nothing that Alistair treasured more than carrying his whole family within his arms. Flora closed her eyes as they proceeded back along the twisting corridors and endless passageways; not wanting any unexpected memories to ambush her in her already emotionally fragile state.

They passed down the Hall of Arms, up a carpeted stair and traversed a regally appointed corridor that had been allowed to drift gently into disrepair. The once-plush carpet was moth-eaten, the walls stained with patches of damp and the sconces free of torches. A set of double-doors lay midway down the corridor; if Flora had opened her eyes, she might have recognised it as the entrance to Bryce and Eleanor's chamber. This was where the old teyrn and teyrna had been slain in cold blood while still clad in their nightclothes, murdered by the retainers of one of their closest friends. Fergus did not enjoy walking past the quarters of his dead parents, but it was something that he forced himself to do twice daily; as a mark both of respect and of remembrance.

The company and the Couslands retired for dinner inside Fergus' chambers; a mid-sized set of rooms appointed in plain, typically Fereldan style. These were not the quarters he had once shared with his wife and child, but the ones in which he had been raised as the heir to the teyrnir. They reflected strongly the adolescent Fergus' interest in military matters – there were vast, framed maps of famous Fereldan battles and manoeuvres lining the walls. On one wall, Loghain's famous charge at the Battle of River Dane was depicted; movements of men and horses inked out as a series of carefully-etched numbers and diagrams. In pride of place above the hearth was Maric's victory at the Second Battle of Gwaren; which bore especial poignancy since the neatly scribed rows of houses and businesses no longer existed. Gwaren had been ravaged by the Darkspawn, and now nothing higher than a man's head remained standing.

After they had eaten from a selection of steaming platters brought up from the kitchens, Flora settled down with Finian on one of the velvet _chaises_ to practice her reading. Bryce's daughter - oddly enough – had been quicker to accept that her companion spirit had been part of the Cousland family, than she had _herself_. Her noble ancestry was still something that she was coming to terms with. Finian, who was still pale at the edges with shock, was seeking to distract himself by helping Flora to read a tome on the exploits of Elethea Cousland. This was perhaps a little ambitious for the queen; but Flora could see how anxious Finian was for her to feel _part of the family,_ and so she was making a valiant attempt.

Zevran was sprawled on the rug at their feet, polishing his leather boots with a pungent but pleasant linseed oil obtained from the stables. It was cathartic for the elf to remove the stains and marks of travel; he deliberately kept little in the way of personal possessions, but prized those he did have greatly. Wynne, after eating, had retired to her own chamber to finish writing an extensive scroll to Leliana.

Teagan, Fergus and Alistair were inspecting the map above the hearth; a vast swathe of parchment with Orlesian _chevaliers_ and Fereldan rebels carefully depicted in their separate units. _Mac Tir_ was written beneath a bold black arrow, which swept straight into the ranks of the foreign knights. The map was strangely innocuous, since it bore no hint of the sheer carnage that had resulted on the banks of the Dane. It had been a butchering; the waters of the river itself had turned crimson with the run-off from piles of Orlesian corpses.

Alistair did not have much interest in military history – he knew of the famous battles, as did all Fereldans, but did not savour past bloodshed, even when blood was shed for patriotic cause.

"I wonder if there'll be a map made for the final battle against the Darkspawn?" he wondered out loud, rubbing a thumb around the neck of his ale-bottle.

"Oh, aye," said Teagan, a wry corner of his mouth turning upwards. "The archivists have already named it _the Battle of Denerim._ I imagine a dozen cartographers have tried their hand at depicting the events on parchment."

Alistair, unlike the bann, had not taken part in the main defence against the horde. He and Flora had been perched high above the city walls; charged with killing the Archdemon and ending the battle before it become a slaughter.

"It's strange," spoke up Fergus suddenly, his voice soft and eyes contemplative. Both king and bann turned to look at the eldest Cousland, who had been lost in silent thought throughout dinner.

"I used to spend hours pouring over these maps when I was a boy," the teyrn continued, his expression unreadable. "I used to act out the manoeuvres with my toy soldiers and pretend that I was _Maric the Savior,_ or _the Hero of River Dane._ There was always a small part of me that resented that the Fereldan Rebellion was over… and that there were seemingly no great battles left for me to take part in. Even after I married Oriana and we had our boy, I never lost that desire. That's why I was so eager to respond to Cailan's summons to Ostagar. I began organising troops the day after the recruiter arrived. I – I couldn't wait to leave for the south."

The teyrn fell silent, raw regret flickering across his face. He did not explain further, but his thoughts were obvious: _now I see how foolish I was, to seek glory elsewhere when I had everything I needed within my arms. My wife and child. I should have been their shield to the last._

Fergus wrenched his mind from this terrible course; he had spent months lingering near death at South Reach mired in regret, and praying that the Maker would sever the thread of his mortal existence.

 _Then Finian arrived, who I hadn't seen for almost a year. He said that he'd found our little sister, that she was alive and had become a Grey Warden – of all things – and that she had somehow taken on responsibility for defending Ferelden against the Blight._

 _I still remember seeing her for the first time in fifteen years. I was half-asleep in the armchair I spent most of my hours in. Then the guards showed her in, this small girl with apprehension writ raw over her face. She was so obviously a Cousland that it took my breath away – she had the fine-boned features that Maric had once wanted to claim for Cailan, but matured into adolescence._

 _I flinched when she spoke for the first time – I know she was hurt by it – but I was so shocked at her coarse commoner's inflection. She hid her hurt well and healed me; healed me so thoroughly that months of malady melted away in a matter of hours._

 _Then I learnt that this odd, earnest little sister had somehow managed to gain the staves of the mages, and the hammer of the dwarven king. She was fresh from Brecilian – there were still crimson leaves in her hair – where she had won the bow of the Dalish, of all people. She had built an army to challenge Loghain's dominance and defend Ferelden from the Darkspawn that rampaged across the south._

 _It was then that I rose willingly from my armchair, and joined my sister's desperate cause; turning my stagnant mind to thoughts of resistance and rebellion._

Fergus twisted his head towards his younger siblings, who had once been so alike in feature. Even with the lurid scar mottling one side of Finian's face; the autumnal colouring and delicate features they shared were still easily identifiable. The young arl was holding his finger beneath the words of the text, in the same manner as he had seen Alistair do. Although Finian did not have the king's inexhaustible patience when it came to Flora's literacy, he was taking care to be lenient on this occasion, aware of his sister's emotional fragility.

"Keep going, sweetpea," he murmured, nodding down at the open volume of family history resting on the swell of her belly. "You're doing very well."

Flora was aware that she was _not_ doing particularly well, but appreciated her brother's encouraging lie.

"El- Elethea Cousland… b- beat the… beat the – the king, with a…. s-s- stick?" she ventured, hopefully.

It was a mark of the affection that those present bore towards Flora that nobody laughed. Instead, Finian cleared his throat and corrected her with a carefully straight face.

"Very close, Flossie. ' _Elethea Cousland begged the king with a speech'."_

"Oh!"

Fergus felt a sudden surge of tenderness towards his siblings; hastily, he turned back towards the map above the hearth. Searching for a change in topic, his gaze alighted on Alistair. The king was staring surreptitiously at his wife, quietly admiring the play of candlelight across her swollen cleavage.

"Are you excited to become a father, Alistair?" the young teyrn asked, deliberately ignoring the sting of still-fresh pain. "Nothing in your life will remain the same, you know. It changes you."

"I'm _ready_ for the change," Alistair replied, immediate and earnest. The fire lit up his handsome, open features; the coppery stubble across his chin lit from beneath and the hazel irises burnished to a sheen. "I've never been more excited for anything in my life before. I still can't believe how fortunate I am. I never thought I- that I would…have _anything_ like- _Maker's Breath."_

The king let out a short bark of embarrassed laughter, reaching up a hand to brush something filmy and liquid from the corner of his eye. Teagan's strong fingers found their way to his nephew's elbow, and gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze.

"You deserve all the good fortune in Thedas, lad," the bann said, softly. "You've not had an easy life. And you've done Ferelden a great service in accepting the crown."

The nights drew in more quickly on the northern coast. An anaemic moon wreathed itself in star-veiled lustre; casting an insipid glow over the slate-tiled rooftops of Highever. The eight great towers of Castle Cousland jutted defiantly upwards into the darkness, flames in vast braziers blazing away atop the ramparts. The high walls sang out with the rhythmic thud of metal boot; guard patrols doubled during night-time hours. This was per the request of the teyrn, who was taking no chances with the safety of what remained of his family.

In the teyrn's private chambers, Fergus excused himself shortly after the conversation about fatherhood. He had the sudden urge to go to the private chapel and say another set of prayers; his second that day. A pair of servants came in to replenish the hearth with fresh wood, their eyes decorously averted and their ears pricked for any scrap of gossip.

Finian's patience with Flora's laboriously slow reading had worn thin. To his relief, her head was starting to droop with tiredness and so he seized the opportunity to end their literacy practice for the day. The arl cast a glance from beneath the lashes of his remaining eye down at the elf; where Zevran was sprawled on the rug with feline elegance.

"Fancy retiring for the night?" he enquired lightly, adjusting the angle of the patch over his eye.

Zevran gave a languorous nod, rising from the rug with more grace than any Rivaini dancer. After wishing the company goodnight the young arl and elf excused themselves; leaving king, queen and bann in Fergus' hearth-warmed chamber.

Alistair noticed his wife drooping, worn out from the physical and emotional demands of the day. For a moment he hovered beside the mantle, eyes moving unseeingly over the victory at River Dane, uncertain what to do. He desired to discuss recent events with his uncle – but was reluctant to let his wife go to her chamber unattended in this late stage of her childbearing.

Eventually, he decided on a compromise. King and bann settled into armchairs before the hearth, with the former holding his queen on his lap. Flora slept best in the arms of the brother-warden who had held her through the darkest nights of the Blight; and he the same.

Now, Alistair held his wife as she huddled against his chest, straddling his thighs with the swell of her belly between them. Her chin rested on his shoulder; before long, muffled snores emerged from beneath the volcanic cloud of hair.

"Surely it's time for Ferelden to have some relief," Teagan said, leaning forward to top up their glasses of mead. "Invasion, occupation, Blight, civil war – all in the span of a century? It's a good thing our nation isn't paranoid, or we'd think that the Maker had something _personal_ against us."

"Well, He shouldn't," retorted Alistair, running his thumb compulsively back and forth over his wife's wedding rings as her fingers curled idly against his tunic. Reassured by the solid plumpness of the pearl and the twisted strand of gold, he continued the train of thought. "After all, His bride came from Ferelden. Andraste was a country girl from a fishing village."

Both fell silent, trying to envision the bustling sprawl of the capital city, with its canals, crowded districts and marketplaces, as the sleepy little hamlet it had once been. Many Ages ago – much like Herring – Denerim had not even been worthy of a note on the map.

"But, you're right, uncle," Alistair continued, swallowing a large gulp of mead. "The nation has had more than its share of ill luck recently. Why isn't it Orlais' turn for some strife?"

Teagan smiled wistfully, envisioning the relief of pressure on their western borders if Orlesian troops were preoccupied with slaughtering each other.

"That would be ideal," he murmured, idly letting the remnants of golden-coloured liquid swirl in the bottom of his glass. "A minor dispute at _Halamshiral_ between the _duc_ Gaspard and Celene Valmont escalates – through the machinations of their 'great game' – into an all-encompassing factional war. Let their _chevaliers_ turn their blades on each other for a change."

Alistair felt a faint twinge of guilt at wishing war on another group of people – after all, civilians were inevitably caught up in the rivalries of their social superiors – but suppressed it; the invisible weight of the royal mantle pressing on his shoulders.

 _Ferelden is my concern. Not the peoples of other nations. Good luck to them._

"That's the thing I'm least looking forward to about this damned state visit to Orlais next year," he said after a moment, pressing his lips to Flora's hair as she grumbled in her sleep. "Getting caught up in the skeins of their ridiculous court games. I hope Leliana is available to keep me and Flo out of it; I'm afraid that Cailan almost got himself entangled."

With a frown, Alistair recalled the secret correspondence that they had retrieved from Ostagar; where Cailan and Celene had discussed in veiled words the possibility of an alliance sealed by _marriage_ as well as political treaty.

"You won't get caught up in them," Teagan replied with confidence, draining the glass in a single draw. "You and Flora are both strong-minded, and neither of you is susceptible to flattery. Our queen is one who favours decisive moves, rather than game-playing."

Both men fell silent, recalling that final climatic day of the Landsmeet. Ignoring the accusations and derision that Loghain had thrown at her, abandoning the closing statement that Eamon had crafted, Flora had informed the Landsmeet bluntly that _fishermen crafted their own tools; they did not wait to be granted them._

 _Then had come the hammering at the doors of the chamber, the breathless and excited messenger, the gasped out exclamation._

 _There's an army on the Alamarri plain! An army! Ten thousand at least!_

 _Swearing, shoving aside the servants who went to assist him, Loghain had wrenched open the shutters that led to the balcony, and revealed the truth of the messenger's words._

 _I have brought an army to defend this city, Flora had bellowed, fed up of speeches and witnesses and politics. And I don't need your permission to use it. I'll end the Blight with or without your support._

 _She had then turned on her heel and walked out of the Landsmeet chamber, crimson ponytail sailing behind her; not bothering to wait for the vote._

 _It had come shortly afterwards, and it had been near-unanimous. Loghain, realising that he had been beaten, abstained._

Alistair felt a surge of pride just as fierce and bright as the one he had felt sitting in the Landsmeet chamber, watching his sister-warden make her stand with northern bluntness. He ducked his face to Flora's neck and inhaled the soft, smoke-and-salt warmth of her skin. She mumbled in response to the affection, hunching herself over the swollen bulge of her stomach.

Night descended in slow increments, though scant moonlight made its way through the arrow-slit windows of Castle Cousland. The narrowness of these apertures lent the fortress a shadowed, vaguely subterranean air even during the day; at night, a muffling layer of darkness settled within the crumbling limestone walls. Guards patrolled the high ramparts at times that alternated nightly – so that no pattern could be established – and their routes marked down in a ledger that was presented to the new teyrn each morning.

Finian's chamber – the room in which he had spent his childhood and adolescence – lay a stone's throw away from that of his elder brother. It was crammed with bookshelves, many of which contained texts and tomes that had not been opened for a decade. Although maids had brushed away the worst of the spider-webs; a fine, filmy layer of dust covered the shelves like a chrysalis. Finian's bed, decorated with crimson Mac Eanraig tartan, lay like an island adrift in a sea of books.

The young arl himself was snoring face down in the pillows, the eye-patch resting on the cushion. He seemed younger than his two and a half decades in sleep, one hand flung casually out across the blankets. Zevran, sprawled beside him, eyed the still-pink scars and welts that marred the smooth skin of Finian's back. These souvenirs of the final battle had yet to fade; many of them were not caused by enemy blades, but from where the too-broad family armour had been driven into his scholar's frame, which was more used to bearing a book-bag than a blade. There had not been time in those frenzied days before the final battle to have the armour altered. Finian had led the Cousland troops against the Darkspawn – his very first military engagement - wearing armour that did not fit.

Very gently – so not to wake him – Zevran reached out and touched the raw pink indentation of an heirloom breastplate, brushing his thumb over the fresh-made scars. Usually, the elf would slip out of a bedchamber once business had been concluded; yet on this cold and shadowed night, he decided to stay.

Back in the teyrn's bedchamber, Alistair had drunk more than he had intended, and the mead had put him in a confessional mood. He had already shamefully admitted to Teagan – with the occasional hiccup – that a small and selfish part of him was secretly _glad_ that Flora was no longer a mage. Since, he explained, she had then been able to become his wife and they were joined in the eyes of the Maker. The burden of the crown felt far easier to bear with a _queen_ at his side, as opposed to a royal mistress.

"Alistair, there's no need to feel guilty," Teagan had assured him, stretching an arm to surreptitiously remove the bottle from the king's reach. "Flora's position is far more secure now than it would be if she were still a mage. And your children will be spared the mantle of illegitimacy."

Both of them looked at the swell of Flora's stomach, which now held two tightly curled, fully formed babes. Alistair nodded, and then the maudlin aftermath of the mead struck once again.

"I wish I could remember more about when they were made," the king mumbled, regret crashing over his handsome, tired face. "Back at Ostagar. I… I don't remember much of it at all."

Teagan raised an eyebrow, placing his own tankard quietly down on a side table.

"Wasn't that when you bedded her for the first time…?" he asked gently, already aware of the answer. It was common knowledge that Flora's womb had greedily captured the first spurt of seed it had ever received.

Alistair nodded grimly, touching his fingers once again to the talisman of his wife's wedding rings.

"We'd just had the pyre for Cailan, and I… I realised that I had no choice but to take the crown,"he said, a crease folding itself into his high, olive brow. "It was a duty that I hadn't asked for and didn't want… back then, anyway."

Teagan was silent, his pale green Guerrin gaze resting thoughtfully on Alistair's face. The king grimaced, but was reluctant to halt the confession now it had begun.

"I was angry, and despairing, and – and when Lo offered herself to me, I – I _took_ her. I was rough with her, I'm sure of it. _Too_ rough for a first time. I wanted to distract myself from – from the frustration, and the anger, I suppose. It wasn't romantic. You know, I don't even think I _kissed_ her?"

"I don't think many people have a first encounter that could be described as _romantic_ ," Teagan replied, carefully. "I had my first girl in an empty stall in the Margravine's stable when I was fifteen. I was picking straw out of my breeches for days afterwards. Eamon slept with a lass during a passage over the Waking Sea, and I'm reasonably sure he got seasick halfway through."

Alistair half-smiled, his brow still riven in two with regret.

"If the Maker gave me the chance to relive that night, I'd do it all so differently," he murmured, letting his palm curl over the back of Flora's bowed neck. "No mildew-covered bedroll, no snow on the ground. I'd kiss her. I can't _believe_ I didn't kiss her!"

"Well, you've more than made up for that lapse in judgement since," replied the bann firmly, resisting the urge to envision how _he_ would have taken Flora to bed for the first time. "Now, I think we all ought to retire to our chambers. It's been a long day."

In the middle of the night, the senior enchanter was woken with a start by a frantic hammering at the door of her chamber. Wynne, white hair falling in loose skeins down her back, reached for her staff; her mind instinctively turning to the Carta.

 _The castle is under attack. The dwarves have come for the queen._

As she clambered out of bed with surprising speed for a woman of advanced years, a low voice came hissing urgently through the wood.

"Wynne? _Wynne!"_

The accent was Antivan, and familiar. Wynne crossed the chamber and opened the door to the torch-lit corridor, where the elf stood quivering on the spot like a plucked lute-string. Zevran's dark eyes were filled with liquid apprehension, the tan of his skin a shade less rich than was normal. Wynne relaxed a fraction – the elf's blades were still tucked safely at his sides.

" _Carina_ thinks that she's in labour," Zevran said, short and to the point, his mouth fixed in a grim line. "Alistair's calling for you."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I wanted to get a little bit more into Fergus' character a little bit- I know there's not much to go on in game, so I decided to make something up, as usual haha. So, inferring massively from his departure to join the troops at the start of the game, I envisioned Fergus as a bit of a military enthusiast… the kind of boy who could describe all the troop manoeuvres and positions from major Fereldan battles. So of course when Cailan called for assistance against the Blight, Fergus was first in line to volunteer and bring troops. And then, ultimately, his entire world-view was shaken with the loss of his family.

Also :O do we think this is it!? Is Flora in labour at LONG last? Or is it just INDIGESTION?! Omg, I just went back in my inbox to check when I posted chapters… Flo got pregnant in Chapter 90 of The Lion and the Light – which was published on the 30th April, 2016! ALMOST TWO YEARS AGO, WTF? Ahahahaahahaha oh god I am the queen of long windedness XD Shit! Sorry! replying to reviews in the reviews! thank you!


	155. Becoming A Mother

Chapter 155: Becoming A Mother

Wynne retreated to the interior of her chamber just long enough to exchange her staff for a long, woollen dressing robe. She then followed in the elf's rapid footsteps down the cold, flagstoned corridor; winding loose ropes of milky hair into a utilitarian bun at the nape of her neck. The two companions did not speak, but strode hurriedly towards the chamber of their new queen, who had been dreading this moment for months.

Fergus, Finian, and Teagan – each in varying states of dress – were gathered in the passage outside the royal bedchamber. They were conversing in low, urgent voices; the Mabari both whining anxiously and pacing before the door.

"How long have the pains been coming?" Wynne demanded, increasing the speed of her pace as she neared. "The time between them?"

Two of the men - who had never been fathers - blinked at her, oblivious. Even Fergus had little understanding of the actual _process_ of childbirth. He had spent Oriana's labour drinking copious amounts of whiskey with the old teyrn in a separate chamber, waiting for news.

"Is the…. _process_ similar to whelping Mabari pups?" he offered, eventually.

Wynne let out a soft sound of exasperation, gesturing for the guards to let her in.

The senior enchanter entered the chamber ascribed to the royal couple, barely sparing a glance for the fine Fereldan craftsmanship on display within the tower room. The air within was stiflingly hot, the hearth piled high and smoking with aromatic cedar. Flora was sitting up rigidly in bed against the pillows, wide-eyed and trembling, one hand resting on her stomach. A fine sheen of sweat gleamed on her pallid forehead; she was as pale as the linen nightgown she wore. Tears were sliding copiously down her cheeks, and her breathing had the ragged edge of an animal caught in a trap.

Alistair was at his wife's side, frantically trying to calm her down. He had seen Flora weep in sadness, sob with frustration, and sniffle damply over hormone-induced minutiae; yet he had never seen her cry out of sheer _fright,_ not even on the long, dark night before the final battle. Her terror - and his utter inability to do anything about it – brought tears to the king's own eyes.

"Thank the Maker," he breathed tremulously as he saw Wynne appear in the doorway . "Look, Lo – Wynne is here."

Flora turned her tearful gaze on the senior enchanter, the fingers of one hand running compulsively over her swollen stomach. The other hand was clutched tightly within her husband's long, strong fingers.

"Should we send for the midwife?" Alistair demanded, nervous adrenaline coursing through his words. "Is it time?"

"Patience, Alistair," Wynne replied, lowering herself to the edge of the bed with a grunt and fixing the sniffling Flora with a probing, pale blue gaze. "Let's just establish whether or not your wife is in labour."

Flora blanched, her face losing any colour that it had still managed to cling to. She opened her mouth in preparation to let out another wail of fear.

"Stop this _hysterical_ _bleating_ at once, Florence," Wynne instructed, with the sternness of a senior enchanter addressing a junior apprentice. Despite the fact the former apprentice was now the Queen of Ferelden; the reflexive obedience instilled by this old dynamic was hard to ignore.

Flora managed to stifle her sobs to a thin whimper of fear, the linen nightgown plastered to her breast with perspiration. Sweating and terrified, she stared back at Wynne with eyes as round as silver coins. The senior enchanter's voice softened slightly, sanding off the stern edges.

"What are you feeling, child? Describe it for me."

Flora sniffed, wiping her nose unceremoniously on the back of her hand. She was not used to using the vocabulary of _pain_ in reference to herself. Alistair, his face pale and drawn, leaned in close to hear his wife's response.

"I woke up because I had a cramp," the queen whispered, her voice even hoarser than usual. "My stomach ached."

"How long ago?"

Flora glanced at Alistair, who interjected anxiously on her behalf.

"About an hour."

"Hm," said Wynne thoughtfully, as Flora gave a tearful hiccup. "How painful was the cramp? And don't _exaggerate,_ Florence. Like your normal monthly bleed used to be, or worse?"

"Like … like my monthly bleed," Flora replied in a small voice after a moment, pleating the blanket between her free fingers.

"And there's been nothing since? No waters with it?"

Alistair shook his head, his eyes bruised with anxiety. He held Flora's hand within his own, rubbing his thumb compulsively over her small knuckles in an attempt to calm her.

"There's been nothing since," he replied, stiffly.

"Hm," replied Wynne, although she already had reasonable suspicion as to the cause of Flora's fright. "Let's have a look."

Flora dutifully bent her legs apart as the older woman ducked her head, holding the candle from the bedside up for greater light.

"Well," said the senior enchanter moments later, brisk and reassuring. "There's nothing out of the ordinary happening down there, child. You _aren't_ in labour yet, Flora."

Flora exhaled tremulously, relief crashing over her like a great wave as the tears arrested themselves on her cheeks. A wider range of emotions passed over Alistair's handsome face – he was happy at his wife's reprieve, but he was also desperate to meet his children, and to hold them in his arms.

"Wha- what was that, then?" Flora mumbled, gesturing her hand towards the mound of her stomach. "The cramp."

"Practice contractions," replied the elder mage, briskly. "The womb rehearsing itself for what is shortly to pass. I imagine it'll happen within the next few days."

The contrast of expression on the face of the future mother and father was so stark that it might have been amusing, in another context. Alistair could not help himself – he beamed with eager, anticipatory delight. Flora, on the other hand, flinched as though she had been struck.

Eyeing the frightened queen, Wynne abruptly made up her mind.

"Right," she said, in a tone that invited no dissent. "Alistair, go and tell the menfolk that our little prince and princess aren't quite ready to meet the world yet. Flora, you and I are going to get some fresh air. It's stuffier than a Nevarran oven in here."

Alistair grimaced, casting a reluctant glance over his shoulder as he headed towards the door. Flora watched him go, damp-eyed and sniffling, yet simultaneously relieved that the pang in her belly had been a false alarm.

Meanwhile, Wynne had retrieved a fur travel cloak slung over the back of a nearby chair, and was now tapping her foot against the flagstones. The senior enchanter watched the queen heave herself from the bed; her movements impeded by the swollen mass of her stomach.

"Come on, child," Wynne said, not unkindly.

"At least," puffed Flora, slightly pink in the face from the exertion. "After they arrive, I won't be so awkward. I'll be able to move again."

The senior let out an amused chuckle, smiling as Flora shot her a startled glance.

"After they're born, you'll be even _more_ restricted than you are now."

"Whaa – _why?"_

"You'll have your arms full all the time," replied the mage, leaning forward to drape the heavy fur around Flora's shoulders. "Both arms."

"Oh!"

The senior enchanter and the former apprentice ended up on one of the high rampart walls overlooking the inner ward of the castle. The vast towers rose up around them like gargantuan, inhuman sentries; their flagpoles jutting out defiantly into the darkness. The battlements and bastions of Castle Cousland were silhouetted against a milky grey night sky, the stars distinct pricks of light against a clouded backdrop. The town of Highever huddled in the shadow of the teyrn's family seat, quiet and still; the ore-tainted river wending its way slowly between the limestone and slate buildings.

Flora leaned forward on the edge of the stone wall, the fur inching down her shoulders as she inhaled a lungful of cool air. The northern breeze soothed her flushed cheeks, the panicked sweat from earlier drying against her skin. She looked down at a view that was unfamiliar to her, and wondered _why_ – near everything else had prompted an odd flicker of memory. The next moment, she realised that her five year old self would not have been tall enough to see over the battlements.

"A woman's body is designed to give birth, Flora," Wynne said softly after several minutes of silence. "The Maker crafted it for such a purpose. You need not fear it as much as you do."

Flora shot a wary look towards the mage from the tail of her eye. Wynne was looking upwards rather than down; her pale blue gaze meandering over constellations half-buried in cloud.

"If that's true," the queen replied, in a small voice. "Why do so many women _die_ in childbirth?"

 _Alistair's mother,_ she recalled darkly to herself. _Zevran's mother._

"Because sometimes the Maker can be unkind," Wynne replied evenly, who could read the thoughts writ plain across Flora's face. "But I doubt He will be unkind to you. You saved the country where His Bride was born. Anyway, Maker aside, there are many elements which tilt the odds in your favour."

"Eh?"

"Midwives and mages to attend on you," the old mage said, patiently. This was not the first time she had uttered this litany – Alistair too had sought reassurance several times over the past few months. "All the healing remedies found at the apothecary. An abundance of fresh-washed sheets. And seawater for cleansing."

 _From the Amaranthine Ocean,_ Flora's mind concluded, innocently. _Which is off the Denerim coast._

 _From the Waking Sea,_ thought Wynne, instead. _You won't be leaving Highever until those babes are born._

"But... I won't have my spirits. How can I do this without them?"

There was a silence, in which this inarguable truth hung sadly in the air like a torn pennant. Wynne let out a low exhalation, and then reached out to put her fingers on Flora's arm, warm and reassuring.

"Flora, even _without_ your spirits, you are one of the most indefatigable creatures in Ferelden."

"In – indef- indefa - fat? Fat creature?"

" _Persistent._ You are far too stubborn to slip away in childbed."

"Oh!"

Flora wiped her nose on the linen sleeve of her nightgown, not entirely convinced but grateful for Wynne's reassurance regardless.

"Morrigan told me that she could tell distinctly where I had been severed from the Fade," the queen said moments later, a note of wistfulness in her words. "That my presence was like a thread cut with scissors and left to trail loose, or a smudge of shadow against the brightness. She used it to track me down when we first started the progress. Remember, when she visited our camp before South Reach? She said that she could always find me."

Wynne smiled wryly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The swiftness of her departure from her bedchamber had necessitated a less rigorous and pinned hairstyle than usual; she could feel the loose bun slowly beginning to unravel.

"I do remember. Alistair might be interested in that little detail – though he barely takes his eyes off you as it is. I'm surprised he's not hiding somewhere behind us in the shadows!"

For several minutes, the current and former mage stood on the high ramparts and observed the quiet night rhythms of Castle Cousland. A stray Mabari wandered near the stables, sniffing idly at stray scents. Pairs of guards - seeming as small as children's toys - patrolled the length and breadth of the fortress; their torches pinpricks of light against the inky-blue shadow. At the base of a distant tower, firelight spilled from several openings. The castle kitchens worked through the night to produce sufficient bread for the equivalent of a small village to break their fast.

"You'll be with me, won't you?" Flora asked after a while, turning anxious grey eyes on the old mage. "For the birth?"

"Of course I will," replied Wynne, briskly. "I'm curious to meet the little creatures that you two snuck off to make at Ostagar. Ah, once you'd vanished off into the shadows together…. well. _That_ was the most awkward campfire I can remember for a while – the elf kept making increasingly lewd comments, Finian's face was contorting itself into the most fantastical shapes… your brother didn't know what to do, poor boy."

"What did Sten say?" whispered Flora, suitably distracted from her own worries.

The white-haired mage chuckled, absentmindedly watching a pair of guards chatting beside a brazier on a lower rampart.

"Surprisingly, he was rather approving. Made the observation that it was an _effective form of stress relief."_

Flora beamed, irrationally amused by the grim-faced Qunari's approval. Suddenly, impulsively, she dropped her head against Wynne's shoulder and wound her elbow around the senior enchanter's arm.

"You've been more a mother to me than anyone else in my life," she mumbled, turning her face into the mage's plum-coloured sleeve. "Thank you for everything you've done."

Wynne was very quiet in response to this, unreadable emotion flickering across her fine-lined, elegant features. There was a liquid gleam to her eyes as she inhaled an unsteady breath; pulling on the unseen strings of her composure. Her fingers came up to touch the back of Flora's head, brief and affectionate.

"Come now," the senior enchanter said, the faintest tremor in her words. "It's unkind to make an old woman cry; we don't cry as prettily as young maidens such as yourself do."

"Oh, no," replied Flora, immediately. "I look _hideous_ when I cry. Monstrous. _Like a beast."_

As was usual on Ferelden's northern coast; rain was never far away. A misting drizzle began to drift from the sky without warning, blown sideways by a seaward breeze. Wynne decided that they had received their fair share of fresh air, and nudged Flora gently back in the direction of the doorway leading to Cousland Tower.

One of the guards posted at the entrance sprung forward to open the door, revealing the winding staircase and Alistair pacing back and forth on the nearest landing. He startled when he saw Wynne and his wife, fumbling hastily for an excuse.

"I was just… on my way to the privy," he offered, hopeful that his handsome, open face would carry the lie.

Wynne tutted under her breath, nudging Flora forwards across the flagstones.

"Don't _fib,_ Alistair. We know that you break out in hives when you're parted from your ' _sweet wife'_ for more than a quarter-candle. Here, have her back."

Alistair couldn't help it - he let out a sigh of relief as Flora waddled happily into his embrace, winding his arm tightly around her shoulders.

"How are you feeling, my love?"

"Better!" replied Flora, smiling up at him. "I'm sorry to have worried you earlier. I'll try not to overreact the next time I have a cramp."

The king exhaled, pressing his lips affectionately to the top of his fat-bellied queen's head.

"Don't under-react too much, baby – the next time might be the real thing!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Oooohhhh sorry for the misleading chapter name, hehehe XP It has a dual meaning here – referring to both Flora's fears of the actual PROCESS of becoming a mother, and the maternal role that Wynne has fulfilled over the past year. I apologise if you were expecting the birth to happen…. but I really liked writing this chapter. I love Wynne as a character! Anyway, Flo is in no mental state to give birth at the moment – the poor thing is terrified! But... it is very soon now... ehehehe

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	156. The Tour of Highever

Chapter 156: The Tour of Highever

The next morning, Flora came face to face with her parents for the first time in fifteen years. They had just entered a great hall – one of three within Castle Cousland – for the purpose of breaking their fast. The room itself was visually impressive: a lofty ceiling was crossed with an intricate pattern of wooden beams and buttresses, interlocking in an unusual herringbone pattern. A gallery intended for minstrels was built at one end, while four great hearths blazed at intervals down the length of the hall. At the opposite end stood a table elevated on a stone step, so that the Couslands could dine in the full view of their guests and assorted retainers.

Although there were no visitors to the castle except for the royal company, a dozen knights and their squires were seated at the lower tables. They were exchanging idle conversation with each other while breaking their fast with fresh-baked bread, cauldrons of steaming eggs and piles of smoked bacon.

Spoons and knives were flung down with a clatter as the steward announced the arrival not only of the teyrn, but of the King and Queen of Ferelden. Each navy-liveried knight sprang to their feet with their squires, hastening to turn around and bend themselves double at the waist.

"Do you remember this, Floss?" Finian asked, the moment that they crossed the threshold and began to process down towards the elevated table. "Look up at the ceiling, that's a _memorable_ piece of architecture, wouldn't you say? Do you remember breaking your fast down here?"

A helpless Flora opened and closed her mouth like a fish. Fergus came to his little sister's rescue while simultaneously waving for the knights to put themselves at ease.

"Finn, she was barely more than a baby when she lived here," he reminded their brother, gently. "She spent most of her time in the nursery with Nan. She never broke her fast in the great hall – Maker, _none_ of us did! Father would eat in the saddle on his way to the mines, Mother was equally busy; I'd be in the tiltyard or archery-field at dawn, and you'd be in the library."

Finian gave a reluctant grumble of acknowledgement. But Flora was no longer listening to her brother's reminiscence; she was staring up at the painting which hung in pride of place above the elevated table. It was a vast and impressive piece – even the frame was old gold, and worth more than the collective wealth of half a dozen northern villages.

The old teyrn and teyrna, clad in matching Highever navy, were posed at either side of a tall Cousland shield. Bryce Cousland, stern and pale-eyed but with a faint twist of humour to the mouth, stood on the left; his teyrn's gold band resting atop hair gone completely silver. His wife had a shawl of Mac Eanraig family tartan draped over one arm; her own faded hair bound up in an elaborate series of braids and whorls. Eleanor Cousland bore a brooch of a ship's wheel on her breast, in a nod to her family's sea-faring heritage.

Flora stared up at her parents, and felt an odd flicker of recognition in the back of her mind; the faintest tug at a memory buried too deep for her to retrieve. Her father seemed more familiar, and she realised that the man's ghostly image had appeared in the Temple of Sacred Ashes; mouthing fragmented apologies before fading from existence.

"Floss, do you remem- " started Finian, then received a swift elbow in the ribs from the elf.

Alistair reached out to capture his wife's fingers, snaring her palm with his. Flora gripped his hand, grateful for his instinctual throw of the fish-rope. To the queen's slight shame, she found that she had no need of his reassurance – apart from the faintest flicker of recognition, such as one might feel when passing through a town visited briefly as a child, she felt _absolutely nothing_ towards the painted pair of nobles that loomed above the elevated table.

 _These people might be my parents, but they're little more than strangers to me,_ she thought to herself, with a shiver. _Oh, I can't let this show. My brothers will be devastated._

Flora had never been more grateful for the natural ambiguity of her face than she was in that moment. Fergus and Finian were both looking at her hopefully; she made herself smile back at them.

"I'd like you to tell me more about them, later," she whispered, as they resumed their procession towards the elevated table. "I'd like to hear about my… my mother and the ships."

On hearing that they were preparing the morning's food for not only the teyrn, but also the King of Ferelden, and the long-lost Cousland daughter, the cooks in the Highever kitchens had deployed their greatest efforts. The quantity and quality of the dishes was more akin to a holiday feast than a simple breaking of the fast. There were oats prepared in six different ways, a vast variety of fruits cut into various cunning shapes, a bowl of cherries steeped in sweet Antivan sherry, and a vast loaf of fresh-baked bread moulded in the shape of a laurel wreath.

The company obligingly ate their full, aware that they had a day of obligations ahead. First would come a tour of Highever – including a descent into one of the region's famous ore-mines – and then a lunch with the local banns and their wives. In the afternoon, they would be attending a pageant especially prepared for the royal visit, celebrating the ending of the Fifth Blight.

Flora ate her way distractedly through three peaches and a hunk of bread, aware of the painted eyes of her parents resting on the back of her neck.

 _I won't feel guilty that I don't remember you,_ she thought, taking a defiant gulp of sheep's milk. _You sent me away when I was a baby. You paid a mage to brick up my memories like… like a derelict tower._

After they broke their fast, Fergus and his guests reconvened beneath the squat, imposing bastion of Ferelden Tower. The horses were brought out, freshly fed and watered; their shoes checked and coats brushed to a fine sheen. The sky was bright and clear, with a crisp autumnal quality to the air. Fergus waited in apprehension for his younger sister to espy the fine weather and point out yesterday's lie – there was certainly no storm brewing on the horizon, as the teyrn had foretold. But Flora had said nothing, her mind overwhelmed from the revelation of her Silver Knight's identity; the labour scare; the life-sized painted parents. Alistair had successfully distracted his beleaguered queen by having Cod and Lobster brought out from the castle kennels.

As the king had hoped, Flora was immediately delighted with the presence of her excitable puppies; kneeling down on the damp grass and letting them scamper dementedly about her. Alistair had found a trailing strap of leather and was waving it around, laughing as the long-limbed creatures rolled about in a frenzied attempt to catch it.

The horses were saddled and ready, the guards already proceeding through the main gate; yet the others were reluctant to move. They were watching the two youngest members of their company – whose age combined just about reached Teagan's own – play with the Mabari puppies on the grass. The king was laughing in a way that countered the calculated ageing effect of his beard, and the queen was giggling; a sound which only rarely emerged from her solemn northerner's throat. If not for the matching golden coronels on their foreheads, they might have been any light-hearted pair of young lovers – a stable-hand and a fisherman's daughter, perhaps – larking with the local lord's hounds.

Yet despite their carefree appearance, the couple had a sense of duty far more mature than their youthful years. Even before the royal mantle had been draped over their shoulders; he had been heir to the throne and she Warden-Commander; before that, he was a Templar in training and she the designated mender of her village. He had been in the service of the Chantry from the age of ten, and she had held the lives of men in her hands from even younger. Duty was something that both Alistair and Flora knew intimately; a constant and unerring presence hovering at their shoulder.

Even as the older members of the company watched, Flora lifted each puppy in turn and kissed it firmly on the top of the head; in a gesture that was undeniably one of parting. The young bitches began to whimper plaintively as she put them down, aware that their mistress was about to leave them. Alistair was already brushing the fur from his breeches, tucking the leather string away within his tunic. He clambered to his feet, and then reached down with a strong hand to help up his heavy-bellied wife. She made a grumbling comment to him as he hauled her upright – something along the lines of _feeling like a sack of potatoes._ The king laughed, and leaned forward to kiss his queen on the forehead, before adjusting the angle of her slender golden coronet.

"Right," Alistair then said, turning to the rest of the company with a grin. "Ready to go? I admit, I'm quite looking forward to seeing this mine. Hopefully it won't remind me too much of the Deep Roads!"

"We're ready when you are, lad," replied Teagan, softly. "Are you?"

"If Flo's ready, I'm ready!"

"I'm ready!" piped up Flora, immediately. "I want to see the fish market. Herring sends their fish here to be sold!"

The entire company gave a collective shudder, praying that no inhabitants of the dreaded village would be accompanying their wares.

They rode down the long granite slope towards the twin bastion towers, the horses ducking their heads against a cool headwind. The town of Highever lay in the shadow of Castle Cousland, the sloping rows of limestone gleaming in the cool vanilla light of morning. Now that the initial excitement of the royal arrival had passed, the townspeople had returned to some sense of normality. The miners and quarrymen had descended into the subterranean depths in the surrounding cliffs, the carpenters were returned to their workshops and the blacksmiths to the forges.

Fergus rode at the head of their small company, Bryce Cousland's gold band worn proudly on his brow. He was eager to show off his town, which was as old and proud as the Cousland dynasty itself. The royal couple rode at the teyrn's side, both on the same saddle as was customary. Their other companions rode in their wake, exchanging idle conversation as they shielded their eyes against a low, mist-shrouded sun.

The occupants of Highever had been given firm instructions not to throng the thoroughfares on the second day of the royal visit. The garrisons had spilled their contents onto the streets to enforce this, guards with pikes posted at every lamp-post and corner to disperse any substantial crowd. The royal company therefore had little difficulty passing through the roads on horseback, though clumps of people still shouted out ragged greetings in their wake. Crimson ribbons made soggy by the mist hung from the balconies, like trailing strands of the queen's prodigious hair.

They rode first down the main thoroughfare – aptly named _Kingsroad –_ which ran leisurely alongside the wide, ore-tainted river. Tall townhouses belonging to the wealthy rose up on either side, each one three storeys of solid limestone and slate. Many of them bore carved stone decorations indicating the professions of their owners – a set of scales for a trader, crossed pick-axes for a quarry-master, a finely etched quill for a steward.

"That dwelling belongs to Gilmore's family," Fergus pointed out, gesturing to the townhouse nearest the bridge. "His father owns three farriers' workshops – their shoes are famous for their quality and longevity."

"Aye," called Teagan from near the back of the company. "No shoe like a Gilmore shoe. Eamon used to send someone up to Highever each season to purchase a cartload."

"He can do so again," Fergus returned, spiritedly. "Highever is back in the hands of its rightful owners. The Blight is over. No reason why trade shouldn't resume across Ferelden."

"It _needs_ to recover," agreed Alistair, prompted by the interests of his convalescing nation. "Eamon sent me the accounts for the last quarter, and there's been far too much inflation in prices over the past year. The price of bread is twice what it was last Kingsway."

Flora mused privately that _she_ had inflated far too much. Her children were now so tightly packed within her that they had little room to move. On the one hand, she was proud that her babies had grown so plump and strong, on the _other,_ she was aware that they had to come _out_ of her in equal substance.

 _I think you're almost ready,_ she thought to herself, rubbing the heel of her hand over her stomach with a flutter of nervous anticipation. _I don't think it's going to be long now._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Quick chapter tonight because this week has been mental in work! And will continue to be so for the near future, haha. Anyway, this chapter features a few important moments – Flora setting eyes on her parents for the first time in a loooong time (not counting the ghost of Bryce Cousland from all the way back in the Sacred Ashes temple chapter in the Lion and the Light). And it also contains lots of headcanon about Highever; which I envision as a region which makes its profits from quarries and mines, hence the wealth displayed in the building construction.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	157. The Presentation of Gifts

Chapter 157: The Presentation of Gifts

The townspeople of Highever had been given firm instructions not to throng the thoroughfares on the second day of the royal visit. The garrisons had spilled their contents onto the streets to enforce this, guards with pikes posted at every lamp-post and corner to disperse any substantial crowd. The royal company therefore had little difficulty passing through the roads on horseback, though clumps of people still shouted out ragged greetings and lonely cheers in their wake. Crimson ribbons made soggy by the mist hung from the balconies, like trailing strands of the queen's prodigious hair.

They rode first down the main thoroughfare – aptly named _Kingsway –_ which ran leisurely alongside the wide, ore-tainted river. Tall townhouses belonging to the wealthy rose up on either side, each one three storeys of solid limestone and slate. Many of them bore carved stone decorations indicating the professions of their owners – a set of scales for a trader, crossed pick-axes for a quarry-master, a finely etched quill for a steward.

"That dwelling belongs to Gilmore's family," Fergus pointed out, gesturing to the townhouse nearest the bridge. "His father owns three farriers' workshops – their shoes are famous for their quality and longevity."

"Aye," called Teagan from near the back of the company. "No shoe like a Gilmore shoe. Eamon used to send someone up to Highever each season to purchase a cartload."

"He can do so again," Fergus returned, spiritedly. "Highever is back in the hands of its rightful owners. The Blight is over. No reason why trade shouldn't resume across Ferelden."

"It _needs_ to recover," agreed Alistair, prompted by the interests of his convalescing nation. "Eamon sent me the accounts for the last quarter, and there's been far too much inflation over the past year. The price of bread is twice what it was last Kingsway."

Flora thought privately that _she_ had inflated far too much. Her children were now so tightly packed within her that they had little room to move. On the one hand, she was proud that her babies had grown so plump and strong, on the _other,_ she was aware that they had to come _out_ of her in equal substance.

The company left the horses to be stabled in one of the town garrisons, and headed towards the market square. The guards walked both ahead and behind the royal couple; impassive behind their closed-face helms and pikes held aloft. Teagan and Zevran, who were both armed, placed themselves deliberately at either side. There were many Surface dwarves who dwelt within Highever, working in the myriad quarries and mines; it would be easy for a Carta dwarf to blend in amongst these legitimate residents. Zevran had spent an hour sharpening each blade to a deadly edge that morning, envisioning gleefully what he would do to someone who made any manner of threat towards their vulnerable, heavy-bellied queen.

Alistair, with one beady eye on the uneven flagstones and the other on a passing troop of Surfacers, let out a long exhalation as they entered a market hall with a lofty, open-timbered ceiling. His arm had been wrapped around his wife's waist since they had descended from the horses; steering her around treacherous edges and slippery cobbles. The teyrn had already ordered for several gallons of grit to be strewn over the slick stones, yet the king was taking no chances.

"All these dwarves with pick-axes are going to give me grey hairs," he murmured, glancing around at the stained glass emblems of various guilds fixed within high windows on the walls.

The royal couple and Fergus were seated on ornately carved wooden chairs arranged on the auctioneer's platform; ready for the various tradespeople and notables of Highever to make their gifts and introductions. Zevran positioned himself in the shadows near the entrance, a catlike, appraising gaze flickering over all who passed beneath the arched doorway.

One by one, the leaders of Highever's craft guilds filed in to present a gift to the royal couple. They had clearly been drilled on protocol beforehand– each one shuffled in, bowed deeply at the waist, then inched forward clutching their gift.

Alistair, in an attempt to put his subjects at ease, smiled genially at each one as they approached. Ironically enough, the six foot and three inch tall king - with his broad, fur-clad shoulders and handsome tawny features – was somehow less intimidating than the girl at his side, who had eyes as pale and ambiguous as a clouded sky, a full-lipped, downcast mouth, and a flood of crimson hair that streamed loose over her shoulders like strands of seaweed. The white scarring on the backs of her hands, and at her breast – one pale arc curving towards her collarbone – only added to her compelling, disconcerting presence.

The first craftsman to present their wares was the master of the chandler's guild. He was a slight and deft-handed man, who produced a pair of matched candlesticks, carved from silver and inlaid with gold leaf. Privately, Alistair thought that they would look more suitable for some Orlesian _salon_ than a Fereldan dining table, but smiled and accepted them graciously regardless. Flora, who was making a conscious effort to overcome the natural gravity of her face, smiled widely at the guild-master. The startled man almost tripped over the auctioneer's platform, then made a blushing retreat.

The master of the weaver's guild was less susceptible to shyness. A mother to six children, she had spotted the weariness beneath the queen's cool exterior – the inability to sit comfortably, a heart-burn induced grimace, the excuse Flora had made earlier to use the privy. Instead of falling prey to intimidation, the weaver-master had marched straight up to the queen and held out her offering in proud, jutting arms.

"A baby blanket, for t'royal crib," she announced, importantly. "It's Mac Eanraig tartan, milady. Pure lambswool, coloured wi' the finest Antivan dyes."

Flora gazed down at the crimson wool, which was criss-crossed with slender lines of black, white and green. Another odd flicker of memory emerged from the mire of her early childhood; she sought to reel it in before it could slip back into the depths.

 _I am Cousland by marriage, but Mac Eanraig by blood, a woman's voice retorted. I am as proud of my heritage as you are of yours, husband._

The words, uttered by the aristocratic voice of a stranger, echoed around Flora's skull; much like the whisper of the Archdemon had once done. Shaking her head firmly, Flora slid a palm over the soft wool and smiled up at the master-weaver.

"Thank you," she replied in the usual quiet, hoarse northern tones. "It's beautiful."

 _And likely to end up with all sorts of mess on it, considering how babies tend to behave. Unfortunately, they don't have much appreciation for lambswool and Antivan dye._

"An' it can be washed," the master-weaver and mother-of-six added, with a knowing look.

They then met the master of armourers and brasiers, who presented Alistair with a vast and intricately carved breastplate. The head of the basket-weaver's guild bore a round basket suitable for carrying two infants in, the chief broderer had stitched a long pair of stockings with laurel leaves around the hem for the queen. The gifts began to pile up at one corner of the auctioneer's platform; Flora kept casting incredulous sideways looks at the growing mountain of items.

"I think we'll need another cart to take all this back to Denerim, my dear," murmured Alistair, spotting her wide-eyed glance.

"Everyone's been so generous," she replied, raising her voice a fraction so that her brother could hear.

"People want to show their gratitude," Fergus replied easily, acknowledging a quiet nod from the steward. "Right – that was the last of the guild-presentations. Ready to go down the mine?"

"Is there no fisherman's guild?" piped up his sister once again, who had noticed a rod and net picked out in stained-glass on a high window.

"Aye, pup. They'll be down at the harbour."

 _"The harbour!?"_

The teyrn laughed at his sister's blatant delight, rising to his feet in a rustle of expensive fabric.

"Why, you didn't think that we were _avoiding_ the Highever docks? I knew I could never get away with that, little sister."

After another hour spent on a circuitous route through Highever – taking in the smithing quarter, the jewellery workshops and the newly-renovated Chantry – the royal company ended up in a section of the town colloquially known as _Lowever_ by residents. This district lay outside the walls, at the bottom of a wide road that meandered lazily down a quarried slope.

'Lowever', which nestled on the bank of the Waking Sea, contained the harbour and the Cousland private dock, as well as hosting a small fishing community. A mile inland, several quarries and mines were located; including one containing a priceless vein of volcanic aurum. As the company gathered on the gravel at the juncture between quarries, harbour and town, the Waking Sea grumbled quietly three hundred yards away at the base of the beach.

"Floss," Fergus said, raising his voice above the complaining whine of the wind. "I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to visit the aurum mine. There's a platform lift down the mine-shaft, then a few tight squeezes to get to the vein. I don't want to risk you inhaling any noxious gases."

Flora nodded amiably – she didn't particularly care about going down the mine – but Alistair's face twisted in a spasm of indecision. He had wanted to go down the mine-shaft, but equally did not want to leave the side of his heavily pregnant wife.

"I'll stay up here," volunteered Teagan, who would not admit to a fear of dark, enclosed spaces. "I've no desire to go down the mine."

Alistair looked unconvinced, his handsome olive brow creasing itself into deep furrows of concern. After Zevran, Finian, and four of the royal guards added their voices to the cause, the king finally relented. He, Fergus, and one of the royal Mabari would accompany several Cousland knights down to see the vein of raw volcanic aurum; while the others would stay with the queen on the surface.

"You'll be parted for two hours," Fergus pointed out reasonably as the king plastered his wife's upturned mouth with kisses. "If that."

"Flo, if you feel anything – _anything_ at all start to happen, you must tell someone," Alistair breathed, once he had reluctantly drawn back. "Any pains, cramps, twinges! They'll send someone to fetch me straight away. I'll climb the walls of the mine shaft to get back to your side!"

"Mm," said Flora vaguely, wondering what type of nets the local fishermen used. "I will."

" _Any_ sort of discomfort, my love!"

"Mm, yes."

"Shall I position myself between the queen's luscious thighs to watch for signs of activity?" Zevran offered, with the requisite devilish grin. "I would _happily_ volunteer."

For a moment, Alistair appeared as though he was sincerely considering the offer, at which point Fergus hastily intervened. He put a gentle but firm guiding arm around the king's shoulders – much as he must have once done with Cailan – and steered him in the direction of the nearby quarries.

Teagan let out an inward sigh of relief as he watched the departing backs of king and teyrn. A moment later he laughed at his own racing heart, and gave a self-depreciating shrug.

"Right then, poppet. Down to the docks, is it? I assume Finian will lead the way."

Finian, grimacing inwardly at the prospect of marine scents infusing his crushed-velvet tunic, gave a nod.

"If we must."

Flora nodded, swivelling her gaze towards the maze of stone quays and wooden jetties that jutted out into the shallows. Small, ant-sized figures crawled over them – their activities were indiscernible at this distance, but Flora could hazard a guess at what they might be doing.

 _Bringing in the catch, winding the nets, mending the nets. Tarring rotted patches on the boats. Sorting out the catch, gutting the ones that need disembowelling and descaling the ones that need stripping. Cleaning the rods, untangling the lines. Patching buckets. All the chores that need to be done daily in a community that makes its money from the sea._

As she turned her gaze back to her companions, Flora's attention was caught by some peculiar architecture. There seemed to be a series of dwellings hewn into the cliff-face itself – with openings dotted haphazardly in the limestone on a variety of levels – all connected by passageways buried deep in the rock. A high wall was built at the base of the cliff, with a gate guarded by two yawning sentries.

Even as the queen peered up in perplexion at this rabbit-warren hewn into the rock, a small head appeared above the high wall. It looked down at her for a moment, and then was joined by a second. The heads belonged to two elven children, who must have clambered precariously up the wall's far side.

One of them dared to wave a hand towards the queen, the thin accompany cry drifting down towards them on the breeze.

 _"Hero of Ferelden! Hero of Ferelden!"_

Flora smiled up at them, lifting her own hand to return the greeting.

"Finian," she breathed, eyes moving over the strange maze of caves and chambers, only part-visible from the ground below. "What's that?"

"What's what? Oh," said Finian, preoccupied with rolling up the sleeves of his velvet tunic in an attempt to protect them. "That's the alienage."

Flora tilted her head to one side, her brow furrowing in the same manner as Alistair's had done only a few minutes prior.

 _I didn't see many elves out yesterday,_ she thought to herself, recalling their arrival into the town. _Hm._

"They're… they're allowed _out,_ aren't they? They aren't trapped in those caves?"

"Of course," replied Finian, indignantly. "We're not _jailers."_

"They don't particularly look like they wish to come out," observed the sharp-eyed Zevran, noting how the children had already vanished back behind the wall.

Finian thought for a moment - not accustomed to thinking from the perspective of an elf – then his expression cleared in understanding.

"Oh, but during Howe's pretence at being _teyrn,_ they weren't treated well at all," the young arl explained. "When I was at Amaranthine, the elves there told me horror stories about how they used to get locked up in their quarters, and Howe's men allowed to freely run rampage amongst them. I'd wager these elves are still a bit wary after eight months with Howe in charge."

Zevran, who still felt a vein of lingering regret at not getting his own hands on the treacherous arl, let out a snort of disgust.

"That creature really was a stain on your nation's peerage," he commented, lip curling. "I know how you Fereldans take pride in the moral calibre of your nobility."

"And his children aren't worth much more," retorted Finian, darkly. "Fergus once beat Nathaniel Howe in the joust, wrestling, _and_ on the archery range in a single day when we were youths. It was the Summerday games, and – _Flossie!"_

This was in response to Flora heading purposefully off towards the gate set into the high wall, the sentries fumbling to stand to attention as she approached. The royal hounds and guards had automatically followed in her wake; now, Flora's other companions went to join them.

"Always wandering off to unexpected places, my little minx," Zevran breathed against the queen's neck, having swiftly caught her up. "As much as I _adore_ unpredictability, I would rather you remain where I can keep my eye on you, at least while these ill-intentioned dwarves are on the loose."

Teagan came to a halt on the queen's other side, slightly out of breath from the rapidity of his movement.

"Are you sure you don't want to go and see the fishing docks, petal?" he asked, in a last-ditch attempt to return her to her original purpose.

Flora smiled at him in a sweet and obliging manner; continuing in exactly the direction she wished to go.

"The legendary Cousland stubbornness," whispered Finian, unsure whether to be infuriated or proud at the family likeness. "Mother once said we should have a _mule_ rather than a laurel as our family emblem."

The queen's escort trudged painfully slowly alongside her – Flora's pace was now a slow, rolling gait like a great ship coming into port – as she headed towards the gate. The sentries, quickly shoving helms back on their heads and straightening their tabards under Finian's beady eye, stood to attention.

"Lady Cousland! Your Majesty!"

"Hello," said Flora, not slowing her plodding, yet persistent momentum. "I'm visiting the alienage."

The guards looked at one another in astonishment, then back at the queen.

"Has… has an elf done something to displease you, my lady? Has there been a theft? Should the garrison be alerted?"

A cool, mildly perplexed stare from Flora quickly disavowed the sentries of this assumption. They hastened to open the gate for her – Finian had told the truth, it was not locked – and Flora made her way inside.

The two elven children who had so confidently hailed the _Hero of Ferelden!_ looked less confident now that she was within the boundary wall of the alienage. The younger – a little boy, with grubby cheeks and bare feet, shuffled anxiously in the dust; while his sister stared open mouthed at the queen and her escort.

"Hello," said Flora, softly. "I'd like to look around. And speak to your – to your _hahren._ "

Her mind had retrieved the correct terminology just in time. The two elven children glanced at each other, then back up at Flora. The younger still glowered suspiciously, but the elder gave a small nod of acquiescence.

"Sarethia's _domi_ is this way. Did you really kill a dragon?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: So visiting royals and dignitaries during the Medieval period would often receive gifts from local guilds – I thought it would be nice to include this little activity, make the progress a little more realistic! The thing about Highever's alienage being hewn into the wall of the cliff-face like a warren is completely my own headcanon. The DA wikia mentions that Highever has an alienage, but that's it! I picture it as looking a little like some of the cave villages you can visit – there's a famous one in Vardzia, Georgia.

Brasier = brass worker

Broderer = embroiderer

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	158. The Pageant

Chapter 158: The Pageant 

The Highever alienage was made up of a warren of chambers and passageways, hewn into the solid rock beneath the town of itself. Every so often, there was a carved opening that let cool autumnal light spill inside; yet most of the alienage was lit by hanging braziers, and strings of tiny lamps affixed to the wall. Despite being mostly subterranean, the chambers were unusually warm – in fact, they were probably better heated than many of the dwellings above ground.

Despite the crudeness of the stone structure, each dwelling within the Highever alienage had been claimed and adapted by its occupied. Blankets with half-remembered patterns were hung over the plain walls; shelves had been carved into the stone to hold a variety of wooden and ceramic trinkets. The furnishings were a motley combination of handmade goods and scavenged items. Not a single piece matched its neighbour in colour, pattern or design, and yet this added a pleasing eccentricity to the maze of dwellings.

As Flora picked her way over the uneven limestone floor – Finian beside her with his arm linked through hers – she thought privately that the alienage reminded her of the cheese that Alistair liked so much.

 _All riddled with holes and passageways._

There were several elves to be found within the chambers, looking up in surprise at the queen and her companions as they entered. Most of these were elderly; too old to work the mines as did the majority of adults in Highever. Their reactions varied extensively – some recognised Flora straight away and gaped in astonishment, others clearly had no idea who she was. They saw the Cousland-crimson hair, and that she was accompanied by Finian, whom they _did_ recognise.

Flora's head swivelled from side to side as they passed through the chambers, her astonished gaze taking in the tiny lamps hanging from the ceiling, the patterned blankets and the hand-woven carpets. One narrow niche was clearly used as a storeroom, the aromatic scent of herbs drifting forth from the shadow. Every so often, a crude version of the Highever emblem was daubed on the wall in red ochre; but with twin branches instead of crossed spears.

The queen noticed too that there were signs of recent destruction – gouge marks in the limestone walls, jagged gaps where makeshift doors had once stood. Some chambers stood conspicuously empty, as though their contents had been damaged beyond saving. Quick solutions had been found for much of the damage – ropes used as partitions, wooden screens to replace broken walls – but other areas bore deep and visible scars.

The air around them lightened suddenly as they emerged into an area open to the sky above. Even the weak autumnal sunlight made their eyes water, despite its accompanying wreath of cloud. Across the limestone, an ancient tree slumped like an old man, roots sunk deep into cracks in the rock to glean what few nutrients were available. The tree was so old that the wood itself was shrivelled and pale; indeed, it seemed almost petrified, like the submerged prehistoric forest on the Herring beach. Some remnants of paper prayer flags hung to its wizened branches, although many of them were faded and torn with age. Now, several branches appeared as though they had been claimed for firewood; others had been repurposed as washing-lines.

Flora stared at it, trying to recall the specific _name_ used by the elves to describe their prayer-tree.

" _Vhenadahl,"_ murmured Zevran softly in her ear; his rich, appraising gaze taking in both the tattered paper ornaments and the hung-up washing. "If I recall correctly."

"Sarethia's _domi_ is just here," piped up the self-important elven girl, gesturing to a doorstep littered with candles. "This way!"

Almost two hours later, the king and his companions had finished viewing the subterranean vein of volcanic aurum, and were making their way back to 'Lowever' to join the other half of their party. Alistair was striding so quickly that the others struggled to keep up – especially Fergus, who was built for stock rather than stature.

To his relief – and slight surprise – his queen was where he had left her, perched on an old iron mooring post. The original line of the harbour had been further up the shore; land had been reclaimed from the Waking Sea many generations prior. Her companions surrounded her; Zevran and Finian were seated on crates with a pack of cards spread between them, the guards were gazing up at the gathering cloud overhead with trepidation, the Mabari was ignoring Flora's attempt to make it retrieve a piece of hurled driftwood.

"Fetch!" she commanded, pointing an imperious finger towards the lonely stick. "Bann Teagan, he won't _fetch!"_

"He's been trained as a guard dog, poppet," Teagan explained, trying not to laugh. "I doubt anyone has ever taught him tricks."

The hound shot the bann a slightly pitying look. If it could speak, it would have explained – in derisive tones – that it understood _extremely_ well how to fetch a stick; but that it was a _professional,_ and professionals did not play games while on duty.

Abandoning the idea, Flora reached down and scratched the short, tawny fur behind the dog's ear.

"It's alright that you don't know how to fetch," she said, kindly. "I don't _really_ know how to spell my full name."

The Mabari turned its incredulous stare towards her just as Alistair reached his wife; crouching to put his arms about her in a relieved embrace.

"Any cramps, baby? Pains of any sort? Maker's Breath, I'm not leaving you for that length of time again. All I could think about was you going into labour while I was crawling around underground like a dwarf."

"You do smell a bit _subterfuge,"_ she replied, inhaling the musty, smoke-laced scent of his tunic. "Like a cave. And no, no cramps. One of the babies had hiccups."

"Subterranean," corrected Finian, unable to stop himself from wincing at his sister's creative use of vocabulary.

Alistair kissed his wife's nose as she beamed at him, delighted by his return. As he drew back, Flora reached up to wipe a smear of ash from his cheek; stray matter blown from a smelting-oven near the mine.

"I'm glad to find you here where we left you," he said, with a soft and rueful chuckle. "I half-expected to find you vanished off somewhere, my love."

"Oh, we've _been_ somewhere," Zevran interrupted, bridling like a cat as he felt a stray drop of rain landing on the back of his neck. "We've been on a tour of the Highever alienage. You know our _carina;_ she can't keep away from these unfortunate places!"

Fergus and Alistair glanced at each other, eyebrows rising in mutual surprise. Flora nodded with solemn portentousness, reaching into the bust of her tunic to retrieve a crumpled piece of parchment.

"I met with their _hahren,_ Sarethia," she explained, turning her grave, grey eyes on Fergus. "When Arl Howe took over Highever, his men broke into the alienage and did a great deal of _wanton damaging_. They've managed to repair some of it, but they haven't the tools to fix everything."

Fergus' brow creased; his own gaze swivelling sideways towards the warren of dwellings carved into the cliff-face.

"Why haven't they approached me? I'd be more than happy to organise repairs. I'm the liege-lord of Highever, it's my responsibility to ensure that the needs of the residents are met. Especially if the damages were caused by _Howe."_

"I think they were nervous after everything that happened with Howe," replied Flora, offering him the piece of crumpled parchment. "Or thought that you were preoccupied with other matters. Anyway, I wrote down everything that needs fixing."

Fergus took the piece of parchment with some trepidation. It was covered in his sister's illegible scrawl, many lines sloping diagonally across the page. Some words were written with no space between them, the letters tangled together like leaves in a strong gust of wind, many of them were scribed back to front, or entirely upside down. It was signed in Flora's usual manner of: _floranse the quene._

"I also made a copy," Teagan interjected, barely managing to keep his tone and expression neutral. "Just in case something – ah – happened to the original."

The bann discretely passed over his neatly scribed list to the teyrn, clearing his throat. The diplomacy was unnecessary; king and queen were now gazing fixedly at one another, with neither eyes nor attention for anything else.

"My beautiful, sweet-hearted wife," Alistair was murmuring, his thumb tracing the delicate contour of her cheekbone. "I know I'll never be too hard a man – too harsh a _king –_ with your kindness to inspire me."

"Husband," she whispered back, mesmerised by the intensity of his handsome, earnest features. "I love you."

"I love you too!"

"Fergus, we'd better get to the guild-hall before our newlyweds require a private sojourn to a bedchamber," interrupted Finian snidely, turning up his collar against the persistent spattering of rain. "Or a bucket of cold water thrown over them."

The company returned to the loftier district of Highever, perched atop the rugged cliff with the sprawl of Castle Cousland at its back. They reached the guild-hall just as the sea-mist graduated to a thin, chilly autumnal drizzle. The guild-hall itself was an impressive structure constructed from slate and limestone, reflecting the wealth of the region. During the presentation of the gifts, Alistair had not appreciated the intricate details of the décor – the laurel leaves carved meticulously into each ceiling beam, the cunning use of coloured glass in the windows to create a speckled rainbow of light on the salt-stained floorboards.

The rows of chairs in the lower part of the guild-hall had been replaced with a long table; which had been fully laden with bowls, dishes and tureens during their sojourn in 'Lowever'. The auctioneer's platform had been cleared – and, in preparation for the afternoon's pageant, extended with several additional wooden blocks. A screen painted with delicate vines had been pulled hastily before the makeshift 'stage' to muffle the excitable chatter of the performers: all of whom came from a dramatic ensemble known as the _Highever Players._

"I apologise in advance," Fergus murmured after they had finished eating a dessert of pears poached in white wine. "I haven't had time to watch the rehearsals for this bloody pageant. It was either this, or a full eight-hour recital of the ballad of _The Lion and the Light_ for the afternoon's entertainment."

"What's a pageant?" a confused Flora whispered meanwhile, having never heard of such a notion before.

"A show, of sorts," replied Alistair, leaning back in his chair and watching the painted screen with vague trepidation. "Isolde hosted several of them back in Redcliffe when I was growing up. _The Chevalier and the Rose, A Bountiful Harvest, The Glory of the West._ I hope to the Maker this one doesn't involve any _singing."_

"What's the theme?" asked Teagan, who – along with Finian – had downed several glasses of mead to prepare themselves for what was to come. Neither man particularly enjoyed pageantry or plays; the bann disliked any manner of amateur dramatics, while the young arl had been to his fair share of glamorous Orlesian _masques_ and was unsure how a local Highever version would compare. Conversely, Zevran was gleeful beside him – the elf had glimpsed some of the 'cast' as they entered, and was convinced that they were in for an entertaining afternoon.

"I'm afraid it's about us," Alistair replied, gloomily. "Me and Flo."

Flora, eyes widening in confusion, turned her gaze back on the stage. The movement of the men and women behind the screen suddenly took on a new, and alarming, significance.

" _Us?!_ Oh, dear."

"It's meant to be a tribute," Fergus interjected, grimacing as he saw a suspect-looking costume vanish rapidly into the 'wings'. "There were lots of pageants written after Ferelden declared independence from Orlais. I suppose the playwrights have decided that the ending of the Fifth Blight warrants equal ceremony."

Soon after, veils were drawn over the stained glass windows to mask the insipid sunlight; a row of candles flickered at the base of the makeshift 'stage'. The company – along with a selection of Highever's notables, local banns and guild-members, assembled themselves on rows of chairs before the auctioneer's platform. Flora, who was still thoroughly confused at the concept of _pageants,_ sat between Alistair and Fergus; propped up with several cushions against her sore spine.

Three musicians, who were so entranced by the presence of the royal couple that they kept missing their entrances, struck up an opening melody. The screen was pulled back with a little too much vigour; a squeak of pain resulted as it crashed into the wings. A slender elf, clad in flowing black robes, ignored the chaos and pranced to the centre of the auctioneer's platform. With legs spread in an impressive stance, he bellowed out into the cavernous space of the guild-hall.

"LET THY MINDS CONJURE THIS IMAGE: A DARK AND RAINY NIGHT IN YE OLDE FORTRESS OF OSTAGAR."

" _Fuck's sake,"_ muttered Fergus under his breath, wishing that he had opted for the eight-hour _Lion and the Light_ medley.

Zevran immediately bit down on his own thumb to stop himself from bursting into hysterical giggles. Alistair, stunned into silence, wiped a stray fleck of the narrator's spittle from his cheek.

The elf withdrew after a substantially dramatic pause. Moments later, there came the sound of footsteps; weighty and distinctly ominous. A ferocious woman appeared centre-stage, six foot tall and with the powerful limbs of a warrior. A bright orange and ill-fitting wig was placed askew atop her head. A large, grotesquely shaped lump protruded from her abdomen; the corner of a pillow poked out from beneath her tunic. She was extraordinarily scantily clad, bare thighs protruding beneath the artificial stomach.

"I, Florence Cousland, arrive at Ostagar for the first time!" the woman yelled, with wholly unnecessary volume. "What a shit-hole this place is!"

As Fergus put his face in his hands, Zevran almost fell off his chair, eyes bulging with hysteria. Flora, perplexed, stared at the stage with a slight furrow creasing her brow.

"I _definitely_ wore trousers during the Blight," she whispered to herself, doubtfully. "At least, I think so."

Just then, a scrawny man with a mouth full of yellow teeth and large, watery eyes like fog-lamps strutted out from the wings; flexing his muscles with regal self-importance.

"I am _Alistair!_ One day, I'm going to be the king of all Ferelden!" the diminutive figure squeaked, kissing his own fingers reverently. "I can't wait! The thought of all that power makes me stiff in my breeches."

Alistair's eyebrows shot into his hairline. Fergus, who still had his face buried in his hands, let out a barely audible groan. Teagan, who had been considering taking a subtle nap, decided to sit up and listen after all, a slow grin spreading over his features.

The elf in the flowing black robes made another appearance on the stage, dragging a reluctant dwarf in his wake. The dwarf mouthed silently for several moments, his ginger beard clashing terribly with the long black wig he wore precariously atop his own bald head. After receiving a sharp dig in the ribs from the elf, the dwarf sputtered out his lines.

"I am Loghain Mac Tir, a world-famous traitor! Mmm! Let me betray everything that Ferelden holds dear!"

"Boo!" encouraged the narrator from the wings. "Hiss!"

"Loghain, you erotic beast!" bellowed the six foot tall, heavily pregnant 'Florence'. "How dare you betray your king, your country and the Wardens? I am GROTESQUELY fat with babe."

" _I wasn't,"_ whispered Flora indignantly, while Alistair's jaw dropped at the application of the term _erotic beast_ to Loghain Mac Tir _._

The dwarf pulled out a tin crown from his breeches and began to stamp on it enthusiastically with both feet; the auctioneer's platform trembling beneath this substantial barrage. The narrator snarled a reminder from the wings – apparently the crown was not meant to be _destroyed,_ only _dented –_ and the dwarf hastily picked up the crumpled mess.

"ALL HAIL KING LOGHAIN!" he announced, placing the mangled crown atop the long black wig before fleeing in terror.

The narrator then announced a scene change: _"In the depths of a Korcari swamp!"_

'Florence' stalked back to the centre of the stage, one hand resting dramatically on her artificially swollen stomach. She was easily the tallest person in the production; the corded muscle in her arms straining against the confines of her sleeves. Meanwhile, the scrawny creature playing Alistair sat on the edge of the stage, staring blankly into space. It was unclear whether this was intentional, or whether he had forgotten his lines.

"That fucker Loghain has betrayed us!" announced 'Florence', glowering out at the audience. "Can you believe it, my love?"

"No," whimpered 'Alistair', then looked confused. "Or… possibly _yes?"_

From the wings then advanced a confusing spectacle: a man clad in grey sheets, with slabs of beef hung over him in long strings. A makeshift wooden mask painted with a skull was fixed lopsidedly to his face.

"He slithers onto the stage!" the new arrival announced, then realised that he was reading the stage directions. "Uh - I am Lord Darkspawn. How do you feel after your loss at Ostagar, pitiful Wardens of Ferelden?"

"You're a twat," replied 'Florence', bluntly. "Tell your boss that I'm coming for him."

Despite the general despair of her companions, Flora was strangely enchanted by this direct, no-nonsense interpretation of herself. She leaned forwards with her elbows on the empty chair before her, fascinated and bemused in equal measure.

"But what about MY royal heirs?" the scrawny incarnation of Alistair demanded, pointing a trembling finger at the pillow beneath 'Florence's' tunic. "You bear precious cargo, woman!"

"Any child of HIGHEVER is made with nerves of silverite and a will of steel!" retorted 'Florence', which predictably raised a cheer from the locals in the audience.

Despite the ridiculousness unfolding before him, any mention of his unborn children – nestled for a final few days within the safety of their mother's belly – never failed to appeal to the king's sentiment. Alistair inhaled unsteadily, then reached a discreet hand sideways to feel the swell of his queen's stomach. Flora had been idly stroking the curve herself; their fingers tangled and then clasped tightly together.

On the stage, the muscle-bound Florence Cousland was now jogging on the spot, while the elven narrator described her various travels around Thedas.

"And LO! Florence Cousland travelled first to the Circle Tower, where she begged the help of the mages!"

The pillow then fell out from the statuesque woman's tunic. Everybody – both on stage and in the audience – looked at the lump of linen wadding.

'Florence' eventually reached down – with a muttered curse – and stuffed the pillow representing her unborn children back beneath her tunic. While she irritably rearranged the artificial belly, a yawning old man in a dressing gown wandered onto the makeshift stage. He looked so bewildered that it was unclear whether he was actually part of the cast, or a bystander who had found himself inadvertently entangled in the dramatics.

"The lady Florence BEGGED the help of the MAGES," repeated the elf pointedly, nostrils fleeing.

"Chief Mage Irving!" demanded 'Florence', having given up on rearranging the pillow correctly. "Give me magic men, NOW!"

"Aye, then," said the old man, clearly bored. "Have all the magic men you want, lass."

'Florence' then pranced across the stage, the wooden boards trembling beneath her substantial weight. The pillow fell out halfway across the platform; the lady Cousland made a rude gesture in the direction of her abandoned 'children' and continued on without them. The scrawny 'Alistair', whose nose had been running nonstop, picked up the pillow and carried it in the wake of his formidable lover.

"Next – ho! – the lady Cousland visited the dwarves of Orzammar and demanded their men!" announced the narrator.

The dwarf who had played Loghain came out under duress, but without the long black wig.

"GIVE ME YOUR MEN," bellowed 'Florence', spittle flying over the heads of the audience.

"Fine," replied the dwarf, abandoning his other lines in favour of the shortest possible response. "Now get lost."

"At last - the Brecilian Forest was their final destination," announced the elf, swiftly kicking the dwarf in the shins as he exited the stage. "The lady Cousland now desired elven men to satisfy her urges!"

Flora looked somewhat nonplussed; Zevran gave her a delighted wink.

"One elven man right here, _carina!"_

The narrator now stepped forward: clearly, this was his moment of glory. He put a hand to his head, then gave a dramatic sigh.

"I be the humble leader of the forest-dwelling Dalish! Pray, what business haveth ye in mine wooded realm of slender trunks and mossy roots?"

"I want elven men," said 'Florence', grabbing the pillow off the limp-wristed Alistair and hitting him squarely round the head with it.

"Of course, you may haveth them," said the narrator, in the guise of the Dalish leader. "Not-eth a problem-eth."

There was a silence, during which 'Florence' stuffed the pillow back up her tunic and yawned. The narrator – who had immersed himself so deeply in character that he had temporarily forgotten to narrate – suddenly gave a squeak of realisation.

"Oh, it's me again! Ah- "

The elf cleared his throat, self-importantly.

"The actors will now take a short intermission," he declared, raising his eyes to the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. "To _mentally prepare ourselves_ for the trauma of acting out the Battle of Denerim. Pray, save your applause for the end of the performance, lest the deafening sound prove a distraction!"

The auctioneer's platform rapidly cleared itself of actors; while two beleaguered-looking assistants hauled the battered wooden screen back into place. There followed a stunned silence from the audience, several jaws hanging open while at least a dozen pairs of eyebrows now lodged in various hairlines. Fergus still had his face buried in his hands, a low groan emerging from between his fingers. Zevran had collapsed into a fit of barely muffled giggles, his mouth pressed against his sleeve.

"I didn't just go around asking for _men,"_ Flora said at last, bemused. "Why would I restrict my numbers in such a way? I was an _equal opportunity recruiter."_

"Well, I'm pretty sure I remember the whole _gathering the armies_ process being a _tad_ more complicated than how they portrayed it," Alistair added, unsure whether to commiserate with Fergus or join Zevran's hysterics.

"It's spectacularly bad," agreed Teagan, who still had a wide grin writ across his handsome, prematurely lined face. "But it's the most entertaining pageant I've seen in years."

" _I'm_ more interested in the identity of the pillow's father," Finian chimed in, gleefully. "Our Lady Cousland has been heavy-with-soft furnishings since the start of the show. Come on, Floss – which Circle cushion did you lie with?"

Flora did not understand her brother's jest, her brow furrowing as Zevran let out a cackle.

"I think that some of their timings are _not quite right,"_ she said, carefully.

Another muffled groan emerged from Fergus' throat. The young teyrn removed his face from his hands, wondering if it would be inappropriate to call the performance off halfway through.

"I can't believe my father used to support this company," he breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. "He must have been feeling charitable. Are either of you hugely offended?"

This last question was directed at the royal couple. Alistair snorted and shook his head amiably, while Flora gave a northerner's grunt in the negative.

"If we can make light of a bad situation, it means that it's passed," the king said, with a mild shrug. "And that we've survived it."

"I wish I were as tall and strong as the lady pretending to be me," added Flora, wistfully. "She's like a majestic tuna, and I'm a- a _guppy."_

The musicians struck up a tuneless melody once again, and Fergus gritted his teeth; willing himself to try and watch at least _part_ of the shenanigans on stage.

Sure enough, the narrator swept back onto the auctioneer's platform, and delivered a monologue to set up the scene. Unfortunately, his grandiose description of a vast battle involving tens of thousands was not quite mirrored by the accompanying dramatic depiction. 'Florence Cousland', the pillow beneath her tunic now resting on a hip, kicked the creature named _Lord Darkspawn_ in the crotch, in a manner that looked more genuine than staged. 'Alistair' yawned in the background and picked surreptitiously at his nose.

After being felled by this blow to the groin, the long-suffering _Lord Darkspawn_ donned a vast artificial head constructed from wooden struts and crimson silk. The audience was confused as to what this was meant to be, until the creature explained that it was - _obviously_ \- the Archdemon.

"Prepare to get wrecked!" bellowed 'Florence', slamming a meaty fist into her palm. The force of this caused the pillow to migrate around her body until the swollen lump protruded from her back.

"Good luck," said 'Alistair' weakly, waving from the sidelines.

The majestic Cousland then went on to fell the Archdemon in a single punch. The creature sprawled dramatically across the stage, and 'Florence' immediately hauled an unwilling 'Alistair' into her arms.

"Hurrah," said the faux king, muffled against her bosom. "The Archdemon is dead! Long live Ferelden!"

"Hurrah!"

The mismatched couple proceeded to feast on each other while the Archdemon contorted itself in dramatic death throes in the background.

"I don't remember it going _exactly_ like that," muttered Alistair darkly, recalling the sheer white terror of seeing his sister-warden face-down on the roof of Fort Drakon; and then the agony and grief as she spent three days trapped in the Fade, her physical body weakening with each passing hour.

The elven narrator pranced forwards, sensing that his time on centre stage was shortly coming to a close. With arms flung out to encompass the auctioneer's platform/stage, he took a deep gulp of air; eyelashes fluttering.

"And thus the Archdemon was slain and the Fifth Blight ended!" he bellowed, with surprising volume for such a slender man. "All hail the Lady Florence!"

The audience looked up at him in mild confusion. The elf repeated the instruction, with a vague air of menace.

" _All hail the Lady Florence!"_

The audience dutifully hailed the gargantuan woman in the red wig, who looked more interested in dragging her scrawny 'Alistair' off into the wings. Flora joined in the hailing of herself, trying not to giggle.

As the musicians played their closing refrain, the entire cast filed out onto the stage to take their bow. The elven narrator gleefully accepted the applause, his eyes sparkling with euphoria.

"Thank you! Thank you all! We are taking the production on tour in the spring – Denerim, Redcliffe and Amaranthine! So you'll _all_ get to enjoy the performance for a second time."

Half of the audience quailed in silent terror. Flora, who had quite enjoyed seeing herself portrayed as a six foot tall, profanity-spouting, crotch-kicking behemoth, clapped avidly.

"I enjoyed that," she enthused to Fergus, who looked a little less despairing as he turned blue-grey eyes towards her.

"You… you did, pup?"

"Mm!" Flora replied, honestly. "It was very interesting. And I liked the dance in the middle, although I don't remember there being much dancing during the _actual_ Blight."

The queen was referring to the traditional mid-play jig; where the entire cast had done a coordinated series of leaps, twirls and high kicks on the loudly protesting stage. Midway through, 'Florence Cousland' and _Lord Darkspawn_ had linked arms and pranced around the room together, tossing their heads like show-ponies. It was at this point that Zevran lost his composure entirely and had to excuse himself.

Fergus smiled at his sister, relief washing over his face like the incoming tide.

"Well, if you liked it, Floss – that's what matters. Now, let's head back for dinner."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ahahahaha this was a fun chapter to write, lol. Pageants were a traditional medieval form of entertainment – though I've inserted a Renaissance mid-play jig, hehehe

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	159. Deceptions

Chapter 159: Deceptions

Increasingly uncomfortable due to the weight in her belly, Flora fell asleep on the front of Alistair's saddle as they rode leisurely back towards Castle Cousland; taking the road that wound alongside the ore-tainted river. As they approached the vast, sprawling fortress, Fergus cast an anxious glance up at the sky overhead. He had told Flora that the first of the big autumnal storms was due to blow in – a convenient excuse as to why they were not departing Highever for Denerim – but the horizon was clear and cloudless. The sun descended in a wreath of crimson flame, blazing bright against a backdrop of warm, honeyed hues. The scarlet sunset signified a fine day on the morrow, and Fergus knew that his young sister could read the sky far better than any book.

"You should just tell her the reason why we plan to stay," Zevran interjected, interpreting accurately the teyrn's grimace as their horses approached the bastion towers. " _Carina_ is a reasonable girl. I am sure that she will see the logic in remaining in Highever for the birth."

The soldiers clad in Cousland livery saluted as the teyrn and company approached; straightening dutifully at their watch-posts.

"But Florence _isn't_ rational when it comes to the birth," Finian pointed out, letting the reins drop and leaning back in the saddle. The horses knew well enough where they were headed: up the wide approach, beneath the portcullis and towards the stables located in the castle's outer ward. "She's terrified of it. I swear to the Maker, she dreads labour more than she did facing the Archdemon."

"That's because she had her spirits with her back then," Alistair murmured, caressing the back of Flora's head as she snored quietly against his shoulder. The king knew that his queen had not regained the self-assurance she had once possessed as a healer; that she was wholly uncertain of what her capabilities – and capacity for braveness – were without her spirits.

"But, Alistair, surely you don't want her to risk going into labour on the road?" Fergus continued, entreatingly. "I need help coming up with more excuses as to why we aren't allowed to leave!"

Alistair fell silent, his brow furrowing. Once they had passed through the main gatehouse, both of the dual portcullises guarding the archway were dutifully lowered in their wake. As was usual, the arrival of twilight brought Castle Cousland into a state of lockdown; nothing could now trespass beyond its ancient walls.

"The babies are ready to be born," Finian piped up, suddenly. "There must be a way to… to encourage their arrival. If Floss goes into labour, departing for Denerim will be the last thing on her mind. Does anyone know how to induce the, uh, birthing process?"

Nobody did. Teagan offered a valiant suggestion on how to encourage labour in Mabari, but Alistair flatly refused to take his heavily pregnant wife out for a _light jog._ His face had been set in a conflicted grimace since Finian had suggested the idea of inducing Flora into labour. He was only permitting further discussion of the idea after recalling a comment from Wynne that it was _beneficial_ for twins to be born early – if they grew overlarge, it could lead to complications during the birth for both babes and mother.

Servants swarmed the ramparts with blazing torches, lighting braziers to ward off the encroaching darkness. As the stable hands came rushing to meet the company, Finian had an idea. Mab – the long-serving Highever midwife who had delivered two generations of Couslands – had been set up in the east tower in preparation for the delivery of the royal heirs. The venerable, steely-nerved northerner had been instructed to keep in the sequestered eastern wing, in case the queen saw her, _remembered_ her from months prior and queried why the midwife had been kept in _Highever_ rather than sent to Denerim.

As the horses came to a halt on the cobbles, the young arl hissed a plea to Ser Gilmore. The knight duly promised that he would hunt down the midwife before dinner, and extract any possible methods of inducing labour from her extensive wealth of experience.

The company ate a casual dinner in Finian's own chambers that evening, surrounded by bookshelves and writing materials. While waiting for the platters of food to be hastily relocated from the great hall – Fergus had requested a more private dinner – several members of the company inspected the shelves with nothing short of awe. The adolescent Finian had devoured materials from all four corners of Thedas; the shelves contained tomes of poetry from Antiva, Orlesian ballads on beribboned scrolls, historical annals from Nevarra, and collections of myths from Rivain.

"My dear Finian, did you _ever_ leave your chambers as a child?" Zevran enquired, flicking through a book of love sonnets from Rialto. "There is enough reading material here to saturate one's brain ten times over."

"I wasn't a great fan of the northern climate," Finian replied honestly, with a dramatic roll of his remaining eye. "Or of going _outdoors._ Remember how father used to despair, Ferg? He used to burst in here, throw open the shutters and demand that I go and get some fresh air."

Fergus laughed, the light of recollection gleaming on his prematurely lined features.

"Oh, aye. Whereas I couldn't get enough of being outdoors. Hunting, riding, archery, jousting – though never with real lances, more's the pity. Father wouldn't allow it."

"Strange how all three of you Cousland children came out so different," Wynne mused, reclining in the armchair beside the fire. "You seem to have little but your colouring in common."

Finian giggled, sweeping a leisurely finger between himself and his siblings.

"I told you before," he reminded the mage, gleefully. "Brawn – brains – beauty."

He pointed at Fergus, himself, and his sister in turn.

Alistair, who had his wife's legs draped over his thigh as he expertly massaged the day's ache from her weak knee, immediately sought to add to her qualities.

"Flo's got much more than just _beauty,"_ he piped up, loyally. "She's brave, and... benevolent. And she's blooming."

He caressed the overripe swell of his children with a tender palm, his other hand reaching up to touch Flora's forehead. She caught his fingers and clung to them, appreciative of the sentiment.

"And buxom," added Zevran, eyeing the queen's expanded cleavage with appreciation.

"And _belligerent,"_ suggested Wynne, thinking of Flora's many small obstinacies.

"And big _,"_ Flora herself added glumly, in keeping with the theme. "Bloated. Ball-like. BLOB."

The contents of the queen's belly put additional pressure on her sore limb, causing her knee to swell up more than was usual. Alistair nuzzled his face against his miserable wife's hair; catching a significant glance from Finian from the corner of his eye.

 _See,_ the young arl mouthed. _The twins need to be coaxed out somehow._

Dinner was a casual affair, plates and bowls strewn over the various flat surfaces in Finian's bedchamber. Alistair chewed absentmindedly on mouthfuls of lamb; Flora yawned and tried not to fall asleep; Finian and Zevran gleefully reenacted their favourite moments from the afternoon's pageant. Teagan and Wynne watched the younger members of the company with the sober benevolence granted by additional decades.

Halfway through a course of sweetmeats, Ser Gilmore arrived. With an entirely unnecessary air of discreetness – by this point, Flora was half-asleep, her head on Alistair's shoulder – the knight sidled across the room and whispered a carefully memorised list in young arl's ear.

Finian listened avidly, then cast Alistair a meaningful stare across the chamber. The king quickly grasped the unspoken message; carefully tipping his wife's head to the other side to rest on Teagan's shoulder.

"Keep her for a second, uncle," he entreated, striding across the chamber to where Finian was perched atop a chest.

As requested, Teagan adjusted himself to sit closer to the dozing queen, forehead furrowed as he watched the king and arl confer in hushed whispers. Alistair's eyebrows shot up at one suggestion, but nodded avidly throughout.

Moments later, Alistair had returned to his wife's side; armed with newly gained knowledge and a steely determination. As Flora yawned and rubbed a hand over her bleary eyes, the king retrieved a small bowl of the spiciest delicacy that had been brought up – figs, soaked in Antivan pepper oil.

"Try this, baby," he murmured, in his sweetest and most entreating tones.

Parting her lips, still more asleep than awake, Flora sleepily accepted a fig placed on her tongue. After a few seconds, she coughed and shot him an accusatory glower. Tears, prompted by the peppery heat, had sprung to the corner of her eyes; her nose had begun to run involuntarily.

"Ugh! Did you mean to feed that to _Zevran?"_ she croaked, wiping her tongue unceremoniously on her sleeve. "Eurgh, blagh."

"I wish!" piped up Zevran wistfully, having just swallowed three peppered figs without flinching.

"I thought you might… enjoy it," Alistair said weakly, thin threads of guilt running through his words. "Sorry, my love. I… I hope it hasn't caused any side-effects? Like…. _contractions?"_

Flora shook her head and shot him a look of characteristically solemn disapproval.

"Only a sore tongue," she replied, sternly. "Ow."

In slight desperation, Alistair decided to employ the other suggestion of the midwife. Curling his fingers around his wife's waist, he leaned forward and put his face to her neck; pressing his lips to the warm softness of her skin. Flora smiled sideways at him, tilting her head to let him nuzzle against her.

A second later, the smile dropped rapidly from Flora's face as he whispered a proposition into her ear.

"But… I feel like a blobfish," she replied, miserably. "And last night, we couldn't even find an angle to _make_ it work."

This protest emerged at an unfortunate moment when the rest of the company had fallen silent. Zevran giggled while Finian cleared his throat; flailing elegant fingers just to the side.

"Fergus' chamber is just next door, if you want some _privacy,"_ he suggested with a discreet and meaningful look at the royal couple.

Fergus mouthed in silent protest, while Wynne raised exasperated eyes to the wood-beamed ceiling.

The weary Flora – complete with swollen stomach, full bladder, aching back, sore knee and heartburn – turned plaintive eyes on her husband. Alistair immediately felt even more remorseful than he had done when feeding her the spicy figs, putting both arms about his best friend and kissing her on the side of the head.

"Sorry, sweetheart. It – it was a foolish suggestion of mine… please, forgive me!"

Flora – genuinely distraught at the fact that it was now physically challenging to lie with her husband – huddled herself tightly into his embrace. The king held his wife and decided to abandon the rest of Finian's suggestions – reasoning to himself that the babes were _sure_ to come in their own time, either the next day, or the day after.

The servants came in to clear away the plates as evening drew in, refilling the logs in the hearth and bringing round tankards of honeyed mead. The evening unrolled itself rapidly across the north in a thick carpet of cloud; to Fergus' relief, the clear, red sunset of earlier appeared to have been atmospheric deception. Both moon and stars were hidden behind the shifting mists, plunging Highever into a suffocating darkness that the braziers struggled to keep at bay.

Wynne retired to her room with the excuse that she wanted to finish scribing her letter to Leliana. Now that the royal couple were safely ensconced within the castle for the night, Fergus took the two Mabari down to the kennels with him. He wanted them to take part in the night's training exercises to set a good example for Cod and Lobster; who learned best through mimicking their elders.

Finian and Zevran also made their excuses – which was rather amusing in itself, since what remained of the company was still gathered in Finian's own chamber. The two disappeared from the arl's quarters, headed towards the room assigned to the elf.

Soon, only Teagan, Flora and Alistair were left within the chamber. As he had done throughout their journey, Teagan was quietly educating Alistair on one of the most common issues that came up for discussion in the Landsmeet. On this particular evening they were discussing enclosure; the fencing off of common land to repurpose it for livestock. Alistair was listening with brow furrowed, asking the occasional question.

Flora had made a valiant effort to listen too, but soon – against her intentions - found herself falling asleep in the armchair before the hearth. Not wanting to waste the evening, she asked Alistair where her writing materials were kept.

"Can you not find something to write on in here, petal?" Teagan asked, sweeping an arm around at the myriad books and sheafs of parchment.

"I started a letter to Oghren," Flora replied, shaking her head. "I want to finish it. And I also want to stretch out my knee; it's aching from being still for too long."

Alistair had just opened his mouth to volunteer to fetch the letter. Instead, when he made to accompany her, Flora put out a hand.

"A guard will come with me," she assured him, earnestly. "And our chamber is just down the corridor. Please, keep talking about the sheep and the fences."

Alistair nodded, slowly descending after half-rising from his seat. He reached out a hand to his wife as she waddled slowly past him, snaring her fingers and bringing them to his mouth.

"I adore you, my lovely Lo. Your letter to Oghren is in my saddlebag."

"I love you," she replied, beaming down at him. "Thank you."

Alistair watched the guards like a hawk as Flora left the room – sure enough, one of them dutifully followed in the queen's wake.

The servants had already visited the royal bedchamber, lighting the torches and refuelling the hearth with aromatic cedar. The blankets and furs on the bed had been freshly changed, and the room felt warm and welcoming. Nightclothes for the royal couple were draped over an armchair – including a set of pyjamas in red Mac Eanraig tartan for the queen.

Flora, eyeing the soft lambswool of the night-garb, decided to change before retrieving the letter. The guard averted decorous eyes as the queen manoeuvred herself into the tartan pyjamas, and then her faithful - and hideous - mustard yellow dressing robe.

Feeling more comfortable than she had done all day, Flora's gaze alighted on the saddle-bag resting on a table near the hearth. Retrieving it, she unfastened the strap and began to riffle through the sheaves of parchment within. Correspondence from the entire progress had been stored inside the leather pouch; damp and clumped together in some approximation of chronological order. Flora ignored everything that was addressed to Alistair alone – she was as familiar with the shape of his name as she was with her own – intent on finding her letter to Oghren.

After a few minutes, she caught sight of something peculiar – a letter marked with the distinct ink-stamp of a griffon. Flora blinked in confusion, recognising the symbol immediately.

 _That's the emblem of the Grey Wardens,_ she thought to herself, perplexed. _Are these more of Duncan's?_

As Flora reached out to flick through the letters – there were at least a dozen of them – she caught sight of the names written at the top. Each letter was addressed to both king _and_ queen, scribed in Loghain's spidery and slanted hand.

More perplexed than anything else, Flora drew out the clump of letters. Some were little more than brief notes of a line or two; others were densely-packed sides of parchment. The writing, scrawled across the page, was too difficult for her to read.

 _D…D-a- …. D, a, r, k –_

 _Darkspawn?_

Her brow creased itself into a frown as she leafed through each letter in turn, the same word leaping out at her as if branded into the parchment.

 _Darkspawn. Darkspawn. Darkspawn._

With nausea in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with the babes, the queen held out the sheaf of letters in a trembling hand; her pale eyes settling on the guard.

"Please," she said, polite and utterly resolute. "Read them to me."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Uh oooohhhhhhhhhhhh! Flora's about to find out that the events of Awakening have been transpiring in the background of their progress :O Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	160. The Futile Search For Compassion

Chapter 160: The Futile Search For Compassion

A half-candle later, Alistair and Teagan had just finished a bottle of honeyed mead between them. It was not a particularly potent alcohol, but the king was growing emotional regardless; musing aloud on his current fortunes. A pair of servants had restocked the hearth, and the thick, aromatic scent of burning wood drifted through the room, making both men drowsy.

"This time tomorrow, the twins could be here," Alistair said out loud into the perfumed air, near-incredulous. "I – I could be a _father._ Maker's Breath."

Teagan, who had enjoyed twenty years as a confirmed bachelor, suddenly felt a peculiar twinge; a faint tremor of regret rippling through him that he had not chosen to pursue a more domestic path in life.

Alistair caught sight of this barely distinguishable flicker across his uncle's face, and – with rare insight – understood somewhat what the older man was feeling.

"They'll need someone knowledgeable to teach them about horses," the king said, softly. "Odds are, at least one of them is bound to enjoy riding."

Teagan grinned, draining the last dregs from his mead-cup.

"If they take after you, possibly," he replied, replacing the cup on the table. "Flora doesn't seem to have much of an affinity with horses."

Alistair opened his mouth to respond, and then the door opened; pushed with a shove that swung it back against the stone wall. Both men startled, half-rising to their feet as they swivelled to see who had made such a dramatic entrance. It was Flora, visibly agitated, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed; barefoot in the Mac Eanraig tartan pyjamas and the ugly mustard dressing robe.

Alistair pushed himself fully to his feet, rising from the armchair in alarm.

"Sweetheart," he began. "What's wrong- "

Then the king's eyes fell on the clump of letters in her hand, and he felt the pit of his stomach give a sickening lurch.

"Alistair," Flora whispered, a note of raw pleading in her tone. "I- I don't understand. There… there are still Darkspawn in Ferelden? _Talking_ Darkspawn? What's the _Architect?_ Who was the _Mother?"_

She stared at him, her pale eyes searching his face desperately for some reasonable explanation that would somehow make everything make sense.

"My love," Alistair breathed, horrified that she had found out in such a hapless and unintended manner. "It's all resolved now. The Wardens have purged the Blackmarsh and the leaders of the Darkspawn are slain. It's all over."

Flora took a deep and unsteady breath, twisting her rings around her finger.

"Some of those letters go back _months._ Before we were even married," she said, her voice trembling like a plucked lute string. "Why… why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want you to worry," Alistair replied, earnest and impassioned. "Sweetheart, you've had a difficult childbearing and the midwife said that you should avoid stress. I was trying to protect you – and our family!"

"But I was the _Warden-Commander_ ," Flora protested, her words now quivering dangerously. "Once, anyway. I – I ended the Blight! I killed the Archdemon. I _should_ have been told!"

Her gaze slid sideways to Teagan, who met her stare with apologetic silence. The queen could tell from Teagan's quiet grimace that the bann knew _exactly_ what had occurred with the Darkspawn. She guessed that most of their company had known, and this stung like the ragged barbs of a northern thistle.

"Did _everyone_ know apart from me?" she breathed, appalled and reaching out a hand to the back of a chair to keep herself steady.

The quietness that followed provided Flora with all the answer that she needed. She inhaled tremulously; flinching as though she had been struck square in the face by the realisation. Alistair, face contorted in distress, took a step towards her and she recoiled.

"I was trying to _protect_ you, Flora!" he repeated, guilt and defensiveness running in equal measure through his words. "I didn't want you to worry. I – and the Wardens – handled the situation. Please, darling – come and sit down. It's not healthy for you to get so worked up."

If Flora had been in a more rational state of mind, she most likely would have acquiesced; but her delicate balance of nerves and hormonally-unbalanced emotion had been thrown into disarray by the discovery. She was suddenly very cold, despite the thick wool of the pyjamas and dressing gown.

"I thought you wanted me to be your _queen,_ not just your mistress _,"_ she whispered, feeling tears break away from her eyelashes and slither down her cheeks. "What was the point of marrying me if you won't tell me about your problems?"

"I married you because I _adore_ you, Flo!" Alistair replied, his eyes bruised with dismay. "I wanted you on the throne at my side."

"Then you should have _told_ me! How can I call myself _queen_ of a country if I don't know what's happening in it?"

Alistair was silent for a moment and Teagan was about to interject gently; when Flora turned on her heel and stormed out like a ship in full sail, hair trailing down her back.

" _Don't_ follow me!"her voice drifted tearfully in her wake. "I am _very cross!"_

The door slowly swung shut in her wake. The air in the room felt flat and drained after the expenditure of the queen's emotion, and Alistair let out a long, unsteady breath; passing a hand over his face.

"Shit," he said, at a loss for anything else to say.

"Give her a few moments before you go after her," Teagan advised, reaching for the mead bottle. "Have a swallow of this."

"I was _going_ to tell her, Teagan. Once the twins were safely here!"

"I know, son."

"She's _'very cross'!"_

"Aye, for now. But she won't stay that way."

Meanwhile, Flora had just snapped at the guards; instructing them bluntly not to pursue her down the corridor. Helpless, the two soldiers glanced at one another – but ultimately they were _Theirin_ retainers, not Cousland, and Alistair's word superseded that of his wife. Unfortunately, by the time that they had hurried along the passage and into the wending circular stairwell, there was no sign of the queen. She appeared to have vanished into thin air – a seemingly impossible feat, considering her size and the lurid mustard wool of the dressing robe. Yet nothing lay before them save for a staircase, a cobwebbed suit of armour and several fading tapestries hanging against the limestone walls.

Flora, driven by instinct more than conscious thought, had not disappeared – she had used one of the multiple back passages that was known to only loyal servants and members of the Cousland family. Her memory had flickered to life at exactly the right moment – as the footsteps of the guards echoed behind her, she tugged back a large tapestry of a hunting scene. A wooden door lay behind the innocuous length of embroidered wool; to Flora's relief, it yielded easily to a gentle shove.

The passage beyond was narrow, cold and deliberately left unlit. To compensate for the lack of illumination, slender openings had been made high in the wall on one side, letting in thin slivers of moonlight.

 _I've been down here before,_ Flora thought to herself in wonderment as she inhaled the musty air. _More than once._

 _I think I hid from someone in this passageway. My parents?_

 _I don't think so. Who was that old woman that Finian mentioned – Nan?_

 _Someone chased me down this corridor too. I don't think it was my brothers. I … I think it might have been King Cailan._

 _Or prince, as he would have been then._

Flora shivered inwardly, still taken aback by this strange, tenuous connection between herself and Alistair's half-brother. If circumstances had been but a little different, she would have grown up to be the elder Theirin's queen; sitting on the throne alongside Cailan and bearing his children.

Putting this odd thought from her mind, she continued along the corridor, which crept quietly around the rear of the Cousland quarters. Small wooden doors led to the chambers belonging to various members of the family – first Finian's, and then Fergus'. Flora paused outside a nondescript wooden door, a strange ripple of emotion passing through her like a cool ocean current.

 _What's behind here?_ she thought to herself, perplexed, straining to remember. _It seems so familiar._

Unbeknownst to Flora, beyond this final wooden door lay the nursery in which she had lived, played and slept for the duration of five years. After she had been smuggled out of Highever and her brief existence snuffed out like a guttering candle, the room had been transformed into a storage room for linens and blankets.

Yet Flora did not remember the door's significance and so carried on, reaching a staircase that wound its way down into the depths of Castle Cousland. For a moment, she hesitated, wondering what to do.

 _I should go back. Alistair will be worried._

But the queen was still cross, hurt and indignation mingling together nauseatingly in the pit of her stomach. The fact that she had been kept ignorant – wholly in the dark – about the peril that Ferelden had fleetingly found itself in was a bitter draught to swallow; considering the fundamental role she had played in ending the Blight.

Instead, to distract herself, Flora decided to investigate something which she had been wondering about since learning the true identity of her old spirit, Valour. A small part of her wondered if her _other_ spirit – the soft-spoken, and yet much more powerful _Compassion –_ was also some long-lost Cousland ancestor. Although reason suggested that this would be much harder to confirm, since Compassion wore diaphanous floating veils and had a benevolent, grinning skull-face, Flora was still determined to pursue this line of thought to its conclusion.

She remembered an off-hand comment that Fergus had made the previous day, about the old family portraits and tapestries kept in storage. He had mentioned that many of them were kept in the cellars of Ferelden Tower, the vast, reinforced bastion that had resisted multiple Orlesian attempts to besiege it.

 _Ferelden Tower,_ Flora thought to herself, taking the stair one laborious step at a time. _Do I know how to get there? I think so._

It was a peculiar thing: to rely on a sense of direction that was innate rather than learned. Instinct drove her down a certain corridor or passageway; prompted her to turn at particular junctions; guided her to leave a staircase at a certain level. Sometimes, the layout was not quite as Flora recalled it – a corridor had crumbled away into misuse, or a stairwell roped off for repair – but she always managed to get herself back on track, led by this inexplicable internal compass.

Soon afterwards, she emerged on a high rampart above the inner ward; the sky a vast, starless expanse overhead. The sole source of illumination came from the gleaming lantern of the moon, which bathed the battlements in a silvery, silken light. Ferelden Tower – from which her grandfather, William Cousland, had once taunted the _chevaliers_ of Orlais – loomed before her; a vast behemoth of solid stone and little decoration.

The guards at the rampart entrance seemed astonished at her arrival. However, they were so intimidated by this pale-eyed girl with Bryce Cousland's colouring, sporting her dual mantle of regality and heroism; that they did not dare to question her. The door was duly unlocked and the queen ushered inside, politely declining the croaked offer of accompaniment.

 _Where are you, Golden Lady?_ Flora thought to herself, sneezing at the dank mustiness of the tower interior. _Who were you?_

She located a spiral staircase – steep, and tightly wound, intended to repel invaders – and began to make her way down. Each step was an effort in her current condition and she kept one hand on the mildewed wall to steady herself.

 _A talking Darkspawn. How is that possible?_

 _Why did no one tell me?_

 _Is it because I'm useless now? Am I really just 'the Vase' now?_

The hurt came as a pang in Flora's gut – so strong that she paused midway down the stair, just long enough to ascertain whether it was a _physical_ pain or just an emotional one.

 _No,_ she realised after a moment, swallowing a hard lump in her throat. _It's not physical._

The queen took a deep and steadying breath, continuing to inch her way into the gloomy depths of Ferelden Tower; fooling herself that she could still afford the recklessness that had once come with the protection of her spirits.

The air grew mustier as she descended, the light dimming in slow increments. A lone torch smouldered from an iron bracket, leaving an ashen trail against the plastered wall. The building had a portentous sense of _age_ that hung in the air like a veil of cobweb; Ferelden Tower was the oldest part of Castle Cousland, and nearly six hundred years old.

Flora was beginning to have some second thoughts about her decision to descend into the cellar of the Tower. Although she no longer had her spirits whispering in her ears, her own rationale was lecturing her with every step she descended.

 _Go back to the others. What if you slip and fall? What if the babies decide to come?_

She was just about to turn around and make her way laboriously back up the steps, when something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. The winding staircase ended in a shadowed cellar just around the next twist; against the wall, she could see a tantalising glimpse of a golden picture frame. There were several stacked together, loosely wrapped in muslin to protect them from the damp.

 _This is where the old paintings are kept,_ she thought, recalling Fergus' off-hand comment from the previous day. _This is where I'll find Compassion._

 _If they're here at all,_ chided the voice of reason, sternly. _And how would you recognise them? Compassion was a floating skeleton clad in veils._

But Flora was still upset from the revelation of the remaining Darkspawn within Ferelden, and was not inclined to listen to reason. She advanced further into the depths of the cellar. Rather than one large cavernous space, it seemed to be a warren of smaller interconnected chambers, lit by several torches burning low in their brackets. A chill hung in the air, and the queen pulled the unravelling sleeves of the mustard dressing gown further down her arms; grateful for its woollen warmth.

There were paintings stacked in piles against the plastered walls, seemingly haphazard. Flora waddled across the chamber and came to a halt beside them, lifting the muslin veil of the front painting. A large, stern-faced man with a drooping crimson moustache glowered out at her. If Flora had been able to read the inscribed plaque affixed to the frame, she would have seen that this was _William Cousland;_ the lord who defied the Orlesians by barricading himself within Ferelden Tower. He was also Flora's own grandfather, though long dead before even Fergus was born.

Flora eased the first canvas back, sneezing as a plume of dust rose up from the muslin cloth. The second canvas, narrow and oblong with an ornately carved bronze frame, depicted a Mabari. The dog had a vast paw – almost the size of a side-platter – resting squarely atop a slaughtered rabbit; and a look of triumph on its whiskered features.

The hairs on the back of the queen's neck rose suddenly, and for no discernible reason. There was a soft sigh of musty air, as though the cellar of the ancient tower had exhaled a long-held breath.

Flora looked over her shoulder, her heart seizing irrationally in her chest. There was nothing behind her, save for the torch flickering in its iron bracket, and the bottom of the winding stairwell. Brushing a stray cobweb from her hair, she turned back to the stacked paintings.

 _This is a hopeless endeavour,_ her reason informed her, sternly. _What are the chances that Compassion too was some ancestor of yours? Even if they were, how are you meant to recognise them?_

From some distant, far corner of the cellars came the distinct sound of earth moving; of a boot scuffed accidentally against the dirt. Flora turned her head towards the strange noise, her brow creasing. At that exact moment, the flickering torch behind her was extinguished. The cellars were plunged into a strange, watery semi-darkness; the stacked portraits and old heirlooms throwing long and unfamiliar shadows across the tight-packed dirt.

The queen, alarmed, lifted a hand in a reflexive summons. Yet no light erupted from her slender fingers; each nail-bitten length silhouetted against the darkness. She turned around, squinting towards the greyish square that fell at the base of the stairwell.

Something shifted in the mass of shadows to either side of her, moving with a fleetness that belied the bulk of their limbs. Flora turned as best as she was able, weighed down by the mass of her own swollen stomach, her heart surging forwards in a leap of panic. Suddenly, a strange, almost sulphurous smell drifted its way towards her. Oddly, it reminded Flora of the pungent aftermath of a spell being cast, but her eye had not been caught by any flicker of arcane conjuration.

Instead, a peculiar, diaphanous substance drifted towards her, a mist with an oily, olive sheen to it. It crept lazily across the earthen floor of the subterranean cellar, slow and sinister; more malevolent than any haze rolling in from the sea. Flora stared at it, wondering for a split-second if it were some odd exhalation of the ground. She had heard of mystical caves that exhaled vapours – Wynne had told her about a famous grotto in the east that Andraste had visited – but the cellar of a manmade tower did not seem to carry any prodigious significance.

Then her eyes began to water; her throat began to itch; worst of all, her mind began to feel fatally sluggish. Drowsiness settled over her like a fire-warmed blanket, and the dimensions of the cellar began to distort themselves around her. The stack of portraits stretched outward and became liquid puddles on the earth, the stairway contorted itself like a snake; Flora felt her legs weaken beneath her.

" _Don't let her fall,"_ she heard one hiss from behind her.

" _Steady, steady her! That's precious cargo."_

Flora felt strong, unkind fingers anchor themselves around her arms, while her consciousness drained away like a cracked basin. Her skull felt as though it were stuffed with spun silk, filmy and diaphanous, and not capable of coordinating any type of reaction. By the time that the queen of Ferelden had sunk clumsily to her knees, the cellar was rapidly submerging itself in a clouded void.

" _Get rid of that fuckin' yellow coat, Leske. It's deliverin' me a headache just lookin' at it."_

" _Eh, can't believe we didn't even need to go wanderin' round the castle – our prize come straight to us!"_

She glimpsed faces above her – strange and featureless, until they removed the masks that had protected them from the vaporised sleeping draught. Then even they slid slowly into oblivion as the world dissipated in shades of grey.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Uh oh, lol! You didn't think that the birth itself was going to be the dramatic climax of this story, did you? :P Flo's in no mental condition to give birth at the moment – she's terrified, and full of self-doubt. I think a nice bit of Adventure Time with the Carta will help give her the backbone she needs, hehe

The secret passage around the rear of the Cousland chambers is the same one that the canon Cousland origin would have escaped out of with Duncan while the castle was under attack from Howe's forces.

Flo is still in the habit of talking to herself, even if only her own mind is replying to her now. Also, her standard mode of movement is now waddling like a duck, lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	161. The Missing Queen

Chapter 161: The Missing Queen

As the unconscious queen of Ferelden was being smuggled out of Castle Cousland through the tunnels that connected Ferelden Tower and Highever – the century-old supply line that had allowed William Cousland and his household to withstand an Orlesian siege for weeks – there was a small commotion in the Mabari kennels, three hundred yards east. Cod and Lobster, with almost preternatural awareness, had begun a chorus of panicked, high-pitched yaps; limbs that they were still growing into flailing as they scampered around Fergus' boots. The Royal hounds peered down at the agitated puppies with thoughtful, measured stares; their ears pricked.

The teyrn frowned, crouching down to reassure the young dogs.

"Here," he murmured, scratching one behind its velvet ear. "Calm down. What's the matter?"

Cod let out a whine, gazing up at Fergus with anxious, liquid-dark eyes. The teyrn's brow creased in perplexion; he gave both pups a final pat on the head before returning upright. The palace hounds had headed towards the kennel entrance, turning to stare pointedly at the teyrn. They had spent the past two candle-lengths training with the young puppies that would soon be travelling with them to Denerim; both Mabari were keen to return to their royal charges.

"Alright," Fergus replied in response to an impatient whine. "Let's get back to them, then."

The teyrn made his way through the castle towards Cousland Tower, pleased to note that everything appeared to be in order. The smell of baking bread drifted through the courtyard, ready for the breaking of the fast the next morning. Various servants with baskets of wood bowed dutifully as they passed their master, on their way to refuel some dying hearth. When Fergus raised his eyes to the ramparts, he could see the dim lanterns of a guard patrol bobbing along the high ramparts.

 _The castle is secure,_ he thought to himself, then repeated the sentence like a silent litany. _My brother and sister are safe within its walls._

The teyrn noticed that the royal hounds had picked up their pace; trotting towards the small, heavily guarded door at the base of the family tower. One officer dutifully swung the door open, the other shifting his pike in a gesture of respect.

As Fergus entered the base of the winding stairwell, his attention was drawn to the landings overhead. The acoustics of the circular stair carried down the sounds of raised voices and rapid footsteps from above; a thin vein of urgency palpable in the air.

The teyrn increased his speed to match that of the hounds as he strode up the steps. Two servants flattened themselves against the wall as he charged past them, with barely enough time to bob into a bow. Fergus' heart was thudding irrationally hard against his rib cage, even as his logical mind beseeched him to calm down.

 _The guards are patrolling the ramparts. The gates are all down. The drawbridge is up. There's nothing that can get in or out._

Just as he reached the floor of the Cousland bedchambers, a sudden thought occurred to the teyrn – the seemingly obvious explanation for all the urgent activity and indistinct conversation.

 _Flossie is in labour! Finally!_

A grin spreading over his face, Fergus took the last curve of steps two at a time, emerging onto the landing from which passages branched like the spokes of a wheel. The landing was a wide, circular balcony with a lofty ceiling reaching up to the tower rafters; yet the quantity of people clustered there made the space seem cramped and claustrophobic.

Teagan and Zevran were both at Alistair's side, the bann with a hand on the young king's shoulder as he tried to calm him. Alistair was visibly distraught, his jaw taut in steely dismay even as his fingers worked themselves compulsively at his sides. Finian, whose face was fixed in a somewhat rictus grin, was hovering nearby. Wynne, who had been interrupted in the middle of scribing a letter, stood with parchment in her hand and a smudge of ink on her finely wrinkled cheek.

As soon as Alistair caught sight of the teyrn, he shook off Teagan's hand and strode across the landing; face falling as he saw that Flora was not at her brother's side.

"Have you seen Flo?" he demanded, a raw note of worry thrumming beneath the words.

"Not since dinner," Fergus replied, a line creasing itself into his brow as he realised that the cause of such urgent activity was _not_ his sister's labour. "I thought she was with you."

The royal hounds stood poised and alert, ears pricked and hackles raised; aware that something was _not quite right._

Alistair let out a half-groan, dragging his fingers over his face.

"Maker's Breath," he breathed, barely above a whisper. "I was praying that she was with _you_. Where in the fel _is_ she?"

"This is her _home,"_ piped up Finian, entirely unhelpfully. "She's probably just having a wander around. _Refamiliarising_ herself. I'd wager that she's lost track of time, that's all."

The elf caught Fergus' eye, the scepticism bright within his own stare.

"I'm sure that's what she's doing," Teagan said at last; entertaining the young arl's suggestion to delay thoughts of the unthinkable. "It'd just be good to… to set eyes on her. It's getting late."

Alistair nodded, the corner of his mouth twisting in sudden distress.

"Now is the time when I usually rub the evening's ache from Flo's knee," he said, in a voice worn thin from anxiety. "Otherwise, the joint swells up and causes her pain."

The teyrn took a deep breath, willing himself not to overreact. Reason suggested that his younger sister was somewhere within the confines of the castle; that she had ventured into some gallery or great hall on a journey of recollection.

"Have you tried the kitchen?" he demanded, thinking on how Flora had routinely visited the domain of the cooks at both South Reach and Denerim Castle. "What about the portrait gallery? She might have gone in search of more paintings of our family."

"We've tried both," replied Wynne, softly. The old mage was refusing to submit to fear at this stage, but her fingers were twisting compulsively at her sleeves. _"Nobody_ has seen her, Fergus- "

"Then let's use the dogs," Fergus interrupted, even as the two royal hounds raised their heads. "No matter what corner of the castle she's squirrelled herself away in, they'll find her."

The Mabari pricked their ears towards the king, awaiting the royal instruction. Alistair nodded, hope dawning like the rising sun on his handsome features.

"Find the queen."

The hounds had learnt the queen's scent well-enough; they did not need to put their sensitive noses to any item of her clothing. Besides, the Cousland had been firmly imprinted upon the king over the course of the day – their palms clasped, mouths pressed together, her weight resting on his lap. Flora's smell – sea-salt, northern rain, and the subtle, distinct scent of her body – had left invisible markers over her husband.

Immediately, both dogs loped off down one of the branching spokes of the corridor. The royal company and the two remaining Couslands followed in their wake, boots echoing against the flagstones.

They followed the hounds out of Cousland Tower and onto the high rampart overlooking the inner ward. In the distance, the Waking Sea seethed quietly to itself; shrouded by a thick veil of mist. Despite being invisible, the fuming mass of water was still _audible,_ gnawing away angrily at the base of the cliffs below. The stars overhead were muted, faint pinpricks of light behind a greyish layer of cloud. The northern coast did not look at its most friendly on this cool, autumnal evening, the senior enchanter shivered and wished she had brought her cloak.

They bypassed the entrance to the tower that led to the kitchens; the dogs giving the doorway a cursory sniff before trotting onwards. The Cousland pennants fluttered restless against the towers, teased by an irritable wind; Zevran flinched at each unexpected flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. A bitter taste had begun to pool beneath his tongue, as though he had taken a single bite of a poisoned _miguelito._

As they strode along the high battlements, words came spilling in a tangle from the king's mouth as he relayed the evening's earlier events to Fergus. The teyrn already knew about the Darkspawn threat – after all, much of it had transpired within his brother's new arling – and the Wardens' efforts to neutralise it. He grimaced at learning the clumsy nature of Flora's discovery, and her subsequent distress; but sought to reassure the guilty, anxious young king.

"Alistair, you're a father above all other obligation," he said, the word still painful as it emerged from his throat. "Of course you were driven to protect the mother of your children from news that might unsettle her."

Wynne cleared her throat, quiet and pointed.

"We women are not quite as weak in our childbearing state as you men might believe," she countered, a sternness in her sky-coloured eyes. "In fact, I seem to recall that Flora herself slew the Archdemon while five months heavy with babe."

The men in the company were silent, thinking on the senior enchanter's words.

A long shadow fell over them as they approached the vast, squat behemoth of Ferelden Tower, the largest and oldest bastion of Castle Cousland. The Mabari hounds trotted straight to the doorway and began to whine; ears prickled and hackles risen.

"Ferelden Tower?" Finian breathed, his pale brow creased with confusion. "This relic? Why in the Maker's name would Floss want to come here? It contains naught but dust and spiders."

Impatient to set eyes on his wife, Alistair strode forwards and gave the door a shove. It swung open, revealing an unassuming and cavernous hollow within; a spiral stair winding downwards in one corner. There was a musty scent in the air, a combination of damp and neglect. It was impossible to maintain all parts of a castle at once, and Castle Cousland was no exception; this oldest tower was in poor condition and in much need of repair.

"Need to get that roof fixed," Fergus muttered, half to himself, as he cast an eye upwards. Sure enough, there were a dozen gaps in the rafters, moonlight filtering through in narrow beams.

The Mabari ignored the rest of the floor, both hounds heading straight for the spiral staircase that disappeared into the depths of the tower. Alistair's olive brow creased in dismay as he followed close behind, his gaze sweeping over the tightly twisted stair.

"But, this is _dangerous_ for Flo," he said, voice rising in dismay. "She shouldn't be navigating steps like this in her condition."

"I'm surprised she was even able to _fit,"_ added Finian, and there was no snideness in his voice – just a genuine surprise. The constrictions of the staircase were _very_ narrow in places, and his sister now had the dimensions of a ball.

"What's even _down_ here?" Alistair called, his voice echoing up as he descended the steps two at a time. "Maker's Breath, you were right, Finn - it's _full_ of spiders."

"Nothing but old furniture in storage," replied Fergus, then blinked in sudden realisation. "And _paintings."_

"Flossie's probably looking for more Cousland ancestors," added his brother, immediately. "After all, she wants to learn about her heritage."

 _Or she's looking for Compassion in the faces of her forebears,_ thought the more realistic of Flora's companions.

Wynne brought up the rear of the group at a more measured pace, taking the staircase with caution. The others followed the king, squinting and slowing as the shadow consumed their vision. Zevran had prepared himself for the submersion into the gloom, keeping one eye closed from their first entrance into the tower. Now, as they descended into the rich darkness of the cellar, he opened this eye and was afforded some degree of vision.

The space, divided with squat pillars and smudged with shadow, was filled with odd shapes and silhouettes that set warning bells ringing in the elf's head. It took him a moment of quick appraisal to realise that these shadows belonged to items piled up against the walls – the paintings that Fergus had mentioned, along with old suits of armour, rusting shields, leather-bound chests and all sorts of ancestral detritus.

The torches fixed at either side of the door had been extinguished; smudges of charcoal left on the walls in the wake of flame. As Wynne entered - bringing up the rear – she waved her hand in a quick gesture from side to side. The torches sprang to life once again, casting a mellow, inconstant glow into the darkness.

As soon as there was sufficient light to see by, Alistair strode forward into the recesses of the cellar, raising his voice as he called out for his wife.

"Flo? _Flora!"_

The next utterance of her name dissolved into a sputtering cough. The others glanced at each other, bemused, before striding forwards. Finian was next to cough, a faint and acrid tingle at the back of his throat. Teagan wiped at his streaming eyes impatiently, muttering a curse under his breath.

"Ah, Maker! What in Andraste's name is _that?"_

Zevran's sharp eyes – barely affected by the subdued light – had focused on several oily, greenish grey smears that had been left on the earthen floor. Advancing with an utterly expressionless face, he stooped and touched a finger to the remnants of strange residue. A quick sniff later, and the elf's worst suspicions were confirmed.

"As I thought," he said, soft enough that the others had to step closer to hear him. "It is the remains of a sleeping draught, somehow made into a vapour. I have heard that it is possible with the right combination of chemicals."

There was a short moment of disbelieving silence; during which the colour drained in slow increments from Alistair's face.

"A – a _sleeping draught?"_ he said, in a voice that did not sound anything like his own. "But – why? I don't understand. Someone's used a _sleeping draught_ here?"

"It's not possible," interjected Fergus, in a voice both flat and hollow. "Nobody can get into the castle. The security here is unparalleled – I've made _sure_ of it. The portcullis is down, the gates are bolted, every man here bears scars to prove his loyalty- "

But Zevran's keen eyes had spotted something else, crumpled on the floor in a distant corner of the cellar. Without a word, he headed towards it; following the faintest movement of air. The others were close on his heels, a terrible and disbelieving silence draped over them like a shroud.

As they approached, the object became clear. Alistair took in a sudden, strangled gulp of air, the shocked inhalation of one felled by a sly dagger slipped between the ribs. He did not remember shoving the elf aside, nor covering the remaining distance in a heartbeat. His hands dropped to the ground, grabbing up two fistfuls of lurid mustard wool. As he held it up, the garment hung in the air like a pennant; the ugly dressing gown that Flora had been strangely attached to. Now the robe drooped limp and miserable, devoid of its plump-bellied contents; its collar torn off from the carelessness of removal.

To the others arriving a heartbeat later, the fate of their former Warden suddenly became horrifically clear. Rubble spilled out from behind a stack of barrels; revealing the entrance to a recently excavated tunnel. In a previous Age, William Cousland had defied the besieging Orlesians by having supplies smuggled in from Highever through secret passages hewn through the bedrock; now, many decades later, the Carta had reopened the tunnel in order to infiltrate Castle Cousland and pluck their victim from beneath the nose of her family, husband and companions.

The remaining colour drained from Alistair's face; his rich olive skin now a sallow, cadaverous grey. He swayed on the spot and Teagan strode forward to grip his elbow, steadying the king so that he remained upright.

"It's not possible," Fergus said, and then said it again; the words emerging thin and pained. _"It's not possible._ Nothing can get into the castle without me knowing about it."

Zevran, his face like a death-mask, ducked to peer down the hollowed out tunnel, aware that the trail would have long since gone cold. The chemical residue left in the wake of the sleeping-vapour had confounded the Mabari hounds' sense of smell; they paced the confines of the cellar, whining anxiously.

"Where's my wife?" the king spoke into the darkness of the cellar, with a voice thoroughly unlike his own. "Uncle, where is she?"

Teagan opened his mouth and then closed it helplessly, unsure what to say. He continued to grip Alistair by the elbow, sensing that the young man was not entirely stable on his legs.

"Where's – my – _wife?"_

Meanwhile Finian, despite the blood running cold in his veins like water from the Waking Sea, looked about him and saw that he was the only Cousland left in any state of coherency. Fergus was rapidly turning the same ailing shade as Alistair; struck dumb with horror that – for the second time in a _year –_ the castle had been penetrated by the enemy.

With remarkable and admirable composure, the young arl took a deep breath and bellowed for one of the servants that always trailed in the teyrn's wake. Ser Gilmore soon appeared alongside an anxious steward, his face taut and drawn with dismay as he saw the limp dressing gown clutched in Alistair's trembling fingers.

"Our sister has been taken, most likely by the Carta," Finian snapped, with a terse authority of tone that was deeply uncharacteristic. "Sometime within the past few candle-lengths. I want the alarm bells ringing, and all able-bodied citizens of Highever out of their beds. Every inch of the mines and quarries need to be scoured. Empty the garrisons and get them to search the woods. All the dogs in the kennels must join the hunt. I want her found – unharmed - _by dawn,_ you hear me?"

Wynne, lips folded tight to keep her composure, gave a small nod of approval. Ser Gilmore and the steward disappeared immediately back up the staircase; soon after, they heard the sound of shouts and running footsteps.

"I don't understand," Alistair said suddenly, his voice odd and thin. "They've – they've _gone?"_

Teagan braced the younger man as Alistair almost lost his balance, the strength utterly drained from the powerful limbs. His skin had the pallor of a body retrieved after three days in the water; only a thin band of hazel visible around his vast pupils. Zevran came forward to assist the bann, reaching out to grip Alistair's other arm and steady him.

"Come now, _mi rey,"_ the former Crow murmured, aware that his own feelings had to be suppressed in the face of Alistair's sheer, blind terror. "Breathe, now."

Alistair swayed on the spot, and for a moment it appeared as though even the combined efforts of bann and elf would not be able to keep him upright.

"He's in a state of shock," Wynne interjected briskly, though she did not appear in too healthy a condition herself. "He needs to sit down. Let's not linger here – if we return to the chamber, we can plan our next move."

Teagan nodded, still bracing Alistair's arm as the king turned blank and unseeing eyes on the senior enchanter, as though he could not comprehend her words.

As they made their way wordlessly back to the chamber, Castle Cousland woke itself from dormancy; a sense of urgency rising from the wards and walls like mist rolling in from the sea. Lanterns were lit, knights called out to each other in terse tones as yawning stable-lads hurried to prepare the horses. The houndmasters were already heading towards the town with yapping packs of dogs scampering around them; each hound intimate with the scent of Cousland blood.

Alistair, still unable to process what had happened, walked like a man in a dream; eyes wide and staring. The bann kept a firm, steering grip on his elbow, nausea churning within his own stomach. They had known that Flora was being targeted by the Carta since their stay at the Circle; for the last month of their travels, each member of the company had been on quiet, permanent alert. Although he was loathe to admit it, the bann knew that they had let their guard down since arrival at Castle Cousland. The fortress was so well defended that they had believed it impregnable.

Finian, who had suppressed his own fear in the face of his elder brother's agonised disbelief, left them at the entrance to the chamber. The young arl, summoning from reserves of steely-eyed calm, went to oversee the organisation of the search parties, promising that he would send updates with a messenger. Zevran, his insides constricted with coils of guilt and self-loathing, followed in Finian's wake. Sole amongst Flora's companions, the former Crow had _not_ trusted in the imperviousness of closed gates and high stone walls; and yet – _somehow_ – had allowed his _carina_ to slip from his grasp. This reflective guilt was wholly irrational, and yet inescapable.

Within the royal bed chamber, Alistair was steered to a chair before a hearth; still stunned and silent, a raw confusion writ across his face. Ale was brought at first, and then Teagan managed to retrieve something stronger; offering the numb king a gulp of Marcher whiskey. Wynne sat at Alistair's side with a hand on his arm, her thoughts racing behind a face that was utterly rigid.

Meanwhile, Fergus could not sit still; pacing the length and breadth of the bedchamber with feverish urgency. Shouts and the glancing beams of lantern-light in the courtyard outside suggested that the last of the search-parties were taking their leave; the teyrn strode agitatedly to the narrow window and stared down at them.

"I tried so hard to keep them safe," Alistair croaked suddenly, grey and distraught beside the hearth. _"So hard."_

Wynne made a soothing and unintelligible sound of comfort, gripping his arm all the harder.

"I know, son," replied Teagan, taking several long draws of whiskey himself. "Nobody could have done more."

 _The poor lad has barely taken his eyes off her for the past three months. He thought of her comfort, her warmth, her stomach and her contentedness before his own; always._

"And now I've failed."

Alistair put his hands over his face, rough and despairing. Wynne glanced at Teagan, who gave a half-shrug of the shoulder; the bann was desperate to go out and join the search, but knew that the king ought not be left alone. Beside the window, Fergus was as motionless as any ancestral suit of armour.

They remained that way for the next candle-length; the king's face buried in his hands, the teyrn gazing wordlessly out into the lantern-lit darkness, the bann and the mage unsure of what to say. The moon inched its way higher up amidst the star-wreathed sky. It cast an anaemic grimace on the castle below, as though apologetic for the misfortune inflicted beneath its jurisdiction.

"Eamon ought to be told," Teagan murmured partway through the long silence, but made no move to retrieve parchment, or even to rise from his seat.

Wynne gave a swift half-nod but made no verbal reply, her gaze focused with hawk-like intensity on the young king of Ferelden as he hunched over in his chair. Alistair was bent double as though in physical pain, his grief palpable.

 _Come on, Alistair,_ the old mage thought to herself, willing the former Warden to strength of spirit. _You stand at a cross-roads with several paths stretching out before you. It would be too easy to yield to despair._

 _The right choice is rarely the easiest, my dear._

By the time that the moon had reached its apex, the town of Highever had spilled onto the streets; taking up lanterns and torches as they streamed in droves towards the forests. The mines and quarries sung with noise loud enough to rival any daytime labour, each crevice, nook and cranny scoured for any trace of their missing Cousland.

Up in the royal bedchamber, Alistair suddenly lifted his face from his hands, the skin beneath mottled white. Yet despite the unhealthy pallor that surrounded them, his eyes gazed out like chips of brass; hard and flinty, and utterly cold. Wynne and Teagan startled, caught unaware by the unexpected movement.

"Right," the young Theirin said, flatly. "Eamon needs to be told, but I want Leliana and Morrigan informed too. Uncle, you write to Denerim – Wynne, do you have a way to send quick word to Morrigan? These fucking dwarves clearly don't want Flo dead anymore – so they must be after some sort of ransom, though I've got no intention of waiting for their demands. I want every soldier in the surrounding area recalled to help in the search; I'll lead the main party myself, naturally."

Each word was delivered in a wreath of steel, utterly detached and calm. After speaking, the king of Ferelden rose unaided to his full height and there was no tremor to the strong limbs; majestic and leonine. Resolution loaned him rigidity, despair temporarily quashed by determination.

The mage inclined her head, relief and pride suffusing through her body like some healing augment.

 _Good boy,_ she thought to herself, sharing a swift glance with Teagan. _You've grown over the year._

Alistair strode to the window, where Fergus still stood like a funeral effigy; hollow-cheeked and mournful. The king gripped the teyrn by the elbow, conviction blazing across his handsome features as he sought to assure him.

"My Flora will be _fine._ She's been in bad situations before, and she's the most – the most resourceful girl I've ever known. She's always found a way to help herself."

"But she's eight and a half months heavy with child," replied Fergus, a note of disbelief resonating through his response. "And she's not got her magic."

"She didn't have access to her magic when Howe captured her last spring," Wynne offered quietly, and Alistair shot the mage a grateful look. "And she dealt with that well enough."

" _Exactly,"_ the king chimed, in a tone that suggested he would brook no dissent. "Exactly. And none of you were there a year ago, after Ostagar, when Flo and I were left as Ferelden's only defence against the Blight. I was in despair, but she was… she was so _calm._ And practical, which I suppose came from the _Herring_ in her. She didn't give in to panic, or – or fear. She's a lot stronger than… than people give her credit for."

Alistair grimaced for a moment, aware that he himself was guilty of wrapping his wife in cotton wool over the past few months. Quickly, he forced himself away from this nature of thought, and back into the comfort of offering reassurance. This was a blatant defence mechanism – convincing himself that Flora would handle herself in the company of the dwarves just as she had done in the grasp of Howe – and Alistair clutched it in a death-grip. After all, the alternate was far too terrible to contemplate.

"Flo will keep herself safe until we come for her," he said fervently, hoping that the words would come true if he said them with enough conviction. "I _know_ it. I have faith in my wife."

"Aye, son," Teagan said softly, his eyes bruised to a deep forest green with anxiety. "What would you have us do? Speak the word, and it's done."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aahhhhhhhhh I felt so bad writing this chapter! Not quite happily ever after, is it? :P Anyway, this is another demonstration of Alistair's 'hardened' character – I know we didn't see a huge amount of evidence in game, but Alistair implied that he basically went to pieces after Duncan's death. Well, this is a situation exponentially more traumatising; and Alistair is dealing with it like a king, not allowing himself to fall apart.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	162. In The Clutches Of The Carta

Chapter 162: In The Clutches Of The Carta

The first sensation that Flora became aware of was the prickle of marine salt on her tongue. It was a familiar taste, one that she had inhaled with every breath during her ten years in Herring. The air that brewed above the Waking Sea had a distinctive scent, a lacing of brine that was unique to the northern coast. The next sense that returned to the queen was her hearing. A whole host of unfamiliar noises rose in unison; blurring together until they became nearly impossible to separate. There was a low, structural creaking, the echo of footsteps, the slap of waves against wood, the howl of a malcontent wind; all tangled together in a milieu of muffled sound. It was cold: a biting draught slithered through the air like a snake, nipping at exposed skin.

She opened her eyes, squinting against the blaze of torchlight. Her vision returned in slow increments, the grey outlines gradually sprouting details and colour, crates stacked in one corner, barrels straining against their rope restraints. Everything seemed to be made of wood – the floor was made up of ill-fitting, half-rotted boards, the wall was similar and yet oddly curved. The sight awoke several layers of memory within the young queen – of Isabela's _Siren's Call,_ and something submerged even _deeper_ that she could not retrieve. Her mind was sluggish, still awakening from its chemically-induced slumber.

 _That's not a curved wall, it's the hull of a ship,_ Flora realised eventually, astonished. _I'm inside a ship. Why am I inside a ship?!_

Even before her vision had properly restored itself, she put a frightened hand to her stomach, groping around to feel the outline of her swollen belly. As though in response to their mother's sudden, frantic demand, she felt a nudge against her palm from one, while the other nestled more deeply within gave a hiccup. Relief suffused her in a soothing wave, Flora felt her panicked heart slow a fraction.

Now that her mind was clearer, the queen of Ferelden began to pay more attention to her own surroundings. She was on some sort of narrow bunk – little more than a shelf built into the hull of the ship – with a tangled blanket over her legs. She was still wearing the Mac Eanraig tartan pajamas; they were damp with sweat, and one sleeve was torn. Her hair fell in a loose tangle over her shoulders, matted with salt water. Her wrists were manacled, each one attached to a long chain fixed to an iron ring above her head. Their length gave her just enough freedom to climb out of the bunk – presumably to reach an aleskin and a hunk of pock-marked bread that had been placed on a nearby crate. The chamber was small, cramped – some sort of unceremonious storage area, just above the water line.

 _I've been abducted,_ the child of Herring thought to herself, both incredulous and irritated. _Again! So much for those training sessions with Zevran._

 _And I haven't got my spirits with me._

For a brief second, the queen was overwhelmed with a swell of terror. Her heart raced like a spooked horse bolting across a field; a cold sweat clung to her breastbone. A frantic sob rose in her throat, the sound of an animal caught in a snare.

 _This is the most danger I've ever been in! And I'm vulnerable, weak, useless! I can't defend myself, I can't do anything –_

She curled her fingers beneath her chin in fright, hunching reflexively over the swell of her stomach. This was the former mage's worst nightmare realised: to be in danger, and to have no way of extricating oneself from it.

 _If I had my magic, I could have broken these chains in a heartbeat._

 _I'm so useless now –_

Just then, a little voice rose in the back of her skull that had nothing to do with her spirits. It was a gruff, northern voice; one that had shaped her life just as potently as any denizen of the Fade.

 _Looks like you've got yourself in a righ' old tangle, lass,_ Pel's weathered features relayed. _Well, no point in gettin' yourself worked up, is there?_

 _But,_ Flora thought to her own conjuration. _But… I'm in danger. I've been captured for – for ill intentions! And I've no magic!_

 _Yes, it ain't a good situation, but you're still a Herring lassie, ain't you? That means you've got grit in yer blood, and salt in yer soul._

 _But, it's not my magic!_ his adoptive daughter replied, plaintively.

 _Well, it's a start. Now, come on. Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

Flora made herself take the aforementioned deep breath, comforted by the familiar tang of Waking Sea air. She took another gulp, her heart gradually beginning to calm with each inhalation. The daughter of Herring closed her eyes against the strange surroundings and made herself feel the rhythms of her body; the small movements of her children, the pulse of blood in her ears, the slowing beat of her heart. When she opened her eyes once more, to her relief, she felt her face settle into its usual solemn stoicism.

"You're awake, then."

Flora's head swivelled as rapidly as a Mabari scenting a rabbit, her eyes widening and nostrils flaring. A figure slumped unwashed and hollow-cheeked in a pocket of shadow, having been quiet until that moment and avoided attention. As Flora took in the sallow skin, the dark intensity of the eyes and the distinctive, gaunt contour of the cheeks; a deeply unpleasant memory rose to the surface of her mind.

 _Arl Rendon Howe, gloating and triumphant; gripping the arm of what he believed to be his pet, Tranquilised Cousland._

Flora realised suddenly who this unfortunate stranger was, bound in rusted iron and ragged leathers, and felt a great surge of rage swell within her.

" _You!"_ she hissed, white heat coursing through her veins. _"Yoooou!_ This is all _your fault!"_

She lunged forwards to grab whatever came into reach, which happened to be the loaf of bread and the aleskin. Moments later, both items went soaring across the room, and her fellow prisoner flinched as the aleskin burst against the wall above his head. The bread hit him on the shoulder; he made a grab for it before it could slither out of his reach.

"Thanks," he muttered, taking a bite. "They haven't bothered to feed me since yesterday. Clearly, I'm not as important as you."

Flora looked around in vain for something else to throw. When nothing presented itself, she hurled a string of classic Herring vitriol instead.

"You…. you _common snook! Yeasty sea slug! Git-headed bream! Beginner-knotting pond-fisher! Three-inch worm!"_

"I didn't understand a word of that," the figure replied, somewhat snidely. "But I hope it made you feel better."

" _Scurvy-bearer! Bloat-bellied toad! Greasy tallow-catch! Maggot of the river! Eel skin, remainder biscuit!"_

"Oh, we aren't finished?"

" _Flap-mouthed! Unchin-snouter! Bladder-barnacle! Beslubbering minnow!"_

"Maker's Breath."

" _Clapper-clawed, boil-brained, milk-livered, rump-fed, onion-eyed BOTTOM FEEDER!"_

Out of breath, Flora stopped, panting slightly from her vocal exertions. The man eyed her from across the storage chamber, lowering the bread to his lap.

"I'm assuming – from all that – you know who I am, then."

" _Nathanule Howe,"_ Flora growled, wishing that she had something more substantial to hurl other than her threadbare blanket. "As soon as I get out of these chains, I'm going to descale and _gut_ you like a cod. No – being treated like a cod is too _good_ for the likes of you! You- you _codpiece!"_

Lost for words and devoid of anything else to throw, she settled for glaring at him silently across the shadowed chamber; her eyes like chips of ice.

"It's _Nathaniel,"_ offered Rendon Howe's eldest son, but Flora made no reply, save for the blistering glower.

Silence fell in the small storage chamber; accompanied only by the low creak of the hull, and the slap of water against the ship's belly. The porthole on the wall – masked with a loose fitting glass insert – showed only darkness, and Flora took some reassurance from the fact that it was still night-time. She was also heartened by the fact that – based on the distinctive sound of seawater against the wood – they did not appear to be moving. The queen assumed that her captors had dropped anchor for the night, and thought triumphantly that this would give her companions time to search for her. A draught whistled through the gaps in the floorboards, and she thought wistfully of her mustard-yellow dressing robe; lost sometime during her abduction.

Nobody else entered the storage chamber, although several times Flora heard footsteps in the passage outside. On one occasion, she heard a low exchange of voices; the accents gruff and immediately recognisable. The timbre and rhythm of the conversation confirmed Flora's suspicions – that the Carta had finally succeeded in obtaining their target.

 _This is the third time I've been abducted this year,_ she thought to herself irritably, recalling her run-in with the Carta in Orzammar. _And it combines both dwarves and Howes, like some horrible offspring of the two previous times._

"Here. You ought to eat this."

The bread sailed back across the storage chamber – with surprisingly good aim, considering the manacled hands of the thrower. It landed on the blanket beside Flora, rousing her from her brooding glower. She startled, the long chains around her wrists rattling as her head turned instinctively towards the food.

"I don't think I ought to eat it, Nateanal," she retorted, melodramatically. "I might get infected with the nefarious disease known as _traitor-pox._ Which seems to run in your family!"

Nathaniel exhaled with a slight edge of exasperation.

"And _you're_ the one they call the Hero of Ferelden? _Really?"_

"Ask the Archdemon if you don't believe me!"

Flora turned her back on her adversary as best as she was able, considering the manacles around her wrists and the narrowness of the bunk. There was a shift inside her belly and she instinctively dropped a hand to cradle the round swell; hoping that the inhabitants were able to somehow hear her silent instructions.

 _Listen well, little fingerlings. This is your mother speaking, and so you have to listen. Don't you even think about coming out yet. We're in a bit of a crisis, but your pa will come and get us out of it._

 _Or, I might get us out of it. Somehow. Despite not having my magic._

Flora took a deep breath, her gaze dropping to the pearl sitting plump and resplendent on her ring finger. She stared at it for a moment, envisioning the speck of grit nestled at the centre of the gleaming layers.

 _Herring grit. Do I even still have it?_

Her stomach gave a rumble – fortunately, not related to the babes – and Flora took an absent-minded bite of bread. To her surprise, she had soon devoured the entire loaf; crumbs falling freely down the front of her tartan pajamas. Likewise, she gulped down a newly discovered cup of sour mead as though parched.

"I don't understand why I'm so hungry," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "I only had dinner a few hours ago."

"No, you didn't."

The voice came from the man manacled in the corner; quiet and wholly unwelcome. Flora, narrowing her eyes, swivelled her head towards him. Her gaze moved over the week's worth of growth on his cheeks, the stained and crumpled leathers, the sores visible at the edges of the cuffs. The line of his jaw was disconcertingly similar to his father's, though his chin was stronger and his eyes not as closely placed.

"What do you mean?" she asked, warily. "I was in Highever earlier this evening. I had dinner at the castle."

Nathaniel Howe shook his head in a single back-forth motion.

"That was two days ago. You've been asleep for a while."

Flora's jaw dropped in sheer dismay; her fingers curling against her palms as she processed this new, unwelcome revelation. The realisation that nobody had come for her made a sensation akin to ice-water trickle down her spine.

 _Of course they've not been able to find me. They'll be searching the mines, and the tunnels. Who would think that the Carta had taken control of a ship? You don't usually associate dwarves with water._

 _Right, babies. It'll be me that gets us out of this, then._

 _Poor Alistair; he must be out of his mind with fear._

Forcing Alistair from her own head and taking a deep breath, she laced steadiness into her words before replying.

"How – how far have we sailed from Highever?"

Nathaniel gave a shrug, casting an eye towards the unhelpfully dark porthole.

"Not far, a few leagues. They dropped anchor yesterday. From what I overheard, they're taking their time in deciding what to do with you."

"Well," replied Flora immediately, brushing crumbs from her tartan covered breast. "That gives me time to decide what to do with _them."_

Nathaniel shot her a stark and incredulous look across the storage chamber. He did not need to speak; his thoughts were writ plainly across his features: _you're manacled with iron chains, on the verge of giving birth, captured in the hold of an enemy vessel miles away from anyone who could possibly lend their assistance. Nobody even knows where you are. They're searching in entirely the wrong place._

Flora ignored the unhelpful stare of disbelief, leaning back against the curved wooden hull and drawing up her knees as far as they would go beneath her stomach. Winding a strand of hair about her finger, oddly comforted by the rhythmic slap of water against the wood; the queen of Ferelden set to thinking about _how_ exactly to extricate herself from this unpleasant situation.

Yet soon after, Flora realised that her mind was refusing to cooperate. Instead of coming up with solutions on how to escape her current dilemma, it kept throwing up memories from her _past;_ like the tide depositing salvage from a shipwreck onto the shore. The starkest recollection was from eleven months prior, and was of herself and Alistair standing in a Korcari swamp with the Southron Hills low and purple in the background. The silhouette of lost Ostagar rose, distant and desolate, like some vast funereal monument.

 _What are we going to do, Flora? Alistair had begged her; his comparative seniority forgotten in the wake of the disaster. Duncan's gone. All the Wardens are gone, Maker's Breath! How are we meant to end the Blight with just two of us?_

 _There won't just be two of us, she'd replied, her northerner's practicality rising to the fore. We'll use the old treaties. Get the armies to help us._

The corner of Flora's mouth turned up wistfully, though it was accompanied by a sharp pang of melancholy as she thought about the man who had irrevocably altered the course of her life.

 _We'll have to start that memorial for Duncan when we get back to Denerim. If no one's had any better ideas than a griffin with a ponytail and an earring, we're definitely having that._

"I… I didn't mean for this to happen."

Nathaniel Howe had spoken abruptly into the shadow, his silhouette disconcertingly similar to his father's in the half-light. Save for the inky darkness of the hair, and the stronger line of the chin; the shape and contour of their faces were almost identical. Flora turned her head to eye him, just about managing to bite back another stream of blame.

"You got the Carta involved, Namathule," she said instead, bluntly. "Which doesn't seem to have worked out that well for you, honestly."

Nathaniel let out a wry snort, the manacles around his wrists clinking as he adjusted the position of his bound hands.

"I didn't know what had happened at first. All lines of communication out of Ferelden had been stopped, nobody was sailing there because of the Darkspawn rumours. I was stuck in the Marches, and all I could piece together was that a Cousland mage had murdered my father, and my brother, and taken Amaranthine for herself."

"Your father kidnapped me!" retorted Flora, indignantly. "He wanted to Tranquilise me and marry me. _And_ he had my parents – my brother's family – killed. He usurped Highever."

She stopped just short of saying that she was _glad_ that she had shattered Rendon Howe's skull with her expanding shield. Instead, she softened her tone a fraction; grimacing as she remembered the sallow-faced teenager who had made an attempt on her life in the Revanloch monastery.

"I was sorry about Thomas," Flora continued, honestly. "Though he was planning to do terrible things, too. But he hung himself, I didn't kill him."

There was a silence, during which a seabird wheeled and cried somewhere outside the tiny, circular window. The queen heard it and was heartened; realising that this meant they were not far from the shore.

"Aye," Nathaniel replied after a moment, quietly. "I quickly found out the truth once I'd returned to Ferelden and done some investigating. My father often forgot that nobility has a _dual_ meaning – as did my brother, unfortunately. They were always an alike pair. But… by the time that I realised the truth, it was too late. The Carta's interest had been piqued, and they weren't going to abandon the cause. When I tried to call the whole thing off – they captured me."

Instead of replying, the gloomy Flora ran a palm over her stomach, grimacing as a low ache began to throb in the base of her spine. She shifted against the hardwood of the bunk, trying to find a position that might temporarily alleviate the discomfort.

There came the sound of footsteps in the passageway outside; heavy and even in tread. Both occupants of the storage chamber held their breath in an unspoken accord. The footsteps paused for a moment outside the doorway – a moment that seemed to stretch out for an eternity – and then continued onwards, fading into the distance.

"You aren't exactly how the rumours portrayed _the Hero of Ferelden,_ either," the disgraced arl's son said, once it became clear that they were alone once again.

"What do they say about me?" Flora asked, curious in spite of herself. She recalled the glamorous, statuesque behemoth of a woman who had played 'Florence Cousland' in the pageant; profane as a sailor and prone to kicking Darkspawn in the crotch.

"Well, they said that you were as tall as a Qunari, and able to take any man in a contest of strength- "

 _I knew it,_ Flora thought to herself, evilly. _Why does everyone assume I have to be tall? I don't think an extra foot in height would make any difference in killing a dragon!_

"And that you were fierce."

"I _can_ be fierce," the queen retorted, then relented slightly. "In certain circumstances."

Nathaniel shot her a dubious look across the gloomy storage chamber, but said nothing to counter her claim.

"They also said that you had a singing voice that could charm the birds from the trees."

Flora winced involuntarily. She had always enjoyed performing Herring classics for her companions, but had been forcibly educated on the hideous atonality of her singing voice.

"Did the rumours get _anything_ right?"

Nathaniel glanced sideways at the queen, who was now sitting straight on her bunk; her finely hewn profile silhouetted against the shadow.

"Aye. They said that the Hero of Ferelden would always be the most beautiful woman in any room," he replied, with a wry shrug. "I hear they've dubbed you _Florence the Fair_."

Flora gave a classic northern grunt in response, stopping just short of saying that her looks were the only thing that she had going for her anymore. This was something that she had often brooded over during the past three months: that now, more than ever before, she deserved the derisive nickname of _the Vase._

 _An ornament, whose entire value lies only in its exterior. Nothing of worth inside._

 _Do I really believe that?_

She did not share these thoughts with Nathaniel Howe, but instead lifted her chin and took a deep, steadying breath.

"Tell me about these dwarves, Nathional."

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes at her for a moment, then leaned his head back against the wooden boards. The manacles he wore were partially corroded from age, and red sores were visible at the edges of the cuffs. He bore all the hallmarks of a man who had been a prisoner for a handful of weeks – sufficient to become somewhat accustomed to the monotonous routine, but not long enough to become weak and emaciated.

"There's about two dozen of the Carta here, in total," he began, slowly. "The man in charge is a fellow named Beraht. Ugly chap with a braided beard and a wart the size of a gold coin. He's got a nasty background in the bed-slave trade. His lieutenant is a brute with no brain, by name of Leske. All muscle and no mind, got an old thief-brand on his cheek. Then, they've a Rivaini alchemist to assist them – he was the one that concocted the sleeping draught that put you out for two days."

"An alchemist?" breathed Flora, recalling one of the advanced-level Circle classes that she had never come anywhere _near_ qualifying for. "Is he a mage?"

The younger Howe shook his head abruptly, glancing upwards as footsteps walked on the deck overhead.

"No, I don't think so."

Flora felt something shift within her belly and reached down to rub her palm absentmindedly over the swell; her brow furrowed as she mulled over this new information.

"How did they get this ship?" she asked after a few moments, turning her pale gaze back on Howe. "It seems odd, somehow: dwarves on a boat."

"It's an Orlesian merchant vessel," replied Nathaniel, his head twisting as he followed the progress of footsteps across the deck. "The Carta seized it and forced the crew to sail it under duress – which they agreed to, after several of them were tied to iron weights and thrown overboard."

Flora had seen much of the cruelty that Darkspawn could inflict on man – after all, she had spent a week in the infested warren-lairs of the Deep Roads – but the capacity of one civilised race to wage suffering on another still shocked her. She felt a sickening lurch in the pit of her stomach; suddenly intensely sorry for the hapless crew – which probably included the boat's captain – that had run afoul of the Carta.

"What's the Rivaini's name?" she asked, and Nathaniel gave a hapless shrug.

"He just goes by _the Rivaini,_ as far as I've heard. They don't- "

He cut himself off suddenly, head swivelling. The footsteps which had sounded on the deck overhead, were now getting ominously closer. There was the sound of a heavy tread descending wooden steps, followed by a percussive echo in the passageway outside. Nathaniel flinched as the footsteps sounded behind his head – albeit on the other side of the wall – his gaze sliding towards the queen.

"They've come to check if you're awake," he hissed, low and urgent. "Pretend you're still asleep and they won't come again until mid-morning!"

Instead, Flora reached up to tug her fingers through her hair, flattening the rambunctious crimson waves as best as she could manage. Straightening her crumpled pyjamas, she swivelled around to face the doorway; lifting her chin and summoning her coolest, most ambiguous expression.

 _This is the face that saved me when I was in the clutches of Arl Howe. I don't have to pretend to be Tranquil, but I have to act nonetheless._

"What are you _doing_ \- " began Nathaniel in dismay, then broke off as a key rattled in the lock. The door swung open, lamp-light casting a dizzying pattern of beams inside the storage compartment. The lantern itself was clutched in the hairy knuckles of a squat and muscled dwarf. He sported a faded mark on one cheek, and a paunchy stomach was crossed with two leather straps.

"How's our – ah!"

The dwarf's dark eyes met the pale and unblinking stare of his captive. Flora eyed him with vague contempt, one hand resting conspicuously on her stomach.

"You're awake!"

The queen did not dignify this most inane of observations with an answer, nostrils flaring slightly as she eyed him from head to toe.

"Leske," she said flatly, not bothering to wait for confirmation. "Take me to Beraht. I have several _issues_ to raise with your leader."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Poor old Flo! She's in a bit of a pickle, lol. But – as we'll see – this could be the time when she manages to shatter her unhelpful notion of herself as simply a _vase_ … or see it confirmed! Also: TWO DAYS MISSING! Poor Alistair will be shitting himself, he doesn't like it whenever she's out of his sight for more than a few minutes, lol. Anyway, I really enjoyed writing this confrontation between herself as Nathaniel Howe. Despite her having a little bit of trouble actually pronouncing his name, hehehe. I hope you enjoyed the stream of marine and Shakespeare-inspired insults, lol!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	163. The Queen And The Carta

Chapter 163: The Queen And The Carta

The dwarf gaped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he visibly fought to regain the upper hand.

" _I – I'm_ taking _you_ to Beraht," he sputtered, indignantly. "Righ' now!"

"That's what I said," Flora repeated coolly, more grateful than ever for her face's natural haughtiness. "Take me to him."

Leske mouthed, caught between confusion and irritation. Finally, with a little grunt of annoyance, he retrieved a ring of keys from his belt and shuffled across the room. A wave slapped with rare vigour against the hull of the boat, and the dwarf lost his balance, stumbling forward with a muttered curse.

Flora watched him, her brow furrowed with vague pity. Despite the fact that her heart was racing like a horse that had slipped its reins, and cold sweat was beading on her brow; her expression maintained the ambiguous solemnity for which it was renowned.

Instead of holding up her wrists to be unlocked, the youngest Cousland kept them in her lap, prompting the dwarf to reach towards her.

 _I'm the queen,_ Flora thought to herself, fiercely. _I'm the Hero of Ferelden. These are the only cards I have left to play._

 _But, it's a good hand._

Flora let her gaze drift over the dwarf's shoulder, letting out a small huff of impatience as he fumbled with the iron key ring.

"I don't have all night," she informed him, flatly. "How hard can it be to use a key?"

Leske gaped at his prisoner for a moment, taken aback by her cold-eyed nonchalance and apparent lack of fear. Flora stared back at him, her face enigmatic as an Orlesian _masque._

"You're a rude little bitch," he said, bluntly.

Flora thought fondly of her own little _bitches,_ Cod and Lobster; though her face conveyed none of this sentiment. Instead, she stared for a moment over the dwarf's shoulder, then returned her gaze to him with a faint edge of derision.

"As a Fereldan woman," she replied, softly. "I don't take huge offence when compared to a Mabari. I suggest you try a different approach if you want to insult me."

The cuffs fell away with a clinking of metal, and Flora just about managed to stop herself from inspecting the sore marks left in their wake. Instead she rose quietly to her feet – managing to stifle the grunt of effort – and prayed that she had managed to retain the sea-legs she had once possessed as a child of Herring. Fortunately, no daughter of Eleanor Mac Eanraig _– the Sea Wolf of the Waking Sea –_ would ever walk unsteady aboard a boat; and Flora found the gentle shifting of the deck as easy to navigate as motionless earth.

Nathaniel Howe stared up at them as they passed, guilt and anger at his own impotence writ naked across his face. He made to say something – an admonition, a useless threat – but Flora shook her head at him in a subtle _back-forth._

 _Don't show concern for me,_ her eyes instructed him. _I don't want them to think I feel threatened._

Fortunately, the disgraced arl's son was better at picking up on the subtleties of expression than his father had been. He remained silent, brow creased deeply; watching the queen and the dwarf cross the cramped confines of the chamber.

Flora paused at the open doorway, peering back and forth down the wooden passageway, which seemed to run the entire length of the ship's hull. This was her first opportunity to ascertain the _size_ of the vessel; and – under first impression – it did not appear overly large. Naturally it was bigger in dimension than any fishing boat from Herring, but it was no Marcher barque or Antivan galleon. Instead, it appeared to be about eighty foot in length; its interior carved from plain and unassuming wood. Other compartments, many of them bolted shut, lined the rest of the passageway. The only clue to the vessel's western origin was the nature of the wood itself – a corrosion-resistant tawny teak native to Celene's empire.

Despite the deeply unfortunate circumstances, Flora felt a tiny, vicarious thrill of excitement.

 _I'm on a ship at sea,_ she thought to herself. _At last! How many hours did I spend staring out at the sea from the beach at Herring, watching the great vessels sail between the Marches and Ferelden?_

 _I always took it a little personally whenever one washed up on our shores, broken into pieces by a sudden storm._

 _Even though this is an Orlesian ship._

Flora lifted her chin and almost made to step out into the passageway, then a sudden idea occurred to her. Pausing, she turned a vaguely perplexed stare on the dwarf, flailing her fingers down the empty corridor.

"Where's the rest of my escort?" she demanded, her brows drawing together. "Why would they only send one person to guard me? Are you even _armed?"_

The dwarf known as Leske let out a vaguely incredulous snort, shifting an arm to reveal a host of glittering blades at his side.

"You think you're a threat?" he retorted, derision colouring his words like sour vinegar. "In spite of – _ha!"_

He threw out a hand, encompassing her swollen stomach, the ship swarming with the enemy, their position several miles off the Highever coast.

Flora watched the sweep of the short, muscled arm with vague bemusement. Then her pale, Waking Sea grey eyes settled back on the dwarf, slow and thoughtful.

"There's something you don't understand about Fereldans," the queen replied, and there was pity in her tone. "When they're in the greatest danger – that's when they're the most _dangerous."_

The dwarf almost laughed, but something caught the chortle before it could slip from his throat. Flora did not know whether he had glimpsed one of the myriad pale marks left by the Archdemon; or whether her strange nonchalance and apparent lack of concern had disconcerted him. Regardless of the cause, Leske bit back the derision and gestured impatiently for her to proceed down the galley.

Flora let her eyes dart surreptitiously as she proceeded down the narrow wooden passage. There were several doorways to either side – many were open, and led to empty bunks or stacked barrels. A few had tightly shut doors, with thick iron chains keeping them held fast. Flora wondered if this was where the original crew of the ship were being held; if Nathaniel had been correct in his assumption that they were kept prisoner.

Despite her curiosity, Flora did not allow her head to deviate from its imperious, forward-facing lift. She was acutely aware that every gesture and movement she made gave a certain impression; and she had a clear idea about the image she wished to project.

 _I killed the Archdemon and survived,_ she reminded herself, repeating the words like a mantra. _I'm the queen of Ferelden._

 _Despite the loss of my magic, those two things are still true. In fact, they're both a result of the loss of my magic._

 _I'm a Herring girl, and we have grit in our souls._

Beneath a starless night the Waking Sea sat unusually still in its straits, a lone, wide-bellied ship resting atop the soft, grumbling waters. The sails from its twin masts had been bundled inexpertly – the Carta dwarves were far from an experienced crew – and it bore no identifying flag or pennant. The mid-sized vessel was anchored several miles from the coast of Highever; anonymous and seemingly innocuous.

While what remained of its Orlesian crew were manacled and shackled below deck, the leader of the Carta, his Rivaini lieutenant, and the rest of their contingent were on the top deck. Few of the former subterranean inhabitants were coping well with such a drastic change in environment. Several of the dwarves were plagued with sea-sickness, and had positioned themselves near the rail. Others had decided to medicate their nerves with alcohol; sprawling half-senseless against the mast.

Yet a good proportion had retained their senses and had developed some semblance of sea-legs. They were gathered near the bridge, faces turned towards the elevated helm. Their leader, Beraht – once colloquially known as the Dog of Dust Town – and his lieutenant stood there, conversing in low tones. They made a mismatched pair – the dwarf was squat and bound with iron-hard muscle, the Rivaini was tall as a Denerim lamp-post, his bald head covered with patterned scarification.

There came a sudden ripple of interest across the deck as those dwarves still in possession of their senses realised who had just arrived. The crowd parted before Leske and the human girl accompanying him, an incongruous figure with bare feet emerging beneath tattered tartan pyjamas. The Carta were eager to set eyes on what must have been their greatest captured asset in guild history: the new Theirin king's bride.

Yet, to their perplexity and irritation, the queen of Ferelden looked – there was no other way to describe it – _bored_. She rested a hand on her vast stomach, her chin raised and her sea-water pale eyes fixed ahead; not deigning to take in the stares of those surrounding her. Instead, she came to a halt before Beraht and his Rivaini lieutenant, and spoke before the former had even opened his mouth.

"An _Orlesian_ ship?" she pointed out, stern and unimpressed. "What made you think this was an appropriate vessel for the _queen of Ferelden?"_

Beraht had been predicting several variants of response from his heavy-bellied captive – tears, anger, pleading – but this flat disapproval was _not_ one of them. He turned a calculating gaze upon her, deliberately keeping her at a distance so that she did not need to tilt her head _down_ to look him in the eye. There was a difference in height of only several inches between them; the dwarf was gratified by the fact that the queen was on the _short_ side for a human woman.

"Welcome abroad, _your majesty,"_ he said, each word coated with sarcasm. "I'm sorry that the transport isn't to your liking. Unfortunately, when you're a prisoner, you don't get a great deal of choice in the matter."

Flora's eyebrows shot into her hairline at the use of the word _prisoner,_ but before the dwarf had even finished speaking, she let her gaze slip over his shoulder. Many of the Carta dwarves were crowded on the lower deck, staring up at them with a mix of fascination and curiosity. She noticed that many were clutching onto various parts of the ship's anatomy to keep upright. The queen was astonished that they felt so unsteady on their feet; considering the unusually placid conditions of the surrounding sea.

Meanwhile, Beraht was growing irritated at his captive's lack of engagement. He reached out, and for a moment Flora thought that he was going to grab her arm. At the last moment, he hesitated – and clicked his fingers near Flora's face instead, trying to mask his reluctance with bravado.

Flora let the pale solemnity of her eyes come to rest on him; wondering why he was reluctant to touch her. Oddly enough, a memory from their first foray into Orzammar rose to the forefront of her mind.

 _I'll need to confiscate your staff, the gate guard had informed her. And you'll need to have your wrists bound when walking in public areas._

Flora inhaled, in sudden and startling realisation.

 _Is it because I used to be a mage? It's common knowledge now that I was once a powerful one._

Before she could put her theory to the test, Beraht sought to maintain his upper hand.

"Here's the situation, lady Cousland," he said, fixing her with a shrewd, calculating gaze. "The Carta is primarily a _money-making_ organisation. And you're a very valuable asset. You and them kids."

Flora's gaze slowly swung back to settle on the dwarf. A slow roil of anger began to rumble in the base of her stomach; like the first subtle, shifting currents that would eventually lead to a maelstrom.

 _Say one more thing about my children,_ she thought to herself, suddenly grateful for her face's implacable haughtiness.

"I'm sure - in your position – you'd be willing to acquiesce to a deal," Beraht continued, casting a malevolent eye up at the clouds as they began to leak a thin drizzle. "A ransom demand. Seeing as your husband and your brother are the two most important men in the country, I assume they'd be happy to pay whatever I demanded."

The other Carta dwarves murmured excitably amongst themselves; the prospect of profit seductive enough to temporarily distract them from the trauma of being out on the open ocean. The Waking Sea was being oddly calm, merely nudging curiously at the wide-bellied Orlesian merchant-vessel that sat anchored atop it. In the east, a faint grey line on the horizon indicated that dawn was not far from arrival.

"Ten thousand gold."

There was an inhalation of glee from the collective crowd, delighted by the preposterous demand. Beraht grinned, his yellowed teeth flashing amidst gums rotted by too much whisky.

"We saw the size of that castle," the Carta leader explained, justifying the vastness of his price. "Your brother is a wealthy _deshyr –_ or, whatever term you use. He can easily afford it."

 _Ten thousand gold intended for the maintenance of Highever,_ Flora thought to herself. _Whereas every spare coin from the royal treasury is fuelling the restoration of Gwaren, Lothering and South Reach. Never!_

"Twenty thousand," she replied flatly, letting her pale stare meander over the dwarf's weathered features. It was the first time that the queen of Ferelden had deigned to speak since her arrival on the deck.

"What?" said Beraht, temporarily taken aback.

"I'm worth more than ten thousand gold," replied the daughter of Bryce Cousland, with a flash of sudden imperiousness. "I'm worth more than _twenty_ thousand – but the coin needs to be kept at a _transportable_ amount."

"Eh! Why?"

"So I can take it with me when I leave."

There was an incredulous silence from the dwarves. Beraht – for once in his five decades – found himself lost for words. For several moments, the only sound was the gentle wash of waves against the hull, and the harsh cry of a seagull heralding dawn.

"Though I've no intention of being here long enough for a ransom to be delivered and collected," Flora finished, flatly. "So this is all just speculation."

Beraht let out a short, disbelieving laugh, though there was no humour in it. If he had not been wary of _touching_ the former mage, he would have struck her for her insolence. Instead, he returned his balled fist to his side, though his fingers flexed with the effort of restraint.

"You think you're in any position to make such bold statements?" he snarled, on the verge of unleashing the prodigious anger that kept the unruly denizens of the Carta in his thrall. The other dwarves nudged each other excitedly, awaiting the deliverance of their leader's wrath.

" _I_ think you made the biggest mistake of your life in taking me," Flora replied immediately, inwardly delighted at the edge of contempt that had crept into her hoarse, northerner's tone.

Beraht thrust a finger in her face, his pupils shrunk to pinpricks. The queen's quiet, cold-eyed defiance had touched a nerve; it reminded the Dust Town native of the arrogance of Orzammar's _deshyr._

"Perhaps I won't give your husband the choice. _Maybe_ I'll go straight to the eastern slave-markets. There are those who would pay a fortune for a girl with your face and pedigree. And those brats in your belly would sell well, I'm sure."

Flora decided in that moment that she was going to kill the dwarf herself. The _logistics_ of such an act were unimportant at that time – the _when_ , the _how_ – but she was utterly confident in the fact that it would happen. Yet the queen's face did not betray this deadly promise; it remained utterly still and emotionless.

Up until this point, the Rivaini alchemist had been silent, though his dark eyes crawled over Flora like beetles.

"There are potions I can concoct to provoke contractions of the womb, boss," he murmured, his voice a thin and resonant whine. "A poison that sends ripples through the muscles and forces the babes out."

"Sounds like unnecessary effort," the Carta leader retorted, belligerently. "Much easier to just cut them out. Seen it happen in Dust Town when a whore was dying in childbed with a lord's child stuck in her belly."

But Flora had stopped listening by this point, aware that her prized composure might waver if she paid attention to their threats. Fortunately, she was used to turning a deaf ear to her Circle tutors; and had developed the ability to let words wash over her without leaving an imprint.

Instead, the northerner was letting her attention drift to her surroundings; feasting unashamedly on a sight which had been deprived to her for almost five years. The Waking Sea seethed around her, grey and frothing, nudging the fishing vessel with experimental fingers. The sky was covered in a miasma of watery cloud, a thin drizzle pattered lightly onto the deck. The air was laced with brine and salt; it made for a heavier lungful than an Amaranthine inhalation. The world around her was coarse and colourless, harsh-edged and unforgiving, and she drank it in like a parched man.

 _I love this stretch of water,_ she thought to herself, wistfully. _I know it's stolen the lives of thousands over the years – it breaks ships without a second thought – but I think it's the most beautiful part of Ferelden. I'm jealous that we have to share it with the Marches._

The alchemist opened his mouth to make another suggestion, thin fingers working excitedly in his sleeves at the prospect of further experimentations. Before he could speak, the queen cut straight across him in her blunt commoner's manner.

"What do I call _you?"_ she asked, a vein of imperiousness running through the words. "I'd rather not use _the Rivaini._ "

 _A far greater man than you used to call himself Rivaini._

"Why not?" enquired the alchemist in sly, silken tones, acid-burnt fingers scuttling compulsively over his leather apron. _"Your majesty."_

"It doesn't make sense to me," replied Flora, delivering the response with an utterly straight face. "Worms don't have nationalities."

The tall man's eyes flashed like the draw of a dagger; he let out a hiss between his teeth. Before the alchemist could retort, Beraht lunged forward with surprising speed for one of such stocky build. He reached up with a meaty hand and gripped Flora by the neck, dirty-nailed fingers closing around her throat. There was only the slightest pressure applied – the dwarf was far from stupid – but the threat was blatant.

" _Defiance_ from a human noble-hunter barely the length of my cock?" he snarled, his stare glittering like stones mined from the depths beneath Orzammar. "Fat and weak as a _nug?"_

The daughter of a noble might have quailed at such rough treatment, but Flora had been raised by a part-mad woman who had been free with her fists. It was not the first time that she had been gripped by her throat; physical reprimand was a normal facet of a Herring upbringing.

The leader of the Carta looked for a moment as though he intended to continue this manner of diatribe. However, something had caught his eye - something that the dwarf had never seen before, something which both fascinated and repelled him in equal measure. The sudden thrust of his fingers around her throat had shifted the loose tartan of Flora's night-shirt, the material pulling to one side. The end of one curving, pale arc was just visible, milky and silvered; a pattern more akin to the aftermath of lightning than a mortal wound.

The dwarf's thin lip curled in reluctant curiosity. The fingers unwound themselves from her neck and descended several inches. In a sudden, brutal tug he had torn open the tartan shirt, several wooden buttons clattering against the deck.

The queen of Ferelden did not flinch; she was rigid and disapproving as a statue of some unpopular empress. Instead she lifted her chin and bore the aftermath of her encounter with the Archdemon with pride. The mottled, curving marks were unlike any other scar or brand that the dwarf had seen – they discoloured the skin itself, bleaching it according to some unfathomable design. There was an arcing pattern across one half of Flora's collarbone; another on the lower side of her abdomen, towards her hip; there was one across her shoulder-blades, and one more stretched across the base of her spine. It was the residue of an old god's dying soul, silvered and otherworldly; embedded into flesh that it had not succeeded in penetrating. Only one had emerged victorious from the encounter between Grey Warden and Archdemon, and it had not been the Darkspawn's commander.

Beraht withdrew his hand as though it had been burnt. The dwarf – like his kin – felt intensely uncomfortable in the presence of magic. Although the queen had none, this elaborate system of arcane circatrix was somehow even _more_ disconcerting. The other members of the Carta clearly felt the same way; muttering and shifting amongst themselves, newly wary eyes settling on the former mage.

 _I've survived Darkspawn and demons, dragons and deceitful arls,_ Flora thought to herself, then felt a pointed nudge from within her belly. _And you have, too._

 _We can survive dwarves._

"Well, I might be fat," she replied, bluntly. "But I've _never_ been weak."

The leader of the Carta gazed at her, and she stared back at him with the glint of a tiny gold fleck in her eye – all that remained of her old connection with the Fade. Beraht was the first to look away, spitting ill-temperedly onto the deck to disguise how disconcerted he was.

"I'll return to my quarters now," Flora said softly, unhurriedly pulling the tartan pyjama shirt back into place.

* * *

OOC Author Note: I think Flo has acquitted herself well here –she's relying on the two assets she has left – her implacability of expression, and the fact that she's survived the death of the Archdemon. The only way she can keep control of her situation is by keeping her cool! Beraht is such a dickhead!

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	164. No Time For Distractions

Chapter 164: No Time For Distractions

The leader of the Carta gave an abrupt nod, flicking a finger towards a hovering subordinate.

"Escort the king's whore back to the brig."

Leske stepped forwards, the reluctance streaming from his entire body. It was clear that he did not wish to come close to the arcane-scarred queen, yet the look on Beraht's face did not invite insubordination.

As Flora made to follow the unhappy dwarf, the alchemist stepped forward; an ugly expression writ across his face. As a native of Rivain, he was not intimidated by the aftermath of magic. Reaching forward to grip the queen's hand, he swiftly and forcefully tugged free the rings from her fingers – the Cousland-marked band, the twisted golden rope of the wedding ring. Finally, he tore off the plump pearl that a breathless Alistair had given her three months' prior; bent on one knee on the gravel forecourt of Revanloch.

"Payment for your _compliment,"_ he hissed, stroking a covetous finger over the glinting metal as it lay in his palm. "This _worm_ has expensive tastes."

Flora, more alarmed by their removal than she would ever deign to admit, managed to maintain her composure. She made no verbal reply, but raised her eyes to the grey veil of cloud and let out a small, contemptuous snort.

As Leske followed her back into the body of the vessel, the queen made herself take several deep gulps of air, silently hoping that her fury did not show on her face. The Carta leader's suggestion that her children be taken and sold to some fascinated foreign party had been intended to cow her into submission; instead, it had had the opposite effect. Ironically enough, for the first time in three months, Flora did _not_ feel like weeping. Instead, a cold rage was building in her belly like the slow roil of a growing storm; detectable to the birds caught within its shifting air-currents but indiscernible to those on the coast.

Leske, the dwarf with the matted hair and branded cheek, did not say a word to her as they returned down the wooden passage towards the storage chambers. Glum voices exchanging muffled conversation drifted from beneath one of the doors; the words had an foreign timbre to them, and Flora realised that they must belong to the remainder of the ship's original crew.

She looked around one final time, and caught the eye of her escort. His gaze slid rapidly away from hers, like a beetle skittering rapidly from some advancing predator.

 _He's disconcerted by me,_ Flora thought to herself, storing this information away for later. _And what I've lived through. Oghren was always a little scared of my magic – if he hadn't been half-drunk most of the time, I think he would have been more wary of me._

 _If only I had my magic still –_

For the first time, Flora did not allow herself to wallow in the self-indulgent depths of grief. She knew that this would be _utterly_ _pointless_ in her current situation; that it would not help her, and would only distract from what she _could_ do.

 _No more magic. Time for Herring grit._

Leske unlocked the door to the storage compartment and swung it open. Nathaniel Howe, chained and bound swivelled his head towards them with the swiftness of a loosed arrow. His eyes were frantic, set burning against a sallow face. On seeing that the queen was still in hale condition, he relaxed a fraction.

Flora ambled across to her narrow bunk – easily taking the gentle sea-sway of the floorboards in her stride – and sat down. Leske followed her, and then came to a sudden halt, staring at the iron manacles affixed to long chains that were meant to be refastened around her wrists. Unfortunately, the dwarf had now realised the full significance of the strange, silvered markings on the backs and palms of Flora's hands; yet more evidence of where the Archdemon's soul had made a desperate pass through in her body in an attempt to seek purchase.

Flora turned her cold, Waking Sea eyes up towards him; impassive and emotionless. Leske hesitated, then spat on the wooden floorboards to hide his disconcertion.

"Eh, not like you can go anywhere."

He turned abruptly and strode towards the door. Moments later, there was a slam and the sound of a key turning in a lock.

Flora let out a long breath of pent-up air, letting a hand run idly over the contents of her fidgeting stomach.

 _Settle down,_ she thought, sternly. _I know you've not got much room in there. But you'll simply have to deal with it for a bit longer._

The queen closed her eyes for a moment, leaning her head back against the hull of the ship and letting out a long, low exhalation.

"Are you alright?"

She opened her eyes once again to see Nathaniel Howe gazing across at her. As the shadows in the chamber began to dissipate with the encroaching dawn, she could see more differences between the son and the father – the former had a stronger nose, more definition to the features and hair that still hung ebon-dark to the shoulders. Rendon Howe seemed to have been a faded, weaker-chinned version of his powerfully-built eldest son. Flora remembered suddenly that the arl had married Leonas Bryland's sister, and wondered if Nathaniel had taken more after his mother.

"Mm," she replied, wistfully touching the bare skin where her wedding rings had once sat. "They offered a ransom deal. Ten thousand gold for my release."

Nathaniel Howe looked at her for a long moment from the tail of his eye, shrewd and rueful.

"If I was Florence Cousland, I'd agree to that deal."

"If I was _Nathanule Howe,_ I _would,"_ retorted Flora with a flash of vague irritation.

The man let out a humourless snort, leaning his head back against a wooden crate. Flora rubbed idly at the sore patches on her wrists, red marks left where the iron manacles had bitten into the flesh. Leske's reluctance to touch her meant that she had not been restrained – not that this made much difference. She was still locked within a storage compartment, aboard a vessel occupied by a hostile enemy.

A watery sunrise was now filtering in through the small port-hole set high on the wall, but Flora felt as though she had not slept in days. Stifling a yawn, she resisted the temptation to lie back on the narrow bunk and steal a few hours' worth of rest. After all, the next dwarf sent to check on her might not be as wary of the arcane scarring on her hands as Leske had been; and thus be more than prepared to cuff her back into the dangling iron manacles.

 _I need to see what's available for me to use in here._

Heaving herself to her feet with a soft grunt of effort, the queen let her eyes wander about the cramped dimensions of the room. Several crates – plain and unlabelled – were stacked up against one wall, prevented from sliding loose by a rope netting. There was a barrel which gave off a pungent, oily aroma in one corner. Flora recognised the smell as that of _grit-tar,_ a substance used to make temporary repairs in the hull.

She had already eyed the chains that wreathed Nathaniel Howe from across the chamber – they appeared sturdy enough, but Flora reasoned that there was no harm in making sure. Padding across the small space, she lowered herself awkwardly to her knees before the treacherous arl's son. Reaching out, she ran a finger thoughtfully over the various locks and fixings that kept her fellow prisoner fastened tight.

"They think you're more dangerous than me," she mumbled under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear. "That's why they've let me out of the cuffs."

Nathaniel shot her an incredulous look, his dark gaze sliding from his own lean, muscled form to her fat-bellied one.

"Well, they wouldn't be wrong," he pointed out, with a derisive curl of the lip that reminded Flora unpleasantly of his father. "You're a powerless girl with a babe weighing her down."

"Two," corrected Flora fondly, thinking of her _pair_ of little creatures nestled tightly together.

Nathaniel Howe flinched as though struck, and suddenly he appeared an entirely different man from his father; penitent and steeped in regret.

"Shit."

Having ascertained that Nathaniel was indeed fastened within unyielding metal, Flora laboriously manoeuvred herself to her feet, letting out a soft huff of effort. Her knee was aching and stiff; sorely missing their nightly kneading from her husband's fingers.

"And I'm _not_ powerless," she replied, recalling his earlier comment. "I'm just… _less obviously powerful_ than I was before."

She made her way across to the crates that were stacked against the nearby wall. Although they were still held loosely in place with rope netting, the gentle movement of the ship had dislodged several of their lids. Flora was able to reach past the netting and nudge the lids aside, peering down at what lay within. Fortunately, the arrival of dawn had lightened the shadowed constricts of the storage chamber; she was able to just about make out the contents.

Unfortunately, the crates did _not_ contain a wide selection of deadly weapons easily wieldable by novices, as Flora had rather naively hoped. Nor did they hold a convenient supply of robber's tools or chain-breaking shears.

"Were you expecting to find blades and battle-axes? Or a stash of lock-picks?"

Flora ignored Nathaniel's sarcasm-laced question, sifting through the bolts of rainbow-hued silk. Each bundle of material was undoubtedly intended to end up as a dress for some rich _duchesse._

 _Leliana would appreciate these,_ she thought to herself, feeling a sudden pang of wistfulness for her Orlesian companion. _Silk just feels like a slippery, cold, inferior version of wool to me._

Despite her inward derision, one particular bolt of material caught her eye. It was a rich, fleshy crimson; the same deep red as the Antivan port-wine that Zevran loved so much. It reminded Flora of the oxblood ribbons that the people of Denerim – and then Highever – had worn around their wrists in celebration of their new redheaded queen.

 _Like the sashes fixed to the lances of the soldiers as they stood before the city walls, awaiting the arrival of the horde._

For reasons that Flora could not quite explain, she withdrew a length of the inky crimson silk and draped it over her arm, oddly sentimental. Then, with a little grumble, she let the rest of the silks settle back within the storage crate. Unable to try the boxes further back, she rummaged through as much as she could reach, to little avail. There were several more bundles of silk; a crate of miscellaneous items – things like spoons, quills, clothes-brushes, none with the potential to be used as a weapon; a box full of pale, brittle and pungent biscuits.

Flora eyed the biscuit with some suspicion – it appeared to be _Orlesian._ She gave it a tentative sniff, confused as to why a _food item_ would need to be perfumed.

"It's a cats-tongue," offered Nathaniel, who had recognised the smell of lemon and vanilla. "It won't hurt you."

Not prepared to take a Howe's word on anything, Flora brought a pair of the biscuits over to the traitorous arl's son. Moments later, wide-eyed, she watched him devour both without pause. He even picked up the crumbs as best as he was able, pressing them hungrily to his tongue.

Having established that they were safe to consume, Flora reluctantly forced herself to eat the Orlesian fare. She did not have a sweet tooth – had never had the opportunity to develop one during her childhood in Herring – and preferred her food to be plain, bland, and _Fereldan_. She liked her fish unsalted, her potatoes boiled, her meat unseasoned and her vegetables unherbed. Still, thinking of the occupants of her belly, she made herself eat a half-dozen of the scented biscuits. Then she took the rest over to Nathaniel Howe, and tipped them without ceremony into his lap.

He looked up in astonishment, clearly not expecting kindness from his inadvertent victim. Flora eyed him beadily through the strands of weak dawn light filtering into the cramped compartment.

"You need to get your strength up," she told him, bluntly.

"For what?"

"For when we escape," she replied, impatiently. "You'll have to do most of the _physical_ things."

"Sorry – when we _escape?"_

Flora wondered if Nathaniel Howe perhaps had some problems with his hearing. She repeated her words very _slowly_ and _clearly._

"FOR – WHEN – WE – ESCAPE."

"Maker's Breath," muttered Nathaniel Howe, ten years older and possessing far less patience for Flora's eccentricities than her companions. "It's a good thing you're a pretty girl."

Flora had a vague sense that she was being insulted. Not caring, she was about to take her silk and the remainder of her pungent Orlesian biscuits back to her bunk, when a small and unassuming pouch caught her eye. It had slipped between two crates, almost indiscernible; the growing light of dawn had exposed one emergent leather corner just enough to draw attention.

She recognised the cut of the pouch immediately, down to the clever waterproof stitching. Barely daring to hope, Flora braced one palm against the edge of a crate and leaned forwards, just about managing to swipe up the strap of the pouch beneath her fingertip. A careful tug later and it was in her hands; an object that she knew intimately despite having never held it before.

"What's that? A giant's pickled scrotum?" snapped Nathaniel Howe, who was not in good spirits.

Flora shot the reclining man a disapproving look over her shoulder, before returning affectionate eyes to the pouch. She slid her finger beneath the flap to open it, letting the halves of leather rest against her palms.

Inside rested a variety of small tools: lure hooks, tightly wound copper wire, a cluster of small feathers – all the miscellaneous items that a fisherman might require during the course of the day. Yet Flora's eye went straight to the item fixed at the edge of the pouch; its blade two inches in length and gleaming in the weak sunlight.

Inhaling unsteadily, the queen withdrew the small descaling knife expertly from its leather-bound home. The weight, the length, the moulded curve of the handle; all was familiar and oddly comforting.

Nathaniel Howe eyed the blade with some misgivings. Initially excited on glimpsing the sheen of metal, he had deflated rapidly on seeing the humble fisherman's tool.

"I'd use a knife larger than that to slice my meat at dinner," he muttered, leaning his head back against the wood. "Though you might succeed in giving someone a nasty paper-cut."

 _Not if I pick the right spot,_ Flora thought to herself. Memories from Zevran's training drifted to the surface of her mind, blurring with her own recollections of her time as a healer.

 _There are places on the body where the vital channels run close to the skin. The neck; the wrists._

When previously the elf had demonstrated how the queen might attack one of these vulnerable spots, Flora had protested. _I was a mender_ , she had said, indignantly. _I don't want to learn how best to drain a body of blood. It's a violation of what I used to do._

Now, Flora realised that she had come _wholly_ around to the prospect of ending the life of one of her kidnappers. Her children had been placed in danger thanks to Beraht, the Rivaini alchemist and their Carta colleagues; this was a capital crime for which the queen was more than happy to mete out the ultimate punishment.

Ignoring Nathaniel's negativity, she tucked the descaling blade within her increasingly grubby pyjama shirt. The metal felt cool against her breast, and yet Flora was grateful for its reassuring, recognisable presence.

Yawning, she made her way back across the storage compartment; trying to put as little weight on her throbbing knee as possible. Just before she reached her bunk, there came a series of Orlesian shouts on the deck above. A great unfurling of canvas – like the sigh of some sky-dwelling god – echoed from overhead; accompanied by the rhythmic cranking of a capstan.

"They're raising anchor," Nathaniel said, recognising the sound of the beleaguered crew forced to labour on the orders of their captors. "I heard them taking the Orlesians topside earlier."

Flora grimaced, touching her fingers to the length of cool metal against her breast. She wondered what direction they were sailing in, and wished that the small port-hole was set low enough for her to peer out. Unfortunately, it was at least a foot above her head; a narrow aperture within the ship's hull that allowed in a meagre pittance of dawn light.

 _If only it had been an hour earlier when they'd taken me on deck,_ she thought wistfully to herself. _I could've seen the stars and got some idea of my bearings._

Despite the fact that they must not have been too far from a shore – sea-gulls tended to stick within thirty miles of a coast – it had been impossible for Flora to see anything in the distance when she was on deck. The Waking Sea cloaked itself in many veils of shifting mists, discarding and donning them at will according to its inconstant desires. Many ships had been dashed to their deaths against reefs that had manifested from the fog like a row of grinning teeth.

 _Are we going north towards the Marches? Or east, to Orlais?_

She touched the length of metal against her breast once more – in the way that she was accustomed to feeling the cool weight of her rings – and took a long, steadying breath. There came an organic groan from the depths of the ship, like a man awoken from satisfying slumber, as it roused itself to the demands of its crew.

Flora sat back down on her narrow bunk, flinching as a sharp jolt of pain shot its way upwards from her knee. Despite the discomfort emanating from the sore joint, the queen was oddly grateful for it. It was one of the last threads that connected her to her spirits; who had allowed her to suffer the consequences of its imperfect healing as a painful reminder not to become distracted.

 _You were consumed with terror on the tower roof at Ostagar, and the ogre broke through your barrier as a result,_ Valour had lectured her, sternly. _Then you were occupied with tears over your dead commander whilst trying to mend your shattered knee, and ending up malforming the bone._

 _Never allow fear or grief to distract you from what must be done._

It had been a painful, but effective lesson: Flora's abilities had never let her down since.

Despite the noise of the Carta and their captured crew on the deck overhead, and the gradual lightening of the storage chamber, Flora decided to try and get a few small hours of sleep. With a grunt of effort – _every_ physical movement was now an effort – she retrieved the threadbare blanket and settled down as best as she was able. It felt odd to pillow her cheek against her fingers and _not_ feel the cold metal of her rings; Flora closed her eyes and forced herself not to dwell on her husband.

 _No dreading where we might be going. No thinking of Alistair, and the pain he must be experiencing._

 _Those are distractions, and I can't get distracted. I have to get us out of here._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Writing these chapters is so much fun! I think it's actually been really healthy for Flora to have some time to see what she's capable of – she's been mollycoddled and over-protected for the majority of this story, due to both her pregnancy and the loss of her magic. So it's nice to see her have to depend on herself – and realise that she's actually pretty capable, lol.

Cats' tongue biscuits are a French delicacy (according to Google, lol! I've never had one!)

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	165. A Search In Vain

Chapter 165: A Search In Vain

While the ship carrying his wife bobbed determinedly towards a small and unremarkable isle six miles from the coast of Highever, those gathered about the King of Ferelden tried unsuccessfully to persuade him in the direction of his bed. It was the end of the young Theirin's second night without sleep – the beginning of the third day without his queen – and both agitation and weariness were beginning to take its toll. The formerly clear hazel eyes were dull and muddied with fatigue, outlined with deep pockets of shadow. Two days' worth of growth sprouted from his cheeks, which had a new hollowness to them; barely a morsel of food had crossed his lips save for what he had eaten on the saddle.

Now, after a night spent trawling through the ruins of an abandoned copper mine for any trace of the Carta, the king's nerves were visibly beginning to fray. Alistair had returned to his chamber at the castle only to change his clothes, which were covered with dust and sweat. He had every intention of venturing out again immediately after; but Teagan and Wynne had spoken up in the defence of reason, the senior enchanter pointedly placing herself between king and doorway.

"Alistair, you _must_ get some rest," the old mage murmured, a steely composure in her voice that was not mirrored by her haggard appearance. None of Flora's companions were coping well in the absence of their eccentric young Herring native; who had brought them together and then served as a lynch-pin for their company.

"How can I rest?" Alistair replied, hoarse from despair and weariness. "How can I excuse closing my eyes when they should be looking for her?"

The king turned to his uncle; the plea naked in his red-rimmed gaze.

Teagan, who had not left his nephew's side since the terrible moment in the Ferelden Tower cellar, passed a rough hand over his own unshaven face. Save for ten minutes in the saddle here and there, the bann had also forsaken sleep for the past two nights.

"Son, you're doing all that's humanly possible," he replied, as Wynne gave a nod of confirmation. _"Everyone_ is. Each able-bodied man and woman in Highever is out searching the woods and the mines. Even the alienage has offered its help; she must have made a favourable impression on their _hahren._ We can expect Leonas by the end of the week."

Letters sent by swift crow had reached Eamon in the capital. The Chancellor had expressed his outrage and alarm, and immediately summoned King Harrowmont's ambassador for an emergency audience. On Alistair's behalf, Eamon was demanding an immediate purge of the criminal networks of Dust Town. Leliana and Leonas Bryland had boarded a royal barge and were sailing north-westwards as rapidly as possible. The royal general was also bringing several divisions of the army on additional ships to assist in the search.

Another letter had also winged its way to Wardens' Vigil in Amaranthine. Within the day, they had received a terse note back from Loghain Mac Tir, informing them that every Grey Warden available had been sent into the Deep Roads tunnels. Although much of the underground warren had been abandoned by the Darkspawn, there was a possibility that the ancient passages were being used as a Carta hideout.

There was now silence within the bedchamber, broken only by the gentle, mundane crackling of the hearth. The king shot the flames a confused and resentful stare; bemused as to how there could be any sort of normality to a world where his best friend had been taken from him.

"Wynne, I can't _sleep_ without her," Alistair confessed after several moments, his voice so low that they both had to strain to hear. "She rests with her head just – just _here-"_ he made a limp gesture towards his shoulder. "And I can't sleep without that weight on me. It's impossible."

Wynne made a soothing, incoherent sound beneath her breath; one strand of unwashed hair trailing to her shoulder. She reached out to rest her fingers on Alistair's elbow, pale blue eyes entreating.

"You must _try_ , dear boy. You have to keep your strength up – and your spirits."

This only served to remind Alistair that the mother of his children was without her Fade-guardians; he flinched as though struck.

"She's all alone," he muttered, the words congealing in his throat like poison. "She's so _helpless,_ now. Maker's Breath, and to think I used to be _grateful_ that she had lost her magic!"

"Perhaps not so helpless as you might think," Wynne reminded him, softly. "She once managed to talk a Templar out of Tranquilising her, remember?"

Alistair dragged a hand over his stubbled face with a choked groan, suddenly appearing less than stable on his feet. Teagan gripped the king's elbow and steered him over to the armchair before the hearth; the soon-to-be father, stupefied with grief, made no move to protest.

Once he had been manoeuvred into the faded velvet depths of the chair, Alistair closed his eyes. Teagan remained crouched before him for a moment, surveying the weary, handsome face of Ferelden's young king. Just as he thought his nephew to be asleep, Alistair's eyes opened and fixed themselves on the bann, hollow and despairing.

"Please, uncle," he muttered, the words painful as they emerged from his throat. "Help me to bear this."

Teagan wished that his elder brother was there with them; for Eamon had always been the more eloquent of the two Guerrin brothers. The bann said nothing, but gripped Alistair's elbow all the more tightly while he thought frantically of something new and reassuring. This was growing increasingly hard with each day that passed; all that he could say, had already been said a hundred times.

 _Your wife is a northern girl. They're the toughest in Ferelden._

 _She's got Herring grit in her veins, lad. She's more than a match for any dwarf._

Fortunately, by the time that Teagan had formulated an unconvincing response, there was nothing but silence before him: Alistair had finally fallen into the slumber of a dead man. The king's face remained creased with worry even in sleep; deep furrows cutting across the high olive brow. Teagan rose to his feet, eyeing the nearby couch with thoughts of rest on his own mind.

Just then, there came a hesitant knock at the door. The bann cursed under his breath, with a glance over his shoulder at the king. Fortunately, Alistair was still submerged in a deep quagmire of sleep; his body attempting to compensate for two nights of missed rest.

Wynne moved swiftly to the door, opening it with a reprimand already on her lips. There was a steward hovering there, white-faced and anxious. All of Highever seemed to be balanced on a knife-edge of tension, especially the occupants of the castle. The fiercely loyal servants viewed the penetration of their walls and the abduction of Bryce Cousland's daughter as some sort of _personal_ failing.

The senior enchanter took the offered note, almost tearing the parchment in her impatience to open it. Immediately she recognised Zevran's slanted and irregular hand; the elf possessed the untidy calligraphy of one who had never been formally taught.

Wynne read the half-dozen sentences twice over, then a third time for good measure. Teagan, thoughts of sleep temporarily banished, stopped short of barking a demanding enquiry. Nerves were also fraying amongst Flora's companions in the absence of their red-headed anchor.

"What's the news?" the bann asked tersely instead, the growth on his own face sprouting far beyond the usual neatly trimmed goatee.

"Zevran and his party ran across three members of the Carta holed up in an abandoned mine-shaft," Wynne replied, her eyes darting over the elf's hastily-penned words for a fourth time. "He writes that he was overly _vengeful_ with his tools on the first two – in other words, they perished before he could extract any useful information from them. He assures me that he will take more care with the third."

Teagan felt a small flutter of hope within his chest. For a moment, he had to fight back the urge to head straight down to the dungeons and assist in the extraction of information – fortunately, good sense prevailed.

"We'll let Alistair rest some hours," he said, tiredness creeping along the length of his limbs and turning them leaden. "By the time he wakes, there should be more word."

The few hours passed full of fitful and unsatisfactory sleep for all Flora's companions. Wynne found none of her usual solace in the Fade, while Teagan found himself waking abruptly every twenty minutes, his head turning towards the door as though expecting news. Fergus, who had taken much of the blame upon himself for his little sister's abduction, now slept in the Mabari kennels in an effort to calm the inconsolable Cod and Lobster. Aware that something was terribly wrong, the four month old pups had been in a state of near-constant distress. Finian had slept some hours during the night, and was now directing the search in the daylight hours. The middle Cousland sibling had conducted himself admirably during this whole traumatic episode – part-due to his new mantle of _arl,_ part-due to the lessons in stoic practicality from his northerner sister.

The Maker showed Alistair some small mercy – instead of being plagued by visions of his wife enslaved and children born into captivity, the king was plunged into a dark and dreamless slumber. His hands clutched compulsively at handfuls of mustard wood as he slept – Alistair had not been parted from Flora's dressing gown since her disappearance. It had even accompanied him in the warren of mines and quarries beneath Highever, bundled up neatly in a saddle-bag. The king kept it close to him like some lucky talisman; as if it would attract its former owner in the same manner as a lodestone.

All occupants of the royal bedchamber were woken abruptly by a hammering at the door; followed shortly by a hissed, heavily accented interchange between the guards and the new arrival. Alistair rose from his chair, the dressing gown clutched in his hands and a raw, painful hope writ across his wearied features.

The door swung open and a bloodied figure appeared there; a lean, knife-like silhouette with a face utterly devoid of emotion.

"Zevran," Wynne said, being the first to regain her composure. "You couldn't have washed the dwarf off yourself before coming up here? I trust you managed to extract some useful information from him before – well, I don't know. Disembowelment? Dismemberment?"

"No time," the elf replied, his voice devoid of its usual lightness. "We have been looking in the wrong place."

The flush of hope gradually faded from Alistair's face, and was replaced with a sickly grey. The king put a hand on the back of the armchair to steady himself, while Teagan and Wynne glanced at one another in confusion.

"What do you mean- " the bann began; Zevran cut him off abruptly, a terrible brightness in his dark eyes.

"The Carta obtained a ship. They've taken her on it."

The truth dangled in the air as a grim portent; like a knight returning from a campaign to see a funeral banner hanging from his ancestral walls. The elf needed to say nothing more: all their efforts in searching the mines, quarries, tunnels and Deep Roads had been futile.

"Shit," said Teagan at last, striding across the chamber to brace his swaying and stunned nephew. "How far could a ship travel in three days?"

"Kirkwall, easily," replied Wynne, her voice soft and weary. "If they headed east, they'd almost be at Val Royeaux. If west, perhaps Wycombe or Bastion in the Marches."

"Maker's Breath," croaked Alistair, his eyes shadowed with fear. "Flora can't be _out of Ferelden._ It's – it's not possible!"

The king sunk back into the armchair, incredulous and despairing.

"I swear, I will put an end to these assassin guilds," Zevran muttered to the bann; having chosen to distract himself by focusing on the enemy. "There is no place for Carta – or for Crows – within Ferelden. I'll see to it; mark my words."

Teagan passed a hand over his weary eyes, at a loss as to how to proceed. The realisation that all their searching of the subterranean world had been in vain was a bitter one to swallow.

"When Bryland gets here, he'll bring ships with him," he said at last, stomach twisting with nausea as he realised how wide they would now need to cast their net. "One could go east, one north, one west."

"Maker's Breath," whispered Alistair, raising red-rimmed and traumatised eyes to his uncle. "My sweet and beautiful wife – my _children_. How could I have let this happen? I swore to be Flo's shield on our wedding day. I've forsaken my oath!"

"Alistair," Wynne said, forcing sharpness into her tone. "Alistair, you mustn't give in to despair. Your wife and children need you to be strong. Can you do that?"

Alistair turned a pleading stare towards her, the anguish writ lurid across his face like a fresh wound.

"I – I- "

"You have no choice, dear boy."

There was a moment of taut silence, the tension quivering like a plucked lute string, continuing to quiver long after sound had died. The king ran his finger over the twisted golden loop of his wedding band; a manifest representation of the _fish rope_ that had once bound brother and sister-warden inexorably together.

At last he gave a muted nod, his jaw held stiff as any Tevinter statue.

"I'll… I'll try."

* * *

OOC Author Note: AGHHHH THE ANGST! Shit I feel guilty, lol, the amount of inner turmoil I've put poor Alistair through over the course of these stories! I'm surprised he's not got an entirely grey head of hair by now, hehe.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	166. Smuggler's Isle

Chapter 166: Smuggler's Isle

Contrary to the worst fears of her companions, the ship carrying the queen of Ferelden had not headed north to Kirkwall, nor west to Orlais. Instead, the beleaguered crew – who had to obey their Carta masters or meet the same fate as their former captain – set a course for a small island in the middle of the straits. During the Blessed Age it had been used as a drop-point by smugglers; during the Storm Age, the Qunari had utilised it as a base from which to launch raids on Kirkwall. Abandoned in the current Age; only sea-birds paid heed to the shores of this nondescript rocky isle.

It was insignificant enough not to warrant a name, let alone a marking on a map; a crag of granite extending above the waves with gravelled shores and a series of small caves tunnelled into the rock. A natural spur extending from its southern face served as a makeshift dock for small-to-mid sized vessels, and it was here that the Orlesian ship made for. Unfortunately, the terrified navigator – who did not perform well with the tip of a knife caressing his spine – had misjudged the angle of approach. The ship's hull dragged itself against the granite spur with a groan, the entire vessel shuddering in protest at such close contact.

Below deck Flora, who had managed to catch a few restless hours of sleep on the narrow bunk, awoke to the deafening scrape of rock against wood. In alarm, she heaved herself upright and looked about the storage compartment, half-expecting water to be pouring in through a tear in the hull. Her unwelcome surroundings came as no surprise this time; she remembered full-well where she was.

"We've dropped anchor."

This came from Nathaniel Howe, slumped motionless in the far corner with his hands manacled. Flora shot him a belligerent look; she still _fully_ blamed the arl's son for their current predicament.

"Dropped anchor where?" she demanded, praying that it was not Orlais.

 _I'm not mentally prepared for a whole land full of Orlesians!_

Nathaniel shot her an incredulous look: he was bound in place on the floorboards.

"How in the fel am I supposed to know? I can't see through wood."

Flora ran a hand affectionately over her stomach, cradling the curve of a small rump against her palm. To her surprise and relief, none of the previous night's fear had returned with her consciousness – she felt only a stoic, steely calm, and the cool metal of the descaling blade against her breast.

"I don't think we're in Orlais," she said, more to herself than to her fellow prisoner. "Not if we were only a few leagues off Highever yesterday. This ship only has one mast; it's not that fast."

The queen reached down absentmindedly to twist her rings about her finger, then flinched as she found them missing.

 _Of course,_ she thought to herself, remembering the Rivaini's gold toothed smile as he wrenched them from her finger. _He stole them._

 _Well, I'll take them back._

There came the now-familiar thud of footsteps from the exterior passageway. Flora wished that she had something else to wear save for the tartan pyjamas, which were now looking distinctly the worse for wear. Instead, she took a deep breath and sat upright, straightening her shoulders and assuming her most imperious expression as a key turned in the lock.

Leske made his entrance, a fraction warier than he had been the previous night. Flora was gratified to see that the dwarf was still disconcerted by her presence; his dark eyes slid everywhere about the storage compartment but refused to settle directly on her. He was accompanied by three other dwarves, hairy and identical in feature.

"Sleep well, princess?" Beraht's lieutenant enquired snidely, though his gaze came to rest somewhere just above Flora's left shoulder.

"I'm the _queen_ ," she retorted bluntly, not bothering to grace his query with a response. "And whoever is captaining this ship needs to learn their sea-charts. Unless their intention is to wreck us on the rocks?"

Leske narrowed his eyes at the spot above her head, their outlines smudged with coal-dust to deepen the sockets.

"Ready to go?"

Flora stared at him, pleased at the discomfiting effect that the Archdemon's traces had on the dwarf. She lifted fingers deliberately to her mouth to cover a yawn, putting the silvered markings on the back of her hand on full display. The dwarf was not quick enough to hide his initial reaction – a visceral shudder.

 _He's appalled by me,_ the queen thought to herself, wonderingly. _The scars left by the Archdemon's soul frighten him._

Flora had suppressed thoughts of Alistair since she had first awoken. Not only did she miss him terribly, but she had some idea of the anguish he must have been experiencing since discovering her absence. The thought of her husband in distress caused the queen's heart to leap forward with a sickening lurch; her stomach knotting itself in dismay. Yet now she could not help but contrast the dwarf's horror with the way that Alistair had reacted when he had first seen her fully naked after the Archdemon's defeat. The mottled white markings arced across her shoulder-blades; they were scrawled over her hip, her thigh, the left side of her collarbone, and over both the front and back of her hands.

 _He kissed every inch of silvered skin,_ Flora thought to herself, fondly. _There was pride in each press of his lips. Even now, three months later, he still touches them with reverence._

 _Stop thinking of Alistair, now. You can't let a single tear fall, not while you're still a prisoner._

Flora rose with a soft grunt of effort to her feet and crossed the storage chamber towards the dwarf. Despite the measured sway of the floorboards – the ship rocked in gentle motion by the undulating waves – the Sea Wolf's daughter walked with utter steadiness. In fact, those who had seen her walk recently on land might comment that the heavily-pregnant queen seemed _more_ comfortable in her footing in these less-than-ideal circumstances than she did on the shore. On the land, the former mage waddled – on a surface nudged constantly by fractious waves, she _strode._

"Steady," said Leske in alarm, and – to Flora's quiet delight – shuffled a step backwards. "You ain't just walkin' out there, free as you please."

A short while later, a manacled Flora and Nathaniel Howe were escorted up onto the top deck of the ship. She inhaled a deep lungful of Waking Sea air, drawing strength from its familiar, salt-edge coarseness. In stark contrast, he grimaced; turning his head and wincing as the sunlight scorched his underused retinas.

There was no sign of the Orlesian crew, but a half-dozen Carta dwarves lined the deck with a variety of nasty-looking weapons in their hands. They eyed Flora with mistrust and Nathaniel Howe with vague contempt, the sharp ends of their weapons were kept conspicuously angled towards him. While the points of their blades were turned on the disgraced arl's son, much of their vitriol was intended for the queen's ears. They taunted her for her new powerlessness, her inability to defend herself; one dwarf accused her of being no more than a glorified fortune hunter.

Flora ignored both sneers and brandished weapons; she had heard enough muttered derision and contempt at the Circle for it to roll off her back like water from a fish's scales.

Instead, she swept her gaze over the craggy isle rising before them. It was little more than an expanse of rock emerging from the waves, eroded by centuries of wind and water. The occasional opening hinted at a warren of caverns nestled within the granite. Although there was no drizzle in the air, a malcontent wind whistled disconsolately about the exposed stone crags. It was a desolate and unremarkable isle; one of several dozen jutting like broken teeth above the waters of the Waking Sea. Strangely enough it reminded Flora of the Hag's Teeth reef that guarded the water beyond Herring.

 _What a beautiful little island this is,_ she thought, fondly. _So bleak and desolate!_

A narrow and exposed gangplank extended from the ship onto the makeshift jetty – in reality, just a happenstance spur of rock. The queen negotiated this treacherous walkway with her heart in her mouth, grateful that she had spent much of the past half-decade clambering over the precarious ledges of the Circle Tower roof. She heard Nathaniel let out a harsh curse from behind her as he almost slipped – his legs had not yet fully regained their potency after a week chained in the hold of the ship.

They were led along the spur of rock and into the warren of narrow tunnels; the hideaway hollowed out in the previous Age by sea-faring smugglers. The air within was damp and stagnant, lit by the occasional guttering torch. Leske, accompanied by several other armed guards, seemed far more confident than he had done while on the ship; a fact that Flora noted with mild irritation. She supposed that the dwarves would feel more comfortable in surroundings reminiscent of their subterranean home, yet this ran counter to her own desires. She _desired_ for her captors to be on edge, to be nervous and oddly disconcerted around her.

They passed a makeshift tavern in one large chamber, in which tables and chairs had been crowded in rambunctious fashion. Two vast kegs were placed at one end, straining on their wooden frames. Dwarves gathered around them with tin tankards thrust out to intercept the pungent liquor. There was the scent of triumph in the air; the Carta were clearly intent on celebrating the successful capture of their target. Beraht stood to one side with meaty arms folded across his chest. Although there was a tankard of ale resting on a nearby table, it remained untouched. The leader of the Carta clearly had no interest in getting drunk – as the prisoners were escorted past, his eyes swivelled to watch their progress.

Beside him stood the Rivaini alchemist, who knew too much about alcohol's intoxicant properties to ever indulge in the stuff. The tall man's dark stare settled on the queen with a prickling, uncomfortable heat; the tip of his tongue running over the scarification on his lip. Flora was used to being stared at – men had been looking at her in a certain sort of way since she had been fourteen years old – but there was something different about this man's attentions. It was not her looks that drew his covetous gaze, but the marks left by the Archdemon upon her body; the pale, whorls of an old god's soul etched into her flesh.

In the face of such strange fixation, Flora took a deep breath and lifted her chin; following in Leske's footsteps with her head held as high as possible.

The Carta's prisoners were led around several more bending passageways until they reached a chamber that was quite clearly intended for the holding of captives. The smugglers who had once tunnelled this ancient hideout had created a series of prison cells for those they ran afoul of on the open seas. Several of these chambers had crumbled in on themselves over the years, but the one at the far end of the stone passage remained intact.

The cell was larger than the storage compartment on the ship had been, with a ceiling dripping stalactites and slick, moss-covered surfaces. One wall sported a collection of rusting manacles and chains; rather unpleasantly, a mouldering skeleton still reclined in one set of cuffs. The only light came from a natural aperture set high in the rock, just wide enough to let in a single anaemic sunbeam.

"Sorry it isn't the fine conditions you're used to, _majesty,"_ Leske commented, sarcasm coating each word like a fine sauce. "And there isn't much in the way of company."

"Maker's Breath," muttered the arl's son, then stumbled as he was shoved unceremoniously into the cell.

Yet Flora, who had spent a decade living in a one-chambered fishing hut with the skeleton of a dead youth for company, was unperturbed.

Nathaniel was manacled at hand and foot first – with the point of a glittering blade held at his throat – and shoved down onto the floor of the cell with a muttered curse. Silent, but with a smoulder of hatred set in his stare, he watched the chains being fastened to a thick iron ring embedded in the wall.

Flora, the more valuable asset, was treated with a greater degree of concern. There was a table and chair on her side of the cell, alongside a narrow bunk. As had been the case on the boat, her manacles were fixed to a chain long enough to afford her some degree of movement.

She sat down on the bunk, her pale eyes resting with silent disapproval on her captors as they finished fastening the manacles. As before, the dwarves worked quickly – eager to put some proximity between themselves and the Fade-marked queen. The cuffs and chains were locked with crudely cut keys, kept on a single iron ring. Once all restraints had been fastened and checked, Leske cast a triumphant eye across the faces of his prisoners.

"Some of our bidders are meant to be arriving by week's end," he promised the queen, lip curling in triumph. "The boss could let them have a sneak peek of the goods, if he's in generous mood."

"Your boss doesn't strike me as the generous type," retorted Flora, rudely. "And _I'm_ not in the mood to entertain guests."

The dwarf shot her a look, incredulous and pitying.

"I doubt you'll be so cocky after our bidders arrive," he promised, blunt and contemptuous. "Enjoy privacy while it lasts."

Flora decided not to reflect too intensively on what this comment might mean; she had a feeling that such a tangent of thought might be both distressing and distracting. Instead, she took a deep breath – the comforting press of the descaling blade against her breast – and surveyed their new prison. It was no more salubrious than the ship's storage compartment; on the contrary, the walls were mildewed and it was several degrees colder.

The cell - complete with the mouldering skeleton - seemed oddly familiar and Flora felt immediately at home. Retrieving the load of bread left on the table, she managed to break it in two with some difficulty. The chain on her manacles was several feet in length, but the wrists themselves were fastened tightly together.

"Breakfast," she instructed Nathaniel Howe, before lobbing the bread clumsily across the cell. It landed in a patch of damp east of his boot; he managed to manoeuvre it within reach with a toe. With no small amount of effort – considering the blunt length of his chains – he was just about able to navigate the foodstuff into his mouth.

They ate in silence, listening to the muffled sounds of the dwarves moving through the surrounding caves. On occasion, they heard footsteps outside their own cell. This was usually followed by a pause – as a dwarf peered within the narrow viewing slat in the door - and then a quick acceleration.

Flora didn't know if their purpose was to gloat at the magnitude of their prize, or to steal a wary glimpse of the Archdemonic scarring writ across her body. She had finished the bread and was sitting in as comfortable a position as she could find on the hard bunk – which was literally an elevated slab of wood, with no pillow to pad her aching back.

 _Don't be so soft,_ the queen thought furiously to herself. _Just because Alistair has been rushing around with cushions and comfortable chairs for the past three months doesn't mean you've forgotten how a hard surface feels._

A sharp pang pierced Flora's gut at the thought of her husband. After establishing that there was no _physical_ cause behind the pain – just anguish at their separation, and grief over the despair he must have been feeling – Flora took a deep breath and forced her former brother-warden from her head.

 _I need to wear an Orlesian masque: thoughts, emotions and intentions all veiled from my opponents._

Once again, Flora found herself grateful for the natural haughtiness of her features, and for the cold-eyed, imperious beauty which she had often resented.

 _How many times before this year did I wish I had a warm smile, kind brown eyes and an approachable expression?_

 _After facing down Loghain in the Landsmeet, convincing Arl Howe that I was Tranquil, speaking in front of an army of ten thousand, and surviving the circumstances I'm currently in – I'm grateful for the face I've got._

"So you've moved on from throwing insults to throwing bread, then."

Flora swivelled her head to where Nathaniel was slumped, another day's worth of fresh growth sprouting from hollowed features. As had been the case on the ship, his chains were shorter and more punishingly tight than her own.

"Yes," she said, surprised that he did not remember her comment from the previous day. "I need you to help me escape."

Nathaniel let out a despairing bark of laughter, casting a humourless eye around their surroundings.

"You've a plan?"

"Well!" Flora replied enigmatically, casting him a mysterious look in response. "Hmmm."

"That's a _no,_ then."

"Hmph," the queen retorted, ignoring the small voice in the back of her mind that reminded her that _thinking_ had never been her strong point. It had been her clever companions – Leliana, Wynne, Zevran – who had come up with the majority of the strategising during their travels around Ferelden. "I'm _working_ on it."

* * *

OOC Author Note: One of the main purposes of having this escapade before the birth wasn't just to have a bit of drama – it was to give poor old Flo the opportunity to accept herself for the person she is, without her spirits. Her magic – and being a healer – was such an integral part of herself! Now, she's discovering that her Herring grit and Cousland cool (and her natural resting bitch face, lol) are pretty formidable qualities on their own! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	167. A Sordid Desire

Chapter 167: A Sordid Desire

The morning slid slowly towards afternoon, though there was no way to track the passage of the sun inside the cramped, shadow-wreathed cell. Flora, who had learnt the stoic patience of a fisherman as a child, was quiet and contemplative. Nathaniel was more restless, testing the strength of the chains and eyeing the impossibly-small aperture set high in the stone.

After over-exerting her brain from thinking too strenuously, Flora fell asleep for several hours, hunched awkwardly over the swell of her stomach. Her children, cramped and impatient, poked at her occasionally; but she ignored their imperious little nudges.

"You must have been in more dangerous situations than this when you were with the Grey Wardens."

Nathaniel's words pierced the veil of sleep like a blade slicing through a thin curtain; Flora awoke, blinking and bleary-eyed.

"Eh?"

"You don't seem the _type_ to be a Warden," Nathaniel continued, watching the queen rub the sleep from her eyes. "For some reason, I always pictured them as a troop of battle-scarred, grizzly old men. How old are you – seventeen, eighteen?"

"No," replied Flora, then had to laboriously count up the years to remind herself how old she actually _was._ "I'm two-ty. Ah – _twenty."_

"Then what made you want to join the Order? I don't know what's worse: a life inside a Circle, or one in the Deep Roads."

Flora allowed herself a moment of self-indulgent reminiscence; summoning her old commander's tan, hawk-like features to her waking mind. Conscious that she would never see Duncan during any nocturnal visitation to the Fade – the spirits' realm was now barred from her – the former Warden kept the memory of her late commander polished and sharp.

"I didn't choose to join the Wardens," she said eventually, recalling how the earring dangling from Duncan's left ear had glinted in the torchlight. "I didn't even know what they were. I was _chosen_."

 _Duncan had dozens of skilled senior apprentices and fully-fledged enchanters to select from._

 _Instead, he picked me: the Vase, the odd girl who talked to herself and preferred to wash the flagstones than sit in class. He said later that he knew he wanted me from the moment he saw me shield the Tranquil. When he then watched me heal the injured man, he decided that he would not take no for an answer._

 _Careless of propriety – he never cared much for convention, despite the prickling disapproval from the senior enchanters – Duncan strode across the chamber and touched his fingers to the remnants of magic still clinging to my chin._

 _I'll never forget the expression on his face._

Nathaniel Howe had been silent for several minutes, a flicker of recollection passing across his own weary features.

"I had an ancestor who was a Warden," he said eventually, fingering the tattered edge of his tunic. "Padric Howe. He joined the Fereldan Order against the wishes of the family, but he was only a second son. He had something to prove, I suppose."

Flora shifted herself on the narrow bunk – oddly enough, the firm stretch of wood was not as vexatious as first appearance might suggest. The legacy of a decade sleeping on the hard floor of a fisherman's hut had instilled some innate ability to adapt to discomfort. She turned her head, resting her cheek on her ring-less fingers to gaze at Howe through the dimly lit cell.

"So other qualities run in your family than just _treachery_ , then," she began, then abruptly decided not to expend energy on pointless needling. "Do you know anything else about him, Namathale? When he served, who his commander was?"

They both paused, heads turning as one towards the barred door as a raucous burst of laughter erupted from the passage beyond. Once it became clear that no-one planned to make entrance, Nathaniel shook his head.

"I've not had much opportunity to investigate the family archives in recent years," he replied wryly, the words accompanied by a humourless snort. "I've spent much of the past decade in the Marches."

The queen looked at him, a question writ clear across her features.

"Well, it turned out that I was more capable of making a Marcher lord proud than my own father," Nathaniel continued, with an ironic shrug of the shoulders. "Padric Howe shouldn't have left to seek glory elsewhere, just on account of being a second son. _Firstborn_ sons are just as capable of being a disappointment."

 _Ooh,_ Flora thought, eyeing him warily. _You have some issues._

The rest of the afternoon passed in painfully slow increments. A dwarf brought in yet another loaf of stale bread, and an apple for Flora. This was – alarmingly – _intended to keep her flesh succulent,_ the man imparted with a meaningful leer.

Flora, realising that this was a reference to her own upcoming _sale,_ had a fit of uncharacteristic temper and hurled the apple as best she could with her manacled hands. The fruit sailed across the chamber and collided with the closing door of the cell: shattering into hunks of pale flesh. Immediately, the queen felt a pang of guilt for wasting food.

As evening arrived, the wail of the wind – which had been skulking around the craggy isle all afternoon – graduated to a petulant scream, like an angry child. It tore around the smuggler's rock, whistling through narrow stretches and howling in futile rage against unyielding stone faces. Drizzle became downpour in mere seconds, the rain transforming from gentle patter to violent assault; lashing itself against the cliffs like the flails of self-mortifying Chantry devotees. The escalation of weather was sudden and violent, and yet utterly unremarkable for any native of the Storm Coast.

Flora cast a fond eye out at the broiling, cloud-filled sky, which was just visible through the barred window. Her cell-mate was startled by the abrupt violence of the storm, but Nathaniel Howe had been raised beside the comparatively placid expanse of the Amaranthine Ocean. The queen was used to the shifting temperament of the Waking Sea, narrow and mean as a snake.

 _The first of the autumn storms. This must be what Fergus was referring to,_ she thought, naïvely. _When he said we couldn't leave Highever._

Their cell was cast into shadow by the increased ferocity of the draught, which snuffed out the candles with deliberate vindictiveness. Footsteps came echoing down the corridor, with slow, purposeful strides. The arl's son looked at the queen; the queen heaved herself up enough so at least she was not prostrate on the bunk, rubbing the tiredness from her eyes and taking a deep breath. Her knee gave a sharp twinge of pain as she moved her leg, and Flora decided not to risk standing.

 _Mask back on._

There was a jangling of keys from outside, and then a thud as they were dropped to the ground. This was followed by a muttered curse tinged by a foreign tongue; Flora realised the identity of the visitor at the same time as her cell-mate.

 _It's the Rivaini,_ she wondered to herself, grateful for her mouth's natural, sulking curve. _The alchemist. Ugh, go away!_

Beraht's aims were simple: he wished to sell the queen and her valuable infants for as much coin as possible in Thedas' most shameful of trades. He had told Flora bluntly that he would be willing to cut them out of her belly if they did not make a timely appearance, a crime for which Flora had silently awarded him a death sentence.

The Rivaini's desires were far more complex; he had looked at Flora in a way that made her feel as though beetles were crawling over her skin. It was something other than carnal intent; she was used enough to men's lusting stares that they barely registered anymore. Instead, the tip of his tongue had run over his lips when he set eyes on the silvered markings in her flesh. She remembered Duncan mentioning that Rivain had a long and intertwined history with magic; indeed, he had been fascinated by Flora's connection with the Fade. Duncan was the first person to name her as a _spirit-healer_ – recalling similar abilities found in the seers of the desert tribes.

However, her former Warden-Commander's admiration had been quiet and respectful; he had never stepped beyond the bounds of propriety with his young and peculiarly-gifted mage. The Carta's Rivaini alchemist, on the other hand, had eyed Flora as though she were a newfound mineral of untapped power; something which could be ground down or distilled until its valuable essence could be extracted.

Outside, the storm was growing in potency, the water and turbulent air locked in violent conflict with each other. The wind lashed at the surface of the water, the waves flung gouts of foamy spray into the air; the craggy isle was caught helpless between the two inexorable foes.

Moments later, the door swung open and the Rivaini entered the room like a spider; scuttling and long-limbed. With a swift glance over his shoulder, he closed the door and locked it behind him.

Nathaniel bridled, chains rattling as he attempted – with futile effort – to clamber to his feet. When this came to no avail, he let out a hiss of warning between his teeth; olive eyes flashing.

"I'd get out, Rivaini, before your master discovers you in here. Nobody is permitted to enter except for the branded dwarf, and Beraht doesn't take kindly to his word being violated."

The Rivaini gave a dismissive snort, the whites of his eyes bright against the shadows as he rolled them.

"I do not work for the Carta," he said, his voice thin and silken. "We are merely associates of circumstance."

He crossed the cell and Flora wished suddenly that she had risen to her feet, weak knee be damned. She felt unpleasantly vulnerable on the bunk, despite sitting up as straight as she was able; especially since the Rivaini's eyes were moving over her with unashamed covetousness.

As the alchemist drew nearer, Flora realised with a hot twist of anger in her belly that he was wearing her rings through his ears like some twisted parody of Duncan's own simple gold hoop. The Cousland band, the fish-rope wedding knot and the plump betrothal pearl had been gathered on a single ring, threaded through the fleshy lobe.

"You shouldn't have put them on your ear," the queen observed, managing to summon some bravado. "That's just going to hurt more when I remove them."

The Rivaini didn't bother to entertain what he perceived as delusion with any related response. Instead, unblinking, he reached into his satchel and withdrew a glass phial of a dark, suspiciously oily substance.

"A cunningly distilled essence of mugwort and vervain," he murmured, letting the contents roll lazily around their glass chamber. "If I uncork this phial, the cell will fill with a potent aroma that will have _absolutely_ no effect on myself and this dog, here."

The 'dog' he was referring to was Nathaniel, whose face was contorted in anger and rage at his own helplessness.

"If, however, a woman bearing child inhales this odour," the Rivaini continued, coming to a halt before Flora and holding the phial just before her stony face. "It will trigger _violent_ _convulsions_ of the womb. Any babes resident will be expelled in whatever form they hold. Along with much of the woman's insides, I'm afraid. So, _your highness_ , I suggest you remain quiet."

"It's _your majesty,"_ retorted Flora, unable to help herself. She knew little of etiquette, but Leliana had drilled certain basic necessities into her the night before her coronation.

The Rivaini made a sound in the back of his throat like a snake giving a warning, the scarification on his head gleaming pale in the faint thread of moonlight. He raised a hand as though to strike Flora but grew distracted by the Archdemon's silvered markings on her hands; her collarbone; the dull golden glint of her own stagnant magic in her eye. Anger soon melted into fascination, and once more the tip of the tongue flickered over the lips in reptilian manner.

From this small distance, Flora could see that the scars on his head consisted of intricately interwoven runic patterns. Although she could not interpret them, she recognised the strange etchings from book spines on Circle library shelves.

 _He practises alchemy and carves magic lettering into himself, yet he has no magic of his own. He collects the traits of mages like souvenirs, but possesses no inherent talent._

"The imprint of an old god's soul," the man breathed, reaching out a bony finger to stroke the marking on Flora's collarbone. Flora braced herself for his hand to wander covetously lower, but it only traced the outline of the silvered arc before retracting.

"Wasted on a foolish and ignorant girl," the Rivaini continued, lip curling in disgust as he stared down at her. "I'd wager ten gold _fechma_ that you did not even know the name of the great being that you callously, _thoughtlessly_ slew."

"Imbecile?" replied Flora, who had been told of the old god's name by her spirits, but had ignominiously forgotten it.

" _Urthemial,"_ snarled the alchemist, the oily liquid quivering in the glass as he trembled. _"Aldraxe!_ Cretin. You dishonour it's name to utter it."

Having spent ten years in the company of her Herring-mother, Flora knew madness when she saw it. She eyed the Rivaini, trying to draw from the vast reserves of patience and pity that she had developed for those whose minds were in a state of flux. Nathaniel, impotent and chained, gritted his teeth and prayed silently that the Hero of Ferelden's reputation had not solely been built on her now-extinguished magic.

The Rivaini looked about to continue in such vitriolic vein, then grew distracted by the liquidous sheen of the mugwort essence.

"Ah, but this is a _wondrous_ concoction," he said after a moment, breathless with self-approval as he swirled the oily liquid in slow rotation. "Truly, my skills would be in demand in any royal court or assassins' guild. Do you know where I learnt this craft?"

"In a Circle?" Flora asked, deliberately obtuse. As she had hoped, the man flinched; a flicker of resentment passing across his face.

"Of course not, _garoxa._ I am no mage."

 _For all that you wish you were,_ she mused, eyeing him carefully.

The Rivaini – to Flora's relief – slid the mugwort abortifacient back into the leather pouch at his hip. Unfortunately, he then began to remove a series of items that were no less disturbing: a small, silver blade, a vial filled with greenish liquid, a delicate pair of tweezers. As he placed these tools on a nearby table, he continued to speak; voice warming as when recanting a fond memory.

"There was an old woman of great alchemical skill in the village I grew up in near Dairsmuid, by the name of Marxa. She crafted liquids that could coax plants from the earth, purify the foulest water so that it was safe to drink, lull babes to soundest sleep with a single sniff. I spent many hours…"

 _This lunatic might not be a mage_ , Flora thought to herself as she stopped listening, eyeing the assorted tools glumly. _But he pontificates like one. How many hours did I spend in the Circle listening to teachers in love with the sound of their own voice?_

The queen let the alchemist's voice fade into the background; focusing instead on the petulant howl of the wind and the responding lash of wave against rock. She wondered how Herring was faring in the storm, and who had ventured out atop the treacherous Hag's Teeth reef to light the beacon at its end.

"…. spent many years attempting to emulate her skills….. unsuccessful…."

 _When should I use this blade?_ Flora wondered, taking comfort in the cold metal of the descaling knife against her breast. _It has to be exactly the right moment, in the right manner – if I fail, I'll never get another chance._

"…. my mind turned itself to darker methods of obtaining her ability. Stole her notes and spent weeks pouring over them, spied on her in the small hours. Even reported her to the Templars in the hope that she might be discovered as a mage, and the source of her ability _magical_ rather than purely skilled! 'Twas not the case."

 _If I fail, I'll never get a chance to do anything again._

"And so, finally, I had to resort to other means. I took her body – though it pained me to do it, as I have never felt any _natural desire_ for another- "

Flora stopped her own inward musings and let her attention focus on the Rivaini, her eyes narrowing to mask the sudden leap of revulsion in her breast. From his chained position on the ground, Nathaniel Howe spat on the stone in disgust.

"Then – during the climactic moment - I took her _life_ ," continued the insane alchemist, eyes glinting in the twilit shadow. "As her life force drained away beneath me, I could _feel_ her potency infuse my bones and vessels. I returned to my laboratory, and found myself _inspired._ And… and now, _finally._ I have the chance to obtain a power far greater. Those mages whom I have lain and slain did not grant me their ability, but you – _you!_ You had the power of an _old god_ coursing through your body. I cannot resist the chance to _try_ and claim some residual fragment, even if I cannot take this the death blow afterwards. It's not as though the dwarf is trying to claim you're a virgin, so what matter?"

It was a test even greater than when Flora – feigning Tranquility – had been confronted with Loghain Mac Tir for the first time since Ostagar. Despite the grotesque insinuations of the creature standing before her, she managed to maintain her cold-eyed ambiguity of expression. The queen stared down the deranged alchemist, the masquerade of haughty indifference so compelling that her heart had not even increased its slow, calculated beat.

 _I'll never complain about this face again,_ Flora to herself, in disbelief at how still her hands were, fingers clasped calmly atop her stomach.

"You're out of luck; I've got no magic left," she replied, equally startled by the evenness of her voice. "I don't even visit the Fade when I sleep. I'm like a dwarf."

"No, no, no… no," he replied obstinately, deaf to her protests. "There'll be _something_ left, some arcane remnant – even a _fraction_ of an old god's power is priceless."

The alchemist plucked up the green potion and uncapped it, bending to grab the queen's wrists as he continued to mutter. It was as though he spoke mostly to himself, the words running together like galloping _halla,_ his thoughts emerging in knots of tangled fishing line.

"But I'll not have you tonight, I've not the stomach for it- "

 _Not tonight, nor any other!_ vowed Flora, appalled at the grotesque suggestion. He was gripping her manacled hands now, turning them over as the chains rattled.

"Maker's Breath, man," interjected Nathaniel, a note of pleading in his tone. "She's heavy with babe. Have some mercy."

"No, no- I cannot bring myself to take you now," continued the alchemist, a touch melodramatically, ignoring Nathaniel entirely. "They say that you've the fairest face in Ferelden, yet I look on you with no more desire than I did old Marxa. No, today I merely intend to carry out a few tests – hence why I have come to collect my _samples."_

 _Beraht is mine,_ the queen thought to herself, with slow and calculated purpose. _But I'll let Alistair have this one. He'll need something to slake his rage on, and this man has carried out unforgivable acts._

 _I've shown compassion for people who've done terrible things before. I forgave Loghain, because he believed he was acting in Ferelden's best interests. I forgave the assassin Symon, because he needed coin to pay for his son's medicine._

 _This man was acting for no higher purpose, but for his own greed and ambition. He's remorseless._

The alchemist had possessed a key to the cell, but not to Flora's manacles. Still, he had come prepared for this eventuality – several drops of the greenish potion applied to the iron link between the manacles soon had the metal melting away like heated lead. For the first time since their arrival on the smuggler's isle, Flora's hands were unimpeded – and for the briefest of seconds, her eyes met Nathaniel's; the same thought passing between them.

 _I could try and use the blade now._

Flora allowed herself ten heartbeats to contemplate the idea, while the alchemist gripped her hands and turned them from side to side; inspecting the silvered marks from each angle. He even ducked his head to run his tongue along the arcane brand, exhaling with unsteady pleasure.

 _Eurgh_ , the queen thought indignantly, momentarily distracted. _I'm not a delicious piece of pickled herring. Stop licking me!_

The alchemist kept her left wrist gripped tightly, his own hand groping for the small blade on the nearby table. Flora inhaled, feeling the cold metal of her own diminutive blade between her swollen breasts.

 _Should I? Do I dare? I wish you were still here to advise me._

But Flora's spirits had been forever severed from her; and could no more give an answer than the moon could lose its grip on the night sky and go plunging into the depths of the Waking Sea. The queen was forced instead to listen to the lonely voice of her own reason.

 _It's not the right moment. He's above you, you have the use of only one hand. There's no clean blow to take._

 _Besides, this isn't the right man to claim. The Carta won't mourn his loss. It'll make no difference to them._

Gritting her teeth, Flora kept her hand from her breast. The Rivaini's breath came hot and excited against her neck; the blade darted out and made a small cut in the centre of her palm. A soft, throaty sound of contentment emerged from between his thin lips as he collected a small vial of blood.

 _Just like when I first came to the Circle,_ Flora thought to herself, feeling a squirm from within her belly. _They took my blood then, too. At least I'm not crying this time. Ow, it stings!_

The alchemist drew back, corking the vial with bright exultation writ across his features. He held the vial of blood up to the thin thread of moonlight, a thin groan of delight crawling from his throat. Flora eyed him, just about resisting the urge to place a hand on her stomach as she felt the nudge from within. Blood was beading on her palm, welling up along the thin, inch long gash.

"Are you finished?" she asked, icily. "Or do you want to take some of my hair as well? Or my waters? My bladder will happily oblige if you give it a moment."

The alchemist curled his lip, looking at her with mingled fascination and revulsion.

"Oh, I'll be taking something from you, _mirza._ But it'll wait until tomorrow night."

Flora let her eyes roll towards the ceiling of the cell, leaning her head against the wall. The Rivaini glanced down at the cuffs, which now dangled uselessly around her wrists with no chain to link them. A moment later, his gaze alighted on a length of rope slung haphazardly on a hook in the corner of the cell.

"Do not think that I would leave you unbound," he murmured, gesturing impatiently for her to lean forwards. "I'll give you less freedom than the dwarf did. Hands behind your back!"

Flora obligingly hunched over her stomach, grimacing as bony fingers assisted with an ungentle shove down on her shoulder-blades. Moments later, she felt the rope being knotted around her wrists, the worn fibres abrasive against her skin. Yet she welcomed the harsh attention of the rope; in fact, she could have cried with happiness when the alchemist had decided on the _convenient_ solution as opposed to fetching new chains from elsewhere.

It did not matter that Flora's wrists were bound behind her back, nor that she could not _see_ the intricate twists and turns of her fibrous prison. For Ferelden's queen was the daughter of a fisherman as well as a teyrn, and she had been knotting rope since she was five years.

 _Gullwing knot,_ she thought, recognising the distinctive tug and twist. _And then a half-gudgeon. A lacktail tie to finish, poorly done. I bet he put no thought into it._

Flora did not dare to breathe another word, in case the alchemist decided to fetch a length of chain to augment his work. Instead of fright, her still and watchful face now sought to hide disbelief and excitement; her heart fluttering against her ribcage like a trapped bird.

The alchemist took his leave, slipping the vial of blood into his pocket with a quiet cackle of delight. Nathaniel Howe muttered something unintelligible and insulting under his breath as the man passed, which only served to earn him a swift kick in the ribs. Yet Flora did not pay heed to the closing and locking of the door, nor to Nathaniel's low exhalation of pain. Slender fingers were already wandering over the contortions of the rope – which felt far more familiar than any quill or ink-pen – feeling for the waxen end.

 _How many hours did I spend untangling fishing line in a gloomy fishing hut? It was always too dark to see; Ma didn't like me using my magic around her, even if it was only to create hovering lanterns of golden light._

"Why do you look so happy?" Nathaniel demanded, his brows furrowed as he stared up at her from his prostrate position on the floor. "Didn't you hear what that madman said? What he plans to _do_ to you _?"_

"Mm," replied Flora vaguely, grateful that she kept her nails bitten and thus short enough to work themselves into diminutive gaps. "He's a witless-wallop."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ewwwghhhhhh! I wanted to introduce a new antagonist in this little story arc – other than Beraht – and I thought a creepy alchemist who wants desperately to be a mage would be a good one. He's desperate to absorb any kind of magical remnant he can; and is in complete denial about Flora's magically severed self, haha. Lol, Alistair would not be happy if he knew about this! Can you even imagine?!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	168. The Queen's Lure

Chapter 168: The Queen's Lure

Nathaniel Howe fell silent and remained so for the next hour. Flora, with the patience of one watching for the bob of a line, continued to worm her thumbs into the twists and turns of the rope binding her wrists. She could feel raw patches on her knuckles from the friction against her skin, yet ignored the pain and kept working at the cords that bound her. Her palm stung from the alchemist's blade; this too went unnoticed.

Eventually, the disgraced arl's son spoke up once again, quiet and rueful. He did not look at Flora as he spoke but kept his gaze on the small patch of barred moonlight set high on the wall.

"How much value does the oath of a Howe hold in Ferelden these days?"

Flora turned her head to peer at him, allowing her sore and stiff fingers a momentary respite.

"Eh?"

"I'd wager not much," Nathaniel continued, his lip curling upwards without humour. "Considering recent events."

The queen looked at him for a long moment; she had always been able to read faces far more competently than she had been able to read books.

"I'd say it depends on the Howe," she replied, digging her thumbs back into the knots once again. She was unsure whether it was truth or hopeful imaginings – but it felt as though the rope bindings were fractionally looser than they had been just an hour prior.

He turned his head towards her; the silhouette reminiscent of Rendon Howe for just the briefest moment before the strong jaw reasserted itself once again.

"Well then, I offer it and you can decide its worth."

The man drew a long, slow breath; there was a note of resignation in it. Flora kept working at the rope – the cord chafing painfully at the skin - but kept her face tilted towards him to show her attention.

"I'll help you escape, in whatever way I can. Not only that, I swear I'll return you to your husband's side - somehow. I don't care what happens to me; but I… I would see Ferelden's queen restored."

Flora envisioned how Alistair would react on seeing Nathaniel Howe – the catalyst for this entire misadventure – in the flesh.

 _Instantaneous , incandescent rage. A blade drawn in a heartbeat, thrust home without hesitation._

"He'll kill you on the spot," she said, voicing her thoughts aloud. The queen was well aware that Alistair's compassion did not extend to those who endangered his wife.

"I expect so," replied the dark-haired Howe, with a hapless grunt and a shrug of the shoulders. "Which I suppose is fitting, since I desired _your_ death to begin with."

Flora eyed him a moment more, shifting her wrists as she felt the bonds begin to slacken.

"Thank you," she said, begrudging and sincere. "I plan to get _myself_ back to my husband's side. But I'd appreciate some help."

Nathaniel gave a grunt of acknowledgment, leaning his head back against the stone wall of the cell. In another part of the cave, the dwarves were marking their victory with whiskey and Orlesian brandy taken from the hold of the stolen ship; a note of triumph ringing through their muffled carousing. Part of the reason for their inebriation was to celebrate the storm's cessation – the weather patterns above the Waking Sea were constantly shifting. The gale-wind had eased to a low, irritable whine; the downpour had become a drizzle. The waves no longer crashed in a fury against the base of the rocky isle; instead, they sucked and gurgled around its base.

"Not that my promise of aid makes much difference," Nathaniel Howe spoke into the darkness, after listening to the sounds of drunken celebration with a sour expression writ across his face. "I mean, when would we ever have a chance to escape from this place?"

"Tonight," replied the queen of Ferelden, briskly.

" _Tonight?"_ her fellow prisoner repeated, turning to face her in astonishment. "What do you mean – _Maker's Breath!"_

This was in response to Flora holding up her hands triumphantly in the dim shadow of the cell. Her wrists were chafed and her fingers sore from working through the rope; yet the rope itself now slithered loose onto the swell of her stomach.

"By Andraste," Nathaniel commented, mouth agape. "How in the name of Calenhad's bitch did you manage that?"

Flora's mouth turned upwards in an uncharacteristic beam, pleased with her own work.

"Any child of Herring knows a knot," she replied, thinking on countless hours every week spent untangling fishing line. "It shouldn't have taken me this long to undo it, except I confused myself halfway through and started to tie it back up again. I'm out of practice."

She flexed her sore arms, bending them at the elbows to encourage the circulation. They felt uncomfortably numb after being constrained for hours; the sensation of blood returning to the stiff limbs was strange and prickling.

Nathaniel looked at her thoughtfully, and although their situation was still dire – they were locked in their cell, surrounded by the enemy, unarmed and outnumbered – he did not point out the perils that still remained.

"What's your plan?" he asked, and there was no sarcasm within the query.

Flora, who had withdrawn the descaling blade from between her breasts, now ran her fingers affectionately over the familiar contours of the handle. Nathaniel had been right in his earlier comment – it was a diminutive blade, less than three inches in length – and yet she felt more confident with it in her grasp than any assassin's blade or warrior's sword.

"I'm going to kill the leader of the Carta," she replied, dropping her fingers to her stomach to caress a small movement within. "I don't think there's a way to do this without his death."

Flora did not add that Beraht had lost his chance for a Landsmeet trial the moment that he had threatened to cut her children from her belly and sell them. Once again, she touched the naked spot where her wedding rings had once sat; the flesh still indented from the press of the bands.

" _How_ are you planning to kill him?" Nathaniel asked, making a valiant effort to keep the disbelief from his tone. "I'd offer my assistance, but…"

He held up his bound wrists; manacles similarly clamping his ankles together.

"Beraht has got the keys," replied Flora, recalling the iron ring dangling from the Carta leader's belt. "And… I'm not sure yet. But I'll think of something."

Nathaniel could have produced a dozen more questions – _how were they supposed to outnumber two dozen dwarves, how would they get off the smuggler's isle, what about the Rivaini alchemist and his supply of noxious, intoxicating fumes –_ but he kept quiet.

Both of the Carta's prisoners fell silent, she deep in thought and he equally ponderous. Coming up with plans had never been Flora's strong point – she freely admitted that she lacked the mental agility for it – but necessity was a strong motivator, as were the consequences of failure. Only once did her mind stray down the path of futile nostalgia; reminiscing about the days when her spirits had freely offered their advice.

 _If you were here, you could tell me what to do. Just like when I was Arl Howe's prisoner._

 _Stop it, Flora! It's a waste of time. They're not here. It's just you, now._

There came an insistent nudge from within her stomach, and Flora patted the bulge of firm flesh. The tartan pyjama shirt was now looking much the worse for wear after its prolonged use; the sleeves ragged and the hem torn in a half-dozen places.

 _Don't even THINK about coming out yet!_ Flora thought sternly to her fidgeting children. _I haven't raised you to be impatient little lobsters._

 _Oh!_

An idea had uncovered itself in her mind, like layers of silt shifting to reveal a pearl nestled in tidal mud. It was only the smallest kernel of a plan – more of a vague notion, really – but it was something more than Flora had had a moment ago. A prickle of excitement ran along her veins and she sat up a little straighter on the bunk, feeling her heart leap forward in an excited surge. It did not _matter_ that it was only a half-plan, a formless and unfinished thing that had emerged from her consciousness without an end. Whether it was delivering a speech or slaying an Archdemon, the queen had always preferred to improvise.

 _Can you do this?_ came the whisper of doubt, prickling and uncomfortable behind her left ear. Flora knew this voice well: it was the same poisonous murmur that had systematically sabotaged her self-belief since the loss of her spirits.

 _Yes, I can,_ came the stubborn reply; and it was no spirit's voice, but something born entirely of Flora's own conscious. _I can do it._

With the best of intentions, the queen of Ferelden decided to spend the next few hours mentally preparing herself for what was to come. Unfortunately, her body had other priorities; within ten minutes, she was hunched over her stomach, yawning and drowsy. She had just enough presence of mind to return her wrists behind her back – just in case anybody ventured in to check on them. Five minutes after that, and she was snoring softly to herself.

Nathaniel Howe watched Bryce Cousland's daughter sleep, his brow creased with mingled frustration and frustration. He was desperate to ask her what her plan was – in the man's own opinion, they were doomed regardless of whether she had her hands bound or not – but likewise acknowledged the physical demands on Flora's body.

The midnight passed without recognition – there was no time-keeping bell or hour-caller on the rocky islet used as the Carta's temporary base. The hour went unnoticed by the jovial residents, who were still enthusiastically celebrating their success with drinking and carousing. There was a stone chamber of medium size that housed a long wooden table; the majority of the dwarves were seated upon adjoining benches, tankards in hand and the light of triumph writ across faces more accustomed to subterranean shadow.

"What a prize – boss reckons we could get thirty thousand gold for each babe. And if the mother lives – by the Stone! There'd be enough for us all to live like _deshyr."_

"When're the bidders meant to arrive? I can't wait to get me feet back on solid ground, aye."

"Week's end. Pass down that jug, would yeh?"

Beraht had not joined his subordinates in their drunken antics. When running an operation, the leader of the Carta preferred to keep his head clear and unclouded. He especially wanted to keep an eye on Nathaniel Howe, who had the wiles and guile of an untamed viper. The arl's son had killed one of his guards the day after his capture, using the manacle chain as a makeshift garrotte. Since then, Howe had been kept locked tightly at wrist and ankle, with a key that only Beraht possessed.

Conversely, the leader of the Carta was not worried about his newest, most valuable prisoner. The Hero of Ferelden – about whom stories were already told – was a far less intimidating figure than the bardic tales would suggest. Beraht did not believe that the cold eyes and unamused stare hid any great intellectual capacity. On the contrary, he was convinced that the Theirin's bride was little more than a finely hewn face above a valuable belly.

Instead of imbibing with his minions, Beraht had spent the evening checking the arrangements for the weekend's auction. The dwarf was nearly salivating at the prospect of the fat profit that would result from the sale of these most valuable assets. The Carta had always been involved in the trafficking of flesh – from running Dust Town's noble-hunter racket, to prostitution, to the outright capture and sale of bed-slaves.

Some time later Flora awoke, disorientated, within the damp constricts of the cell. It was cold enough to see her breath materialise in the air before her, while her hands and feet felt clammy to the touch. Instinctively, she reached forwards to cradle the swell of her stomach; feeling a gentle shift within her.

 _Stay in there just a bit longer,_ she thought in a combination of instruction and entreaty. _And ignore everything I'm about to say._

"Florence?"

Nathaniel was gazing warily up at her, the hollows in his cheeks carved out by shadow. Flora fixed him with a stern stare, lowering her voice below the persistent gnawing echo of wave against rock.

"Nanuthial," she breathed, her pupils small pinpricks of intensity. "You have to agree with everything I say to the dwarves."

"You're going to try and _talk_ your way out of here?" he replied, not bothering to hide his incredulity. "Is that your plan?"

"No!" replied Flora, indignantly. "You'll see what my plan is soon."

In truth, the queen had not thought beyond the first two steps of said plan. She had decided that _improvisation_ was more her style anyway and did not worry herself about it.

 _Right,_ Flora thought to herself, inhaling a deep, damp lungful of air. _Let's go. No time to waste._

Ignoring Nathaniel Howe's bemused look, Flora reached between her breasts and retrieved the descaling blade. It fit into her palm more easily than any quill, and she was unable to stop herself from caressing the plain contours of the handle with her sore thumb. She then gripped it snug in a fist, and brought both hands behind her back in a semblance of them being tied. The rope had already been tucked out of sight beneath the meagre blanket.

She reached down to her stomach – touching it like a talisman as she had once touched her wedding rings – and then turned her head towards the door expectantly. The acoustics of the caverns were such that they could the tell-tale percussive echo of footsteps approaching long before the arrival of their originator. The queen did not have to wait long; soon, the distinctive, muffled thud of a passer-by crept beneath the door.

 _Time to set the bait._

Just as the footsteps reached their loudest, Flora let out a strangled, half-gasp of pain. The authenticity of the sound surprised even her, and she had to forcibly stop the astonishment from showing on her own face.

 _I was obviously inspired by the genius talent we saw at the pageant the other day,_ she thought, naïve and utterly genuine. _I'm channelling my inner dramatical! Perhaps I should audition for the Highever Players!_

Nathaniel Howe shot her a startled look across the room, his eyebrows vanishing into his dark hairline. Flora paused a moment, then let out another moan; making a token effort to hide it in her sleeve.

 _Don't get any ideas,_ she thought to her belly, fiercely.

As she had hoped, the footsteps came to a halt outside the door. Moments later, a face appeared at the barred gap; narrow-eyed and suspicious.

"What's that noise?"

"N-nothing," Flora breathed, pleased at the genuine sweat that had broken out on her forehead. "Go… go away."

The last part of her instruction trailed off into a whimper; as though unable to stop herself, the queen cradled the swell of her stomach and inhaled unsteadily.

Nathaniel Howe was no fool. Although he had no idea what Flora's eventual plan was – he was certain something flimsy and overly ambitious he had guessed what she was attempting to do at the current moment.

"Ssh- " he hissed across the cell, complicit in his franticness. "Nothing's wrong. It's just a cramp."

Flora pressed her wrist to her mouth, letting her head lean back against the stone and inhaling unsteadily. The dwarf – who had little experience with the process of birthing, as was natural for a race that rarely procreated – stared at her through the bars with nostrils flared.

"Eh – what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," replied Flora, then gasped with such genuine fear that she even impressed herself.

"By the Stone," the dwarf breathed, staring at Flora's tattered, pyjama clad legs as though expecting to see an infant clawing its way out. "You're in labour, aren't you? Shit!"

"No," denied Flora, with a whimper. "It's – it's just a cramp."

The dwarf gave a gleeful cackle – delighted at the impending arrival of the assets – and his face disappeared from the bars. A few moments later, they heard hurried footsteps disappearing rapidly down the passageway.

 _Go and tell Beraht,_ Flora thought, delighted that the first – albeit easiest – part of her makeshift plan had gone off without a hitch. _I've set my lure._

"Do you think the Highever players would accept me as part of their dramatic company?" she whispered across the cell to a thoroughly confused Nathaniel Howe.

"What the fuck," retorted Howe, a note of pleading in his tone. "What in the fel are you doing?"

"Just play along," instructed the queen of Ferelden, feeling the grip of the descaling blade's handle cold against her flushed palm. "And don't distract me. I'm feeling the spirit of the stage! Not _literally,_ because I'm severed from the Fade."

"Maker's Breath," said her cell-mate, almost despairingly. "I've no idea what you're up to. I assume you're not really in labour?"

Flora tilted her head in the direction of the corridor to check that there was no one approaching. Despite the ensuing silence, she lowered her voice regardless.

"I've got a _plan."_

"Really?"

"Mm! An incredibly _mediocre_ one."

The queen allowed herself a brief beam of pride. Nathaniel Howe eyed her, incredulous.

"I don't think mediocre means what you _think_ it means."

Flora ignored this unhelpful comment. Instead, she closed her eyes and let herself draw from the well of fear and panic that had been brewing steadily within her for the past few months. She was no longer capable of having nightmares, but had spent many waking hours in a cold sweat over the prospect of the upcoming birth. Terrified at the prospect of a pain that she could not soothe, or a bleed unable to be stopped; Flora had wept out her fright more than a dozen times into Alistair's shoulder. He had done a manful job of reassuring her, but, in truth, the king – who had lost his own mother during childbirth – was equally petrified at the prospect at his wife undertaking such danger alone.

Flora was well aware that she was no Leliana, and thus had no bardic dramatic skills to depend on. She had to rely solely on her own genuine emotion as inspiration for her performance.

 _Pain for hours. A day and a night's worth of agony that can't be sated._

 _Bleeding, nonstop. The stretching – the tearing - of flesh._

 _Everyone's been saying how nice and plump the babies are. Everyone who doesn't have to pass them out through their own… orifice!_

By the time that the queen opened her eyes once more, the Orlesian mask of nonchalance had dissolved into a tangle of fear, raw and genuine. A sob broke free from her throat and she tilted her heard back with a grimace, letting the looming spectre of pain infuse her every sound and movement.

"Oh! _Ahh."_

Flora did not look at Howe, but hoped that he wasn't sporting an expression of sheer incredulity. Keeping her hands hidden behind her back in semblance of bondage, she hunched herself over her stomach; curling up as she had seen men in agony do.

There came muffled voices from the corridor, but she ignored them; figuring that a woman in labour would be thoroughly preoccupied with the convulsions of her belly. Another eerily convincing whimper of pain slipped from between her lips. Flora had heard enough of them during her years as a healer, and was able to emulate such groans with surprising authenticity.

Just then, there came the sound of an iron key fumbling in a lock. Flora did not dare look up, but held her breath with anticipation; heart leaping forward in a nauseating patter.

The door swung open with an unpleasant scrape, torchlight from the corridor spilling in across the stone.

"So, my pedigreed bitch is finally in whelp!" came the gloating exultation, a raw edge of glee to the words.

 _Beraht,_ thought Flora in triumph. _He's taken the bait._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooooohhh! It's about to go down, lol. And ncidentally Flora doesn't know what mediocre means - she heard Leliana use it once and thinks it's a fancy Orlesian word that means AMAZING, haha. And….I'm sorry to do this but I have a work trip to Krakow in Poland for the next couple of days XD So no update until Sunday! I'm sorrrrrrry! I'm looking forward to it though. Unfortunately it's not for super cheerful purposes (Auschwitz) but the city itself is beautiful.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	169. A Mother's Wrath

Chapter 169: A Mother's Wrath

The dwarf's footsteps came rapid across the cell, as the weighted door swung shut in his wake. Once she was certain that the triumph was not going to shine forth from her eyes, Flora allowed herself to open them. The sallow, bearded face of Beraht was rapidly approaching the bunk where she was slumped. He was gleeful, exultant; eager for the arrival of these most precious goods.

"Get away from her!" hissed Nathaniel, shortly followed by a grunt as he received a kick to the ribs for his protest. Flora let out a carefully calculated gasp of pain; the helpless whine of an animal caught in a snare.

 _My labour is counterfeit, but you don't know it,_ she thought to herself, feverishly. _It's my bait, my lure, set out on an irresistible line. Take it, dwarf. Let me reel you in. ._

"For all your posturing and pretence, kingswhore" the leader of the Carta sneered as he came to a halt before the bunk, a grin licking over his covetous features. "You're just a whimpering chit of a girl. Look at you, cringing and cowering. I've seen Dust Town gutter sluts with more balls than you. _Hero of Ferelden_ , my arse!"

He reached out and grabbed her chin between ungentle fingers, forcing her to look up at him. Tears came to the queen's pale eyes, spilling readily down her cheeks as she let out a sob of despair. Beraht's face curled itself into triumph; the glint of steel showed at his sides as he rubbed his hands.

"So, you're ready to deliver my assets, then. Well – it'd be ideal if you could survive – I got buyers coming willing to pay a pretty penny- "

 _Your assets,_ Flora fumed, suppressing the instinctive furious retort. _My children? You deluded creature._

" – but I'm more than prepared to cut the little ratlings out if things go awry. I've done it to many a perishing noble-hunter before."

Flora was about to instruct herself to follow her Herring-father's mantra – _deep breath, chin up, eyes straight –_ then realised that this was unnecessary. Her heart was beating in slow, purposeful rhythm; her hands were still and calm behind her back. The descaling blade was clutched between her fingers with fond familiarity, each contour of the handle known to her.

 _Wait for the right moment. You'll only get one chance._

"Get – get away!" she heard herself whimper, knees drawing up defensively before her belly. _"Don't touch me!"_

Beraht let out a derisive snort, striding to the bottom of the bunk and rubbing his hands together in glee.

"Let's see how much longer I've got to wait," he growled, reaching for Flora's pyjama-clad knees. "Ah, don't you cross your legs, you silly bitch."

One hand lashed out and struck her across the face, catching her beneath the eye with hairy, hardened knuckles. The other hand gripped her knee – the sore one, bound with leather straps – and wrenched it brutally to the side. Flora let out a cry of genuine shock; lightning bolts of pain shooting from the weak joint along the channels of her body. Such was the protest from her knee that she barely registered the throb around her eye, although it had most likely been blackened by the swipe from the dwarf's hand.

Beraht, now crouched between her legs, reached for the waistband of the Mac Eanraig tartan pyjamas. Without ceremony, he tugged both trousers and smallclothes free; tossing them carelessly over his shoulder.

"Get used to this kind of treatment," he informed her snidely, bringing the candle on the nearby table closer. "I wager none of my bidders are interested in your _brain."_

The last part of this grim prediction was muffled; the dwarf had crouched to take in the view between Flora's legs. The back of his neck had exposed itself to her, a thin and sallow strip of unwashed flesh between the coarse tangle of hair and the leather collar of his tunic.

Flora, who had stopped listening, closed her eyes for a final few crucial seconds.

 _Remember when you could let your gaze slip beneath the skin,_ she thought to herself. _When you were a healer. No part of the body was closed to you: every crevice, channel and curlicue was laid bare before your sight._

 _Remember what it looked like: the neck. Remember how the bone interlocked in strange, pallid, crustacean patterns. Around it was the tangle of vessels, ruddy and twitching; swollen with blood and other fluids. Then there was the elongated cavern of the throat, fleshy and vital. All the above wreathed in muscle and fibrous sinew._

 _It's not a soft target. But it's a decisive one._

 _Zevran once told me that I would have to end any conflict quickly._

 _I might not be strong, but there's no fuel more powerful than a mother's need to protect her children._

With the smallest of subtle shifts, the angle of the descaling blade in her fist was altered; the handle gripped tightly in a palm that was cool, dry and without a tremor.

"Eh," came the dwarf's voice, suspicion colouring the words. "There isn't anything happening down here, you stupid bint. It just looks like an ordinary cu- "

The blade swooped down, swift and purposeful as a seagull spying a catch unattended. It plunged into the back of the dwarf's neck with such cold ferocity that the tip protruded through the greasy tangle of his beard. Such was the angle of the thrust that all was severed before it; segments of spinal shaft forced apart, nerves and vital vessels torn raggedly open. The throat, utterly ruined, blossomed like a crimson flower. Almost instantaneously, arterial spray decorated the walls and the ceiling of the cell; and there was a macabre beauty to its oily sheen.

The leader of the Carta blinked a single vacuous time, but he was a creature dead before his eyes could even close. After a few spasmodic twitches, he slumped face down on the bunk between Flora's knees; his life force spilling forth in great, liquid gouts.

"Maker's Breath," croaked Nathaniel Howe after a moment, his eyes as wide as copper coins. _"Maker's Breath."_

"Serves you right, bottom-feeder," replied the bloodied queen, the taste of warm iron oddly satisfying on her tongue. After wiping her stained mouth with the back of her hand, she awkwardly manoeuvred herself around the slumped corpse of the dwarf, which was face-down and leaking crimson onto the blanket. Since the heart had already ceased beating, the blood spilled out with a gentle constancy of flow.

Reaching down to the inert dwarf's waist, Flora removed the ring of keys from his belt. Putting them in her teeth, she heaved herself upright and went to retrieve her forcibly removed clothing. The tartan pyjama trousers were tattered beyond repair, but the small-clothes were in relatively good condition.

By the time that she had finished clothing herself, Nathaniel Howe had just about recovered from his shock. He eyed Flora with disbelief and begrudging admiration; his gaze returning inevitably to the handle of the blade wedged in the dwarf's neck. It had been thrust home with such ferocity that an inch of the hilt itself was buried in the flesh.

"You've slain the leader of the Carta," he said slowly, an odd modulation to his voice. "I don't believe it. You're on the verge of giving _birth_."

"Well, my babies wouldn't put up with these dwarves, either," Flora said briskly, shuffling across the cell with keys in hand. "I'm tired of being abducted. Which of these unlocks your chains?"

"They… they used a small brass one with a long neck."

Flora lowered herself unceremoniously to the stone floor, hissing through her teeth as her knee gave a twinge of protest. There were several keys matching Nathaniel's description; the third one she tried led to a satisfying _click_ in the lock of the manacles. Her bloodied fingers left smears of crimson against the metal, though the liquid was quickly clotting on her skin. A few moments later, and both the ankle and the wrist restraints lay open on the floor of the cell.

Nathaniel Howe stretched out his limbs with a soft grunt of relief, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. Then he scrambled to his feet, uncoiling the six foot frame that he had certainly not inherited from his scrawny father.

Flora, still kneeling on the stone floor, peered up at him warily; aware that this was the first time Rendon Howe's son had found himself unchained in the presence of his father's killer.

Nathaniel gazed back at her for a moment, then reached down a hand in a silent offer of assistance. Flora, who had never been too proud to accept help, readily took it; hauling herself bodily upright.

"What's the next step in your plan, then?" he asked, crossing to the door and checking that the corridor was empty. "The first part seems to have gone off without a hitch."

"I don't have a second part yet," replied Flora, her eyes slithering back to the corpse of the Carta leader. "I'm… marinating a few ideas in my head."

" _Marinating_ them?"

"Mm."

Returning to the bunk, she perched herself on the mattress and drew the dwarf's head and shoulders into her lap, with almost maternal tenderness. Slender, scarlet-stained fingers wound themselves around the handle of the blade, then carefully extracted it from the ragged wound. More blood came spilling out, sweet and metallic; the air in the small cell now had the raw odour of a slaughterhouse.

Nathaniel had positioned himself at the gap in the door, flexing his fingers to work life back into them while peering through the barred aperture.

"There are about two dozen more dwarves on this fortress-isle," he murmured, sharp Howe eyes scoping the far end of the corridor. "Admittedly, from the sound of it, half of them seem to be drunk. There's also that blasted Rivaini alchemist to deal with. If only I had my bow, then – _for the love of the Maker!"_

This was uttered in response to the macabre sight on the bunk, upon which Nathaniel's eyes had just settled. The queen, in marked contrast to her delicate features and swollen stomach, was sawing the descaling blade purposefully through the dwarf's neck. She was sweating with the effort – it was not a tender cut of meat – but determination loaned strength to her arm.

"What – what…"

"It's – _oof -_ for – the – city gates of Denerim," Flora replied, teeth gritted with effort as she delivered each stroke. "They put the heads of traitors on spikes."

"Wha- "

"It's something that nobles _do!"_

Nathaniel continued to gape for a moment, then gave a shrug of slightly stunned acknowledgment.

"That's true," he said, eyeing the exposed gore of the dwarf's neck cavity. "They do indeed. Maker's Breath: _Florence Cousland._ You aren't how I expected the daughter of a teyrn to be."

"No-one expected me," replied Flora honestly, letting the descaling blade slip into her lap. Tangling her fingers into the matted hair, she lifted the head and eyed the white, spongy texture of the face. Ragged flesh and sawn-off channels dangled from the neck's raw stump. "I don't plan on ever being abducted again. I think this will serve as a good deterrent."

"It seems Beraht expected you _least of all,"_ replied Nathaniel wryly, spotting the gleam of silver tucked into the dwarf's jacket. "Is that a knife in his tunic?"

Flora realised that he was waiting for her permission, and gave a little impatient nod.

"Take them," she instructed, bluntly. "Are you good with blades as well as bows?"

Nathaniel Howe gave a grunt of confirmation, reaching down to withdraw a wickedly curved blade the length of his sinewy forearm. Stepping back, he carved a series of shapes in the air; growing accustomed to the weight and feel of the weapon.

While he familiarised himself with the blade, Flora put her prized head down on the bunk and glanced about the corpse's body. Retrieving a slender lace from Beraht's leather tunic, she reached back to gather up her loose mass of hair. At first, she almost tied it at the nape of her neck in the humble, low-maintenance braid she had worn for the past three months of the progress.

 _Crimson ribbons tied to lances; a whole sea of them fluttering in the wind like a bed of seaweed. Remember how they looked?_

Instead of restraining her hair at the back of her head, the queen pulled it up with concerted effort; gathering her hair into the high ponytail that she had worn throughout the last few months of the Blight.

 _This is how I wore it as Warden-Commander._

Flora lowered her hands, tilting her head from side to side to feel the familiar weight of her ponytail streaming in a triumphant crimson banner down her back.

 _When did I stop wearing my hair like this?_

 _Why did I stop?_

 _It feels right. I think I'll go back to wearing it this way._

Winding her fingers into the dwarf's coarse, wiry beard as she rose to her feet, Flora dangled the head unceremoniously upside down by a fistful of hair. She made for a striking sight: fat-bellied and bloodied, her solemn and lovely face at odds with the contorted, corpulent features of the head clutched in her hand.

Nathaniel Howe eyed her for a moment, then let out a grudging snort of admiration.

"Were you ever told the story of Aoife the Vengeful as a child?"

Flora spat out a glob of blood that had congealed on her tongue, turning her pale gaze on her new companion.

"Eefer? No."

Nathaniel made as though to continue, then appeared to remember his surroundings.

"Probably not the best time to get into it. Let's get you back to the Theirin first. Then afterwards- "

The reply trailed off into a rueful chuckle; the man was more than aware of the fact that he would likely survive no longer than a heartbeat once the king of Ferelden laid eyes on him.

"Anyway. What next, Cousland?"

Flora let out a little grumble, casting her gaze about the cell. Every aspect of it was hateful to her – the bunk, the twisted manacles, the wreaths of chains, the table and chair, the meagre offering of food. Even the mouldering skeleton, which had once reminded her fondly of her home in Herring, now drew her ire.

As she opened her mouth to reply, there came a soft fluttering of wings; a disturbance in the air tinged with the arcane that Flora was now numbed to. A feathered shadow slipped in through the barred window, at first unnoticed by both occupants of the cell. Then there came the soft _fizzle_ of magical energy expended; the atmosphere shifted slightly in response to the light-fingered touch of the Fade.

"Well, well," came a dry and knowing voice, achingly familiar. "I leave your side for twelve weeks and _look_ what happens!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Back from Poland! I actually love Poland, it's such a cool country with a fascinating history and an incredibly proud, patriotic citizenry! OOOohhh well, it's been a long time since Flora actually killed a sentient creature! It's actually only happened once before in the entire saga – Rendon Howe. Since she was a healer, her death toll for the Lion and the Light was actually super low, restricted to the occasional Darkspawn or demon. But when she DOES kill something, she clearly doesn't fuck around, haha. Since she couldn't explode Beraht's skull due to a lack of magic, I thought stabbing him in the neck and subsequently sawing his head off would suffice. Anyway, Flo's plan seems to have gone off without a hitch… and now the cavalry is here ;) But it was important for her character development to get the main kill herself, for obvious reasons! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!

Extra added note - I just noticed that I used the word ACTUALLY about six million times in this author note... oh well, lol... I get some really lovely comments about my writing from kind people, but there's some evidence that I'm just as capable of writing pure shite as anyone else, hahaha. In a previous chapter I noticed that I used the word 'mumbled' about 35490 times in a row, and recently I've been using and abusing the hell out of "thought to herself." BAD WRITER! LEARN TO EDIT!


	170. An Unlikely Cavalry

Chapter 170: An Unlikely Cavalry

Flora took an unsteady gulp of air, her heart swelling with a sudden storm-surge of emotion. She turned slowly on the spot – her grisly burden still clutched in her hand - and set eyes on the first person who had joined her and Alistair on their desperate quest to unite Ferelden against the Blighted armies.

The Witch of the Wilds had become even _more_ so during her sojourn from civilisation. Her hair was caught up in matted ebon tangles, in which was woven tiny bones and fragments of wood. The yellow eyes of a cat gazed out watchfully from deep, coal-smudged sockets; her head was tilted to the side in constant predatorial readiness. Her clothing was more animal coat than human garb, swathes of leather and fur sewn into a bare semblance of a garment. She was barefoot, her fingernails were caked with dirt and a feather protruded at an incongruously jaunty angle from behind her ear.

"What the fuck," breathed Nathaniel, eyes as wide as saucers. "Who are _you!?"_

Morrigan ignored the stranger; striding swift across the cell and taking a beaming Flora's face in her palms.

"You are unharmed?" Flemeth's daughter demanded, a harsh edge to her words. "Your children?"

When Flora nodded, sheer and potent relief flooded the witch's face; moments later, Morrigan had assembled her features back into their usual supercilious array.

"Well, I am glad for it," she replied, the faintest tremor in her voice now the only indicator of her previous fear. "Kidnapped three times in the span of a year? 'Tis rather _ridiculous."_

Flora nodded once in wide-eyed accordance; she couldn't agree _more._ Desperate to fling her arms around the witch – but aware that she was covered in unsightly gore – the queen satisfied herself with reaching out with her free hand, gripping Morrigan's fingers tightly.

"I'm happy to see you," she breathed, the woman's palm warm against her own. "I've _missed_ you. How did you find me?"

"Your severance from the Fade is like a dark spot in the Veil," replied Morrigan, her eyebrows rising as she took in the object dangling from Flora's other fist. "It is like a lantern gleaming on a dark night. Who is your accessory?"

"The man who kidnapped me," replied Flora, and the witch bestowed on her a smile of almost maternal pride. "Have you seen Alistair? Is he alright?"

Morrigan canted her head in affirmation, prying her fingers free of Flora's insistent clutch. Without explanation, she stepped back and began to rummage through her own tangled skeins of hair; a petulant scowl writ across her face.

"I have seen him this morning," she said briskly, combing through her dark locks with pointed nails. "He was in good spirits, and penning a proposal of marriage to Anora Mac Tir."

"Whaaa- "

"I jest, of course. He is a man losing his mind. He is demented in your absence."

Flora's lip quavered and she felt tears spring to the corners of her eyes.

 _Stop it,_ she thought fiercely to herself. _You haven't thought of Alistair because of this exact reason. It's a distraction._

She took a deep, steadying breath; lifting her chin and forcing the northern stoicism back into her posture. Meanwhile, Morrigan had been eyeing the man in the cell with mild interest; still combing through her matted hair with pointed nails.

"And who is this unfortunate creature?"

"This is Nanthanel Howe," began Flora, without realising the impact that her words would have.

There was another arcane flicker; energy contracted suddenly around the witch's form as the lines of her body blurred and shifted. All of a sudden, the confines of the cell seemed far smaller as a full-grown bear reared upright, knocking Nathaniel to the ground with a single blow from a paw the size of a dinner plate. The arl's son lay sprawled on his back, breathless; there was a sigh of magical effluence and the bear's shape shifted, shrinking back into the form of the witch as she crouched over him in a primal display of dominance. Electricity crackled between her fingertips as its deadly blue-white reflection danced over Nathaniel Howe's stunned face.

"How do you wish me to end this churl?" Morrigan hissed, the light of the huntress gleaming in the depths of her feline stare. "Do you wish him _conflagrated_ or _dismembered?"_

"Neither," said Flora, firmly. She did not know what either term meant but assumed that neither was pleasant. "He's helping me to escape. He ought to have a trial."

"He is guilty as sin itself," retorted Morrigan, baring her teeth at the arl's son who was manfully trying not to quail. "He _reeks_ of it, like that disgusting _parfum_ that the Chantry fool adores."

"Maker's Breath," croaked Nathaniel, the corners of his vision still blurred from the force of the blow.

"Well then, the Landsmeet will decide it," replied Flora and Morrigan gave a snort; her eyes dropping once more to the head dangling from the queen's fist.

"As you wish. So, you have cut the head from the snake, but I assume it is still poisonous?"

"Eh?" Flora was not adept at interpreting poetic metaphor.

"There are two dozen more," spoke up Howe quietly from where he lay sprawled on the floor. "Armed to the teeth and trained to kill."

Morrigan curled a derisive lip down at the arl's son, before her gaze slid catlike to the cell door.

"A pittance," she murmured, derisively. "Poor fools. They shall not know what hit them. I have brought aid."

As she spoke, she continued to search through her hair, muttering a curse as she scraped the matted locks with merciless fingers. Finally, the witch let out a small, satisfied sound; pulling out an angry-looking earwig. It scuttled along the length of her finger, tiny antennae waving, then nipped hard at the skin.

"Patience," snarled Morrigan irritably, shaking the earwig to the floor with a flick of the finger. "No need to _bite."_

She waved her hand, murmuring something unintelligible under her breath. A slight distortion of the air followed in the wake of her fingers; the Fade gave a sigh of compliance and the earwig expanded outwards into a bulging mass, the shiny black carapace dissolving into iron-bound muscle.

"What the _fuck,"_ croaked Nathaniel once again, staring up at the seven-foot tall, entirely naked Qunari that now made the cell seem cramped around them. "What – what the- "

" _Sten!"_ breathed the queen, delighted. "Ste-e-e-n!"

She almost went to hug him, then realised that he was entirely unclothed.

"Oh! Did someone steal your outfit?"

The Qunari did not deign to respond to this query; his unamused gaze sweeping her up and down.

"You are in no condition to fight," he observed, remorseless. "I trust that you'll keep out of my way while I clear out this subterranean lair of vermin."

"Oh, we'll stay far back," replied Flora, bouncing Beraht conspicuously by the beard. "Me and this _severed head of the Carta leader_ will do just fine bringing up the rear!"

The tiniest flicker of approval flared in the Qunari's gaze; the queen saw it and had to suppress a delighted squawk. She could count on one hand the number of times that Sten had looked at her with anything other than disdain, disapproval or disbelief over the past year.

Morrigan strode past them with a soft rustle of leather and fur, casting an eye out of the barred window.

"Can't you just transform the queen as you did the Qunari and take her out of here?" suggested Nathaniel, and received a withering glance in return.

"Transfiguring one creature is complex enough," snapped the witch, her fingers sparking as she flexed them. "Let alone _three_ at a time. No, we must do this the old fashioned way."

While they had been conversing, Sten had ventured across the cell, stopping beside the headless corpse and divesting it brutally of its tunic. After fashioning a makeshift loincloth by tying the sleeves around his waist, the Qunari turned his attention to the nearby table. He proceeded to break free one wooden leg with a single flex of muscle, brandishing it like a makeshift club. Meanwhile Morrigan had retrieved a twig from her hair; a muttered incantation later, and it had elongated into her usual blackwood stave.

Flora inhaled unsteadily, sweeping a proud eye across her three companions. Morrigan shifted impatiently with lightning sparking between her fingertips; Nathaniel Howe had Beraht's wickedly curved blades readied in both hands; Sten was a solid wall of muscle.

"We're a complete party of fighters," she breathed in admiration, idly swinging the dwarf's head by the beard. "I'm the odd one out: I can't fight!"

"Haven't you learnt by now?" Morrigan retorted, with a roll of her catlike eyes. "'Tis rather obvious. You're the one that leads them _."_

There was an expectant silence, and Flora realised suddenly that they were all waiting for her command.

 _I haven't forgotten how to do this,_ she realised, suddenly. _I know what to say, even without my spirits._

"First we destroy this cell," she replied, bluntly. "Break everything apart and set alight what can be burned. So they'll know that I don't intend to return here. Then we seek out the rest of the dwarves. Any that fight back can be killed, but offer them the chance to surrender. They can be locked in the cells until my brother clears this place out. We need to find Leske and the Rivaini, and take them with us. They're going to be our prisoners. Then we free the Orlesian merchant crew, take the ship and sail back to Highever."

Morrigan looked somewhat perturbed – she had clearly been anticipating a mass slaughter – but ducked her head and gave a grumble of acknowledgment. The witch turned to Nathaniel Howe, her amber eyes suddenly hardened to the predatory glare of a lion.

"Your job, cur, is to stick to her side like wheatpaste," she instructed, lip curling. "Any injury she receives will be inflicted on you tenfold. Not a single scratch, you hear?"

Nathaniel Howe gave a swift nod of acknowledgement; his fingers crawling agitatedly along the hilts of his blades.

Between them, Morrigan and Sten took no time in rendering the cell utterly inhabitable. Chains were broken as though they were made of paper, the furniture was reduced to a pile of smouldering ashes. The bunk was upended and the table smashed to smithereens. The only object that remained intact was the skeleton; which surveyed the surrounding chaos with odd, implacable serenity.

Once the Qunari had helped to lay waste to the cell, he led the way down the passageway, making no effort to be quiet. Despite his lack of armour, the sheer weight and power of his moving frame made a percussive echo against the stone. Morrigan glided in his wake, fingertips glowing in readiness; the witch and the Qunari moving with a synchrony that suggested they had fought together in recent months.

Flora, with Nathaniel Howe on her heels like an asynchronous shadow, waddled along in the rear. The dwarf's head was still clutched in one fist; the descaling blade in the other.

 _I wonder if the Orlesian crew are in these cells?_ she thought to herself, glancing at the windowless wooden doors set in the stone to either side. _We'll have to come back here after concluding our business with the dwarves._

Just then, she felt a sudden and overwhelming surge of exhaustion; her limbs leaden and her mind clouding over. Perplexed, she came to a halt in the passageway, Nathaniel Howe almost colliding with her from behind.

"Hold," he called to those ahead, as Sten and Morrigan turned with expressions of mutual exasperation. "Are you alright?"

Flora exhaled unsteadily, perching herself on a convenient ledge of stone jutting out from the tunnel wall.

"Yes," she replied, bemused and irritated. "I – I just need a moment, I think. To rest. I suddenly feel really tired."

The Qunari muttered his impatience under his breath, shifting the club from one hand to the other. Morrigan, on the other hand, eyed Flora carefully; her subtle gaze flickering to the queen's protruding stomach.

"If you get any… _cramps,_ or suchlike," she murmured, deliberately casual. "Do be sure to mention it, hm?"

After a few moments Flora signalled that she was ready to continue, heaving herself gracelessly upright.

The first pair of dwarves they ran into were returning from the makeshift bar. They came stumbling around a corner, leaning against each other and exulting at the profit they would be making from the sale of their captured prizes.

"More than when we kidnapped that _deshyr's_ fat sow of a daughter and held her to _ranshom_ ," the first was saying, his words slurring together as they echoed around the tunnel walls. "Remember that chest of coins… _hic!_ Well, thish'll be even more than that!"

" _Barrelsh and barrelsh_ of coins," agreed his fellow Carta, gleeful and intoxicated.

Just then, like some manifestation of a waking nightmare, a seven foot tall, mostly-naked Qunari charged towards them with an exotic bellow emerging from his throat. One of the dwarves immediately fell over in terror, still clutching the dusty bottle of rum in his hand.

The other, after a second of gaping, made a half-hearted fumble for his blade. He had barely managed to curl his fingers around the hilt when the club struck him in the face with such force and velocity that he flew across the passageway. After colliding with the wall, the dwarf slumped to the ground with a suspicious substance leaking from his ear.

The second dwarf had managed to retrieve his own dagger by this time, flailing it haplessly towards Sten. Morrigan, wielding her staff like some ancient Alamarri stave-fighter, sent three spears of ice streaking through the air. One impaled the dwarf in the chest, the other in the thigh, and the third directly through the throat. He crashed onto the ground, twitching and senseless.

Eyeing the two corpses, Flora realised that she would need to be _much quicker_ in offering those they ran into the chance to _surrender or die!_ Her companions were out for blood; Nathaniel Howe was especially keen to take revenge on his captors.

He would get his opportunity in the next section of tunnel; a crossroads of passageways dimly lit with torches set high on the walls. A group of a half-dozen dwarves erupted from several converging openings, ambushing the party from each side. The Carta lackeys invoked both the Stone and their ancestors as they charged forwards, brandishing a variety of cruelly bladed weapons.

In unspoken agreement, Flora's companions clustered around their queen, shielding her with their own bodies as they turned to face their assailants. Sten abandoned his club and picked up two dwarves by the neck, cracking their skulls together with a sound unpleasantly reminiscent of eggs breaking.

" _Surrender or die!"_ bleated the queen and was ignored by everyone; including the dwarves.

Nathaniel proved his own skill with a blade by opening one assassin from gullet to guts with a single stroke; viscera spilling out onto the uneven stone. Two more dwarves charged towards Morrigan, then let out twin shrieks of fright as they saw flame sprout from her fingers. As the sound died in their throats, each one was consumed by a column of brief, fiery effulgence; the heat lasting just long enough to incinerate its victim. Their ashes were blown down the tunnel by a latent draught, then trodden on without thought.

One final dwarf made a desperate lunge towards Flora, spiked club raised. Flora was armed with the slender descaling blade, but chose to hold up the ghastly ornament of the Carta kingpin's head instead. The dwarf's visage had become more grotesque as the last vestiges of blood drained; the eyes bulged, the tongue extended in a swollen and purple mass from the mouth.

"By the Stone!"

Flora's assailant quailed at the sight of his boss' severed head, the weapon falling from trembling fingers. The next moment, a knife hurtled through the air and wedged itself in his throat; a crimson blossom of blood erupting forth. Nathaniel Howe lowered his arm, breathing hard, his eyes fixed hawk-like on the collapsing dwarf.

Flora lowered Beraht's head, exhaling unsteadily. His blood had now hardened in her hair and across her face, the folds of her pyjama tunic were stiff with dried fluid. It felt as though it might brush off easily, but the queen did not _want_ to brush it off; she wanted to wear it as a badge of pride.

 _Look at what I did to the man who would have taken my children and sold them,_ she thought, fiercely. _Who would have sold me._

"Nobody is surrendering," she said after a moment, perturbed. "They're all dying instead."

"Oh, dear," replied Morrigan, though the witch did not sound sorry at all. "Never mind. Shall we continue?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Oooohhh! The cavalry is here! I chose Morrigan and Sten to come to Flo's aid for several reasons! Morrigan was able to sense Flora's location due to her severance from the Fade (this was mentioned in an earlier chapter, I can't remember which one!), she was also able to transfigure herself into a bird and fly to the smuggler's isle. Morrigan chose to bring Sten since she can only transfigure another person without clothing or armour, and clearly decided that a seven foot Qunari would be the most useful companion. (This is all headcanon btw)., I missed writing these two – they've not been featured much in my story so far! And now that Flora has taken out the leader, it's more realistic that they have help in taking on the two dozen other dwarves on the islands. Hoping this will post properly because I'm on a trip to Brussels with the husband and posting from my phone... Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	171. Come and Take Them!

Chapter 171: Come and Take Them!

The remainder of the Carta were gathered on the long table in the isle's makeshift 'tavern'; chattering so profusely that their voices filled the rocky hollow with an echoing cacophony. The freestanding barrels of ale were far less of a burden on their wooden frames than they had been a few hours prior. Drunken snickers were interspersed with lewd remarks about the upcoming sale of the human queen – Beraht had promised that he would have the goods on _full display_ for the prospective bidders. This was followed with slightly nervous laughter; the dwarves were still unnerved by the strange, silvered markings on the former Warden's body, and were unsure whether they even _wanted_ to see the full extent of them.

Leske was not indulging to the same extent as his cronies – Beraht's lieutenant preferred to stay sober while on duty. On one occasion in the past year, he and a Dust Town friend had been caught inebriated undertaking a Carta job. They had been thrown into the cartel's cells without nourishment; Beraht had sworn to only release one when the other perished. Fortunately for Leske, his companion had died of malnourishment after ten days.

Now, the branded dwarf sat at the table cradling an ale so watered-down that a child could imbibe the entire tankard with no ill effect. He was not entirely at ease – though no dwarf would be, isolated in the middle of a raging body of a water. In addition to this discomfort, however, Leske had heard some slightly _peculiar_ noises emanating through the island tunnels. The acoustics of the cave system were acute but disorientating; the dwarf was unsure whether the muffled crashes were coming from within the cavern, or were simply the sound of waves lashing against the rock.

There came an especially raucous bellow of laughter from the other dwarves, drowning out any other noise from the surrounding passages. Minutes earlier, one ambitious Carta crony had successfully downed an entire tankard of fire-whiskey in a single long draw; he was now looking distinctly green about the gills. His peers were mocking him mercilessly, jabbing the unfortunate dwarf in the gut with their elbows and trying to pour more whiskey down his throat.

Just then, something crashed into their midst, rolling down the entire length of the table and leaving a bloodied smear in its wake. The object came to an eventual halt before Leske; he and the other Carta gazed down at it in stark confusion. The contorted features of Beraht stared back at them, sightless eyes bulging and grotesque. Several dwarves shouted out, others recoiled; many sat frozen in utter stupefaction.

"I _told_ him that taking me would be the biggest mistake of his life."

The dozen dwarves of the Carta, collectively stunned, turned to face the new arrival. The queen of Ferelden stood in the doorway, her hand extended where she had just thrown the severed head of their leader into the midst of their celebration. She wore her haughty beauty like a royal mantel, her cold-eyed, stoic disapproval sweeping over the scene before her.

Indeed, the Theirin's bride could have been presiding over a Landsmeet session or settling a legal dispute – save for the fact that she was covered in blood from head to toe. Her hair – already crimson – was stiff with coagulated life-fluid; dark red flakes were peeling from her high boned cheeks; her Mac Eanraig tartan shirt was so saturated that it clung to the swells of her body. Flora had considered a dramatic entrance in the manner of the intimidating Florence Cousland from the pageant – but was unsure whether she could bellow _HOW NOW, TWATS?_ with convincing _ferocity_.

Flanking the queen were three equally foreboding figures. The Witch of the Wilds shifted from foot to foot, her posture more animal than human; shoulders hunched and head held low. She eyed the dwarves at the table with glittering amber eyes, her staff held in a black-taloned hand. The seven foot tall Qunari wielded a table leg in one hand and a dwarf's discarded ax in the other; both weapons covered in the pulpy contents of the skull. His dark crimson eyes were focused unblinkingly ahead, a sneer of contempt curling the corner of his mouth. Finally, Nathaniel Howe stood with his weight on one leg, poised to make a rapid and deadly strike. A wickedly curved blade was grasped in each fist; yet far more intimating was the raw need for _revenge_ writ across his sallow features.

Leske, who by grotesque necessity found himself inadvertently promoted to the chief of the Carta, mouthed speechless for a moment. A murmur of shock resonated around the table as the dwarves struggled to process this sudden reversal of fortunes.

 _Beraht's dead! The boss is dead!_

 _Shit! What now?!_

Leske, trying not to look at the sawn-off head of his former leader, rose to his feet on trembling knees. With a deep breath, he summoned harshness to his voice; the words emerging as a throaty rasp.

"You'll pay for this, you audacious little kingswhore!"

" _Little?"_ breathed Morrigan, a cruel smile twisting at her lip. "Fine words, coming from a dwarf."

Leske made a final attempt to reclaim some control of the situation, reasoning that the Carta still outnumbered their enemy three to one. Trying in earnest to emulate Beraht's commanding rasp, he pointed a thick finger towards his bloodied prisoner and her companions.

"Lay down your weapons!"

" _COME AND TAKE THEM!"_ the queen bellowed back in sudden rage, terrible and furious as some ancient goddess of vengeance. The fire of her response was such a departure from the usual steely stoicism that Leske physically recoiled; flinching in the face of such blistering defiance.

There was a single heartbeat during which each dwarf considered whether or not to take their prisoner up on her offer. One young and inebriated villain grabbed up a nearby ax with an unsteady hand; letting out a slurred mumble as he turned towards the queen.

He had not made it more than a single step before receiving the joint attention of the witch, the Qunari and the disgraced arl's son. In a split second, the poor fool received a fatal blast of lightning to the heart, followed shortly by a knife hurled straight into the throat. Sten appeared mildly enraged that he was too late to beat the dwarf's brains in with his makeshift club.

The dwarf fell to the floor, twitching and undeniably deceased. The queen dropped her gaze to her would-be assailant, eyed the corpse wordlessly, then returned her cold stare to the remainder of the Carta.

"Your companions have chosen to die rather than to surrender," she said, softly. "It makes no difference to me. Do as you will."

The remaining dwarves – including Leske – opted for imprisonment over certain death. With the Qunari, arl's son and mage breathing down their necks while longingly brandishing weapons, they were escorted down to the cells and locked up tight using the keys that Flora had taken from Beraht's belt.

"What's going to happen to us?" asked the Carta lieutenant, glumly eyeing the manacles on his wrists. "I might've chosen a quick death over slow starvation."

"My brother has ships," Flora replied, recalling the harbour at Highever. "He'll send a garrison to come and arrest you. Then you'll be put on trial."

"And made a spectacle of, I'm sure," the branded dwarf replied, spitting malcontentedly onto the stone. "Bah! Should've never left Dust Town. Knew coming up to the Surface was a mistake."

"Taking me was a mistake," hissed the queen through the bars on the door, her eyes flashing with sudden vitriol. "The only reason _you_ still live is that you didn't make any direct threat against my children. If you'd said _one_ word against them- "

Instead of continuing, Flora held up the head of the Carta leader unceremoniously by the beard. It dangled before the bars, upside-down and loll-tongued, the flesh a liverish hue.

As they returned along the twisted passage of caverns, Morrigan gave Flora a sly nudge in the ribs; dark-painted lips curling in a smile.

"This mother bear is protective over her cubs, eh?"

Flora instinctively put a hand to her stomach, sliding her palm beneath the protruding swell of flesh to cradle it.

"They're only shrimps and they can't defend themselves," she replied, her mind turning to the final antagonist still on the loose. "I've kept them safe from demons and Darkspawn. And now _dwarves."_

"It physically pains me to proceed this slowly," grumbled Sten, malevolently eyeballing the waddle of their fat-bellied leader. "Can I not put you over my shoulder so that we can travel faster than an aged _qashbe?"_

"No," replied Flora, stubbornly. "Come on, we need to find the Rivaini."

The series of caverns running through the smuggler's isle had once been extensive; a century of neglect had inevitably led to cave-ins and collapsed tunnels. This made locating the alchemist relatively easy, since there was only a select handful of passages that remained intact. Sten led the way, striding ahead with an uncomfortable hunch to his shoulders – the tunnels had not been constructed to accommodate Qunari heights. Morrigan sauntered at Flora's side; ostensibly casual and yet close enough that their elbows brushed together. The witch had seen the imprint of chains on the queen's wrists, and - for all her deliberate nonchalance - was determined that no further harm should be inflicted on their former Warden.

Nathaniel brought up the rear, each footstep silent and his movements masked by shadow. The lithe sinew of his frame loaned itself well to such discrete motion. Flora, glancing over her shoulder, wondered if this had been the cause for the initial breakdown in relations between father and son.

 _Perhaps Arl Howe wanted more of a Fergus – a wall of muscle wielding sword and shield, winning contest and competition alike._

 _Ah, I shouldn't assume things! None of my business._

"Who is this alchemist?" Morrigan asked after a moment, her voice echoing around the craggy stone passage. "He is a dwarf? A human?"

"Neither," replied Flora, still half-caught up in her own musings. "He's a worm. A wormy monster."

"A wormy monster. I see."

The queen focused on the task at hand; feeling a reflexive surge of fury within her gut as she recalled the dark promises made by the alchemist.

"He's a fiend," she continued, fiercely. "He doesn't deserve to be called _Rivaini._ He doesn't deserve to share _anything_ with Duncan!"

Morrigan just about restrained herself from rolling her eyes: she had been forced to endure copious droning monologues of praise featuring Flora's old commander over the past year.

"He's also mad, though. He said he was going to lie with me and somehow _steal_ the power of the Archdemon from my body. I told him I had no magic but he didn't listen."

The witch narrowed her gaze until it consisted of little more than hard, golden slits; a sudden, serpentine venom in her response.

"He intended to bed you by force?"

"Mm. But you can't kill him!" protested Flora, seeing a deadly promise in her companion's cold stare.

" _Can't_ kill a man who would take a woman through violence?! If this is your fel-blasted _compassion_ acting in restraint- "

"It isn't, I promise," the queen replied, earnestly. "But I want to bring him back to Alistair. And tell Alistair what he planned to do to me."

Morrigan shot her a grudging look of approval, yellow eyes gleaming like small lanterns in the gloom.

"'Tis a good enough excuse, I suppose. Where is this cretin?"

Just then, Sten came a sudden halt in the corridor; his dark crimson gaze focused on a wooden doorway ahead. The Qunari – whose brawn hid a mind as sharp as any blade – had not just been leading them haphazardly about the passageways. As they wandered the twists and turns of the tunnels, he had constructed a mental map of the isle's layout, including those corridors that ended in dead-ends. Through a process of cunning elimination, he had deduced that this final corridor must be the location of the alchemist's quarters.

"Ooh!" whispered Flora, swinging the head excitedly by its beard as she set eyes on the final door. "Do you think this could be it?"

Sten shot the queen an evil stare, making a swift gesture for her to be silent. With surprising subtlety for a creature of seven feet, he trod towards the doorway with the makeshift club raised. The rest of the party crept behind him – Flora waddled as stealthily as she was able – each one holding their breath as they approached the door.

The Qunari paused, his ear to the wood, utterly focused on assessing the contents of this final chamber. Unfortunately, they were so intent on the doorway ahead of them that nobody noticed the faint rustle of movement to the rear.

There came an undulating shriek from behind them; something inhuman and terrible wailed in a strange tongue like an apparition from a children's night-time tale. The furious cry was accompanied by the sound of metal scything through the air. It was so sudden that neither the Qunari nor the witch had time to react; they were still in the process of turning as the slender blade winged its way towards the queen.

The Rivaini alchemist stood at the end of the passage, his hand still raised from the throw, a contorted shadow falling like a shroud across the stone passageway. Despite once being able to summon shields in a split-second to deflect otherwise fatal blows, Flora's reactions were dulled by the fatigue and physical burden of her condition. She was unable to do anything but gape as the knife arced towards her like a glittering, long-winged insect. In the cruellest of intentions, it was not curved towards the mother, but towards the swollen mass of her stomach.

Suddenly, Flora found herself stumbling as a figure dove before her, knocking her with their shoulder in their haste to place themselves in the path of the blade. Nathaniel Howe had lunged forwards to intercept the deadly throw, his reflexes honed through years of fighting with a dagger. He used his own arm to deflect the knife's course; the diverted blade sunk deep into his shoulder-blade and he let out a grunt as though punched. The traitorous arl's son took a single staggering step and then dropped to his knees with a groan.

Morrigan let out a hiss of rage – more at the alchemist's subtle approach than Nathaniel's subsequent wounding – and shot out a hand; fingers crackling and blue. Chains of ice wreathed themselves around the Rivaini's neck, ankles and wrists, preventing any further movement. The sound that emerged from Sten's throat was more a growl of frustration – in a single lunge, the Qunari hurled his body weight against the door and splintered the wood into fragments. There were no more assailants to be seen in the chamber beyond, and Sten came to a reluctant halt in the doorway.

Despite the fact that Nathaniel Howe was a traitor who had inadvertently plunged them both into captivity, Flora's instinct as a healer was far too strong to resist. She was moving even as he dropped to his knees, lowering herself awkwardly to the ground besides him and reaching to move the ripped material of his shirt away from the spreading mass of blood.

"Shit," the man groaned, twisting his head over his shoulder to try and scope out the injury. "Maker's Breath, that hurts like a Chantry sister's first time."

For a single, panicked moment Flora did not know what to do. For fifteen years, she had been able to press her lips to a wound, exhale a silver-gold mist and then watch the torn flesh knit itself together with miraculous speed. Now, she was confronted with a ragged, bloody gash with the handle of the blade protruding at a grotesque angle.

 _What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?_

 _Use your common sense, Flora. And act quickly._

"I'm going to take the knife out," she heard herself saying, inwardly startled by her own self-assurance. "Don't move."

Exhaling to keep herself steady, the queen wrapped her fingers around the hilt and removed the blade with the determined swiftness of a healer. Nathaniel Howe let out a strangled gasp, flinching in shock and pain.

" _Maker's Breath! Shit!"_

"Keep still!"

He swore faintly under his breath but did as he was told. Blood sprang to the wound, leaking copiously down the lean, muscled arm. The alchemist was laughing, and there was a strange tinge of madness to his cackle.

 _Now to stop the bleeding,_ Flora thought next, determinedly. _I can't use my mouth, but there are other ways._

After a helpful flicker from her memory, she went rummaging within her ragged tartan shirt. Tangled inside the sleeve, Flora found the length of crimson silk that she had stashed there the previous day. It was nearly four feet in length; thin and absorbent. Using her bloodied fingers to keep the ribbon in place, she wound it tightly around Nathaniel's shoulder; the action made swift and efficient from years of winding up fishing line. The makeshift bandage was long enough to wrap around the wound a dozen times, and once it was fully bound Flora tied the ends off in a fisherman's knot.

Sitting back on her heels, the queen surveyed her handiwork with some satisfaction. The entire process had taken less than two minutes, and the flow of blood appeared to be satisfactorily stemmed.

"There you go, Namanatule," she breathed, with a surge of sudden and irrational pride. "I'll have to sew it up later, but it should do for now. And… thank you."

 _That blade would have gone into my stomach if he hadn't thrown himself before it._

He looked at her with the dark and unreadable eyes of his father, yet without the stain of evil that had tainted Rendon Howe's stare.

"Thank you." It was muttered, but genuine.

Flora nodded, pushing herself to her feet with a soft grunt of effort. Retrieving Beraht's head, she then turned her attention to the alchemist. Frozen in place within Morrigan's icy chains, the Rivaini had been murmuring quiet curses under his breath; his face twisted with malevolence. He made for a macabre silhouette within the corridor, hunched and panting, wreathed in ethereal bindings that leeched colour from the richly tanned skin.

"Your blood tasted mundane," he snarled down the passage towards her, spittle sparking from the corners of his mouth. "Utterly _bland._ A complete waste of my time and efforts – I should never even had bothered harvesting a _sample."_

Morrigan let out a throaty sound of warning; one more animal than human. The witch shifted from one dirty bare foot to another, desperate to lunge forward in borrowed form and bite the unfortunate captive in two.

"I told you I had no magic left in me," Flora replied, eyeing the seething alchemist as one would watch a snake pinned by a hunter's spear. "You didn't listen."

The Rivaini spat onto the uneven tunnel floor, his eyes glittering and defiant.

"Filth."

The queen advanced towards the trapped alchemist, taking her time, considerate of the burden of her body. Pausing just before him, she hesitated for a fraction of a second; considering her options.

"I wish I'd uncorked that wondrous gas and watched your innards gush out after all," the man retorted, seemingly abandoning all restraint. "Your blood is worthless and your brats equally so."

In a swift, seamless motion Flora reached up to the man's ear, closed her fingers around the dangling golden loop, and gave a brutal tug. The metal tore downwards in a ragged line through the earlobe; Flora triumphantly held aloft her bloodied wedding rings. The alchemist began a howl of agony and the queen slid the rings back onto her fingers - not bothering to wipe off the remaining gore.

"I told you it would hurt when I removed them," she said with a voice cold as the deepest reaches of the Waking Sea; the implacable mask back over her features. "There's twice I've told you the truth. You should be grateful that I didn't lie. I lied to him."

She thrust forwards Beraht's head, which dangled like a macabre ornament. The alchemist winced, turning his gaze away from the bulging eyes and white, pulpy tongue.

"Here's a third truth for you to consider on our journey back to Highever," Flora continued, ignoring her squirming stomach. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to let my husband decide what to do with you. Feel free not to believe me."

She turned towards Morrigan, absentmindedly wiping the blood from her fingers on her pyjama jacket. Beyond the splintered door lay the alchemist's makeshift laboratory. A half-dozen roughly hewn surfaces were covered in glass and metal paraphernalia; alembics and crucibles of all sizes, a vast mortar and pestle, a retort stand woven from copper and an intricate ceramic aludel. Books were strewn everywhere, interspersed with neatly bound sheaves of handwritten notes.

"No," said the alchemist, in dawning horror. "My life's work – you _can't!"_

Flora ignored him, her grey eyes settling on Morrigan's face in a silent request.

The witch smiled, dark-painted lips curling upwards at one end.

"It would be my absolute pleasure. Come with me, maggot."

Flameth's daughter clicked her fingers as she strode towards the doorway. The magical chains heaved their unwilling victim in her wake, dragging the wailing alchemist across the passage floor as he left a trail of blood from the torn ear. Flame rose from Morrigan's other palm as she positioned herself in the doorway; taking aim directly towards the centre of the makeshift laboratory.

"Watch," the witch hissed, and the alchemist's head snapped upright like a puppet's, his eyes widening as he took in the growing flame.

"No – _no!"_

Morrigan let out a cackle of sheer glee and let the fireball surge forward; igniting all that lay in its path.

Flora, unlike the witch, took no pleasure in watching the agonies of another – even a man such as the Rivaini alchemist. She turned her back on the howling man and the blazing laboratory, gesturing towards Sten.

"Come and help me free the crew of the ship," she said, then gave a grimace. "Oh, but they're _Orlesian_. Do you speak Orlesian? I need them to sail me back to Highever."

The Qunari shook his head in a terse denial. Flora gnawed at her lip, then turned to Nathaniel. The arl's son had managed to clamber to his feet, pale and clutching his shoulder, but reasonably steady.

"Do _you_ speak Orlesian?"

"A few words, but little more."

Flora thought for a few moments and then gave a shrug, letting out a typical northern grunt.

"Well, we'll have to use sign language. Or draw pictures. Either way, I'll _make_ them understand me. Morrigan, come join us once you've finished wrecking the place – bring _him_ with you."

 _Him_ referred to the alchemist, who was babbling incoherently; the reflection of the flames passing over his contorted face.

With that, the queen of Ferelden set off waddling purposefully down the corridor; crimson ponytail streaming like a banner behind her and the dwarf's head swinging from her fist.

* * *

OOC Author Note: It felt very vindicating to write these chapters! I've felt pretty uncomfortable putting Flo in such horrible situations over the past 30,000 words or so – especially in the condition she's in. But now the tables have turned! What a weird expression that is, I wonder what the etymology of it is.

Speaking of etymology, the little exchange between Leske and Flo (lay down your weapons/come and take them!) has a historical origin. It was purportedly the response given by the Spartans when the Persian king Xerves demanded that they surrender their arms. It's what is known as a laconic phrase – or a blunt, Spartan retort, which the people of that region were known for.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	172. Escape From Smuggler's Isle

Chapter 172: Escape From Smuggler's Isle

Flora made her way back through the twisting stone passages, relying on her memory to guide her. Averting her eyes from the corpses of the dwarves who had made futile attempts to resist, the queen turned into the passageway leading to the holding cells. Many of the dungeons were now holding the remaining members of the Carta, who were either lamenting their misfortunes or picking fights with one another. Leske, as Beraht's lieutenant, had been placed in a cell of his own to preserve him from the wrath of his peers.

Sten and Nathaniel followed in Flora's wake, the former so close to the latter that the arl's son could feel the Qunari's breath on the back of his neck. The Par Vollen native had insisted on Howe walking several paces ahead; his crimson gaze trained suspiciously on the human's sinewy frame.

Passing the cells in which Sten had hurled the unfortunate dwarves, Flora led the way towards the locked doors at the far end of the stone tunnel. These lay around a crook in the corridor, set apart from the rest of the dungeon. She still had Beraht's keys on a ring at her waist, though was not looking forward to sorting through two dozen possible options.

The cell in which she and Nathaniel had been kept – now ransacked beyond recognition – lay to one side. Opposite was a larger chamber, the door containing a single barred aperture. Flora approached the slotted window and peered through, squinting into the shadowed space beyond.

The room contained a dozen unhappy men clad in tattered shirts and breeches; each one slumped against the wall in wordless misery. They wore their hair loose to their shoulders, kept long in a manner typical of Orlesians, and most of them sported some sort of moustache. One of them – a slender man with a hangdog expression – caught sight of Flora's bloodied face at the bars and let out a breathy squeak of fear. The other men turned their heads towards her, expressions contorting in fear and dismay.

"Bun-jury," called Flora through the bars, wishing heartily that Leliana was there to translate. "Bon-jewel? Budgie?"

They gaped at her, terrified and uncomprehending.

" _Bonjour,"_ murmured Nathaniel Howe under his breath, managing to restrain a snort.

"BUN-JOWAAAR!" repeated Flora loudly, trying to scrape together what she had heard Leliana use over the past year. " _Je sweeze_ Florence Cousland, _et_ I have _mutinied_ against _Le Carta_ , _et_ _specificallement_ against _Le Beraht_."

She glanced down at the ring of keys, then at the lock on the door; looking in vain for some distinguishing mark.

Although the meaning of her words was lost on the Orlesian merchant crew, her _name_ bore significance. It was a name that had spread across Thedas in the months after the Archdemon's death; to such extent that even the lower classes of foreign nations were familiar with Bryce Cousland's daughter.

" _La reine! La reine!"_

" _La fleur de Ferelden. C'est elle!"_

" _L'héroïne!"_

Flora did not know what they were saying, but picked up on the excited timbre. Running out of Orlesian phrases to use, she instead lifted the severed head of Beraht up to the bars. The Orlesian crew gaped, jaws dropping; their chattering rose to a feverish pitch.

"Can _you_ speak Orlesian?" the queen said impulsively to Beraht's sullen features, then was overcome with a sudden, immature urge. Reaching up, she gripped his jaw and moved it up and down in a grotesque parody of a puppeteer's motion.

"' _No, I sadly cannot!'"_ 'replied' the Beraht-head, in Flora's best semblance of gruff dwarven tones. _"'Because I spent all my time learning how to be the ultimate snaky slobbergobbler.'"_

"My lady Cousland," Nathaniel interrupted, a faint note of despair to his tone. "Can we keep our attention focused on _getting the fuck out of here?"_

"Fine," grumbled the queen, lowering the head and raising the bunch of keys. "If my dear friend Zevran was here, _he_ would have appreciated that episode of comedic genius."

Nathaniel just about restrained his jaw from dropping in sheer incredulity. Sten let out a low growl, an audible grinding of the teeth emerging from his throat. He had backed up several steps, the bare muscle of his back pressed against the stone wall. He was still incongruously clad only in Beraht's blood-soaked tunic, loosely tied by the arms around his waist.

"I'm finding the key!" retorted Flora, jangling the heavy set. "I'll just have to try each one of these until I find the right- "

The Qunari charged past her before she had finished speaking, ducking his shoulders and head-butting the cell door with a bellow of belligerence. It splintered instantly into fragments of sharded wood. The Orlesians sent up a collective squeal of terror; Nathaniel Howe's eyebrows shot into his dark hairline.

" _Dear Maker!"_

"I know," Flora replied solemnly, fixing the arl's son with a knowing stare. "We _have_ to find Sten some proper smallclothes. It's just FLAPPING around like an eel on a baithook. Very distracting I know, but do try and stay focused."

"No – that's not what I – ah, Maker's Breath!"

Sten picked out several splinters of wood from his shoulders, expression unchanged; once this was done, he stepped out of the ruins of the doorway to allow Flora entrance. She inched her way into the doorway, temporarily distracted by a peculiar _rippling_ sensation from deep within her belly. The muscles around her womb twitched in a brief series of twinges, before settling back down to their usual calm.

 _What's that? It doesn't feel like anything I've felt before._

 _Can't dwell on it!_

Thrusting the odd ripple to the back of her mind, Flora eyed the motley collection of grubby and frightened sailors. They stared back up at her, startled recognition blazing from each fatigued face. She assumed that she must have made for a macabre and incongruous sight – heavy with child, bloodied from head to toe, and idly bouncing a severed head by its beard.

"Do any of you speak Kingstongue?" the queen asked, feeling a sudden, brutally sharp pang of longing for her _own_ king. It was now the fifth day of their parting; the longest separation that she and Alistair had experienced.

The man with the drooping moustache and the hangdog expression raised a tentative hand, his soulful eyes liquidous with anxiety.

" _Votre majesté,_ I speak a little. My mother was from Denerim."

Flora pointed a finger at him, delighted.

"What's your name, please?"

" _Bernard de Vannes, madame."_

"Burdurv," repeated Flora, as usual, massacring the pronunciation. "This is the plan. I need you to communicate this to your…."

She trailed off, recalling that the dwarves had thrown the unfortunate captain overboard.

"Who is in charge?"

Bernard raised his hand once again, looking even more soulful and traumatised. Orlesians tended to have the most expressive faces within Thedas; the ship's crew, sighing and grimacing, were certainly living up to their reputation.

"I was the – how do you say – _second."_

"Excellent, Burdurv," breathed Flora, smiling disconcertingly at him with teeth that were still covered in the caked remains of Beraht's arterial spray. " _You're_ now the captain. We're going to take the ship and sail it back to Highever. My brother – the teyrn - will recompense you for any costs."

Somewhere over the past year, the daughter of Bryce Cousland had grown used to issuing instructions when the occasion called for it. It was unclear whether the seeds of authority had been planted when she first spoke before the southern arls at Redcliffe in the spring, or perhaps even earlier – when Alistair had first looked to her within the swamp of the Korcari Wilds after the massacre at Ostagar. For all her soft and unassuming ways, when the queen of Ferelden _did_ give a command, it was with the absolute expectation that it would be obeyed. It was a quality that those about her had discussed quietly for months – Eamon believed it to originate from her Cousland blood, Leliana that it came with the borrowed mantle of Warden-Commander. Leonas Bryland, however, was certain that it was part of her inheritance as a _northerner;_ Flora possessed the same blunt practicality as Loghain, who had also been raised by peasants in the same region. The two had far more in common than first appearances might suggest; as anyone at the end of a cool, implacable northern stare would attest.

Technically, the ship of a foreign nation owed no obligation towards a sovereign of a rival power. Yet there was no question of the Orlesian sailor defying her instruction – or even raising any weak semblance at protest. Instead, the first mate quailed in the face of the Hero of Ferelden's solemn, expectant gaze, and gave a rapid nod.

" _Oui, madame,"_ he croaked a moment later, twisting his fingers pitifully within the hem of his stained tunic. "But… our captain was the only one who could navigate these waters. We do not know this sea. The dwarves had a man who knew the way here."

" _I_ know this sea, and this sky," Flora replied, supremely confident. "I can read them better than any book. I'll navigate us back."

Soon afterwards, the Orlesian sailors were provisioned with whatever foodstuffs could be scavenged from the other stone chambers. They had been under control of the Carta for over a week and had received little in the way of nourishment. Bernard, the first mate who had inadvertently been promoted to captain, took a half-dozen of the stronger crew members and went to check on the condition of their docked vessel. The surviving Carta dwarves were left bound in their cells twice over, with both physical chains and Morrigan's holding charms sealing the door. From the sound of it, the fighting had ceased and despondency had settled in.

While waiting for the crew to prepare the ship, Flora, Sten and Nathaniel went to investigate the storage chambers nestled amidst the maze-like passageways. The Carta had carried a selection of ill-gotten gains up to the Surface to fund their illicit activities, and had brought these goods ashore the smuggler's rocky outcrop for safe-keeping.

Morrigan, who was entertaining herself by contorting her magic-wreathed alchemist puppet into amusing shapes in mid-air, declined to join them. Conversely Flora, whose earlier fatigue had transitioned into a fidgety disquiet, wanted to be on the move. She felt peculiar, in a way that she could not quite put into words – oddly uncomfortable, reluctant to sit down and be still. The ripple in her belly from earlier had disconcerted her; it was _wholly_ different from any other cramp she had experienced during her childbearing.

Such fretful twitchiness had paid off: they discovered a chamber containing a half-dozen coffers and chests of varying sizes. Sten wordlessly combined the contents of four chests into two, then lifted one under each arm with utter nonchalance. Using his sound arm, Nathaniel Howe heaved a coffer into the air with a grunt of exertion. Flora was left to carry the smallest receptacle, an ornately-wrought silver casket the size of a Chantry prayer book.

"We can recompense the Orlesian crew out of this," the queen spoke her thoughts out loud as she followed her companions back through the winding tunnel. "Some should be sent back to Orzammar. But some needs to go to Highever, to make up for the money they've lost in searching for me."

Flora slid her finger into the small space between the lid and the box in an attempt to open it. Despite her lack of long fingernails – the queen had not lost her habit of nibbling on them in idle moments – her fingertips were too sore from working free the ropes to pry open the box. She allowed herself a single moment of sadness – _no, you can't just put your fingers in your mouth to heal them –_ and then took a deep, steadying breath.

 _Time to go back._

They found Morrigan in one of the chambers near the cave opening, still entertaining herself by contorting the hapless alchemist into shapes. The man was groaning and incoherent, his brains had been so thoroughly rattled in his skull that his babblings made little sense. With the smallest flick of her fingers, the witch made him walk on the ceiling, turn around on his head and perform the most grotesque flailings; of the sort a sadistic child might perform on some unfortunate doll.

"Ah, you're back," Flemeth's daughter called over her shoulder, her cat-eyes gleaming as the alchemist moaned. "The man with the tragic moustache came and spoke some _Orlesian_ at me. I believe the ship is ready for us."

Flora eyed the alchemist suspended in his icy chains, panting and grateful for some relief from the constant jerking. He gazed back down at her, a malevolent sheen to his oily pupil.

"It doesn't feel good to lose control, does it?" she told him, sternly. Although kind at heart, Flora found herself unable to feel sorry for someone who took what they wanted from women through force, and showed no remorse for their actions. This, in combination with the threats towards her children, was enough to bar the Rivaini from receiving the queen's infamous forgiveness.

He croaked something back down at her in his native tongue. Although the word itself was incomprehensible to Flora, it was quite clearly intended to be derogative. Flora let out a little sigh – Duncan had set a _very high personal standard_ for the queen when it came to the Rivaini people – and turned back to Morrigan.

"You said the ship was ready?"

The ship was indeed ready. The Orlesian crew, who saw an end in sight to their ordeal, had swarmed over it for the past few hours; checking the ropes, readying the sails and completing the various tasks required before venturing out onto the open seas. Now, the ship waited patiently for its final passengers, nudging gently against the spur of natural rock that acted as a makeshift harbour.

Flora, Morrigan, Sten and Nathaniel made their way down the tunnel towards the patch of moonlight at its apex. Arl Howe's son moved in fits and starts, his usual lithe saunter hampered by the wound to his shoulder. Sten brought up the rear so that he could keep an eye on both Nathaniel – who he quite clearly did not trust – and the alchemist. The Rivaini was not even allowed the privilege of self-driven movement. Morrigan's icy wreath of chains, which, despite their fragile appearance had the strength of silverite, dragged him in fits and starts through the air. The magical bindings jerked him about like a child hauling a little-favoured toy.

Bernard de Vannes had asked the queen if she would rather wait until morning to depart, but Flora had shaken her head rapidly; eager to depart for more than one reason. Her wedding rings had settled comfortably back into their indentations and she kept running her thumb compulsively over them. The twisted golden rope of the matrimonial band received the most attention – Flora had not allowed her mind to linger on Alistair for obvious reasons – but now she allowed herself the briefest of fleeting musings on her beloved husband and best friend.

 _You must be frantic with fright. What did Morrigan say? 'A man deranged with fear and grief._

 _My poor brother-warden! My poor Alistair!_

 _Enough, Flora. Stop it._

Feeling tears prickle in the corners of her eyes, Flora took a full breath and forced Alistair from her mind.

 _One more obstacle to overcome. Then we'll never be parted again, never, ever!_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol apologies for Flo's hideous mangling of the Orlesian language! I definitely want to use slobbergobbler as an insult IRL at some point, lol. So, we're escaping from the smuggler's isle, back to Highever, complete with a dwarf's head, a prisoner and some loot! Also, what could those strange cramps in Flora's belly be…? :P Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	173. Sky, Sea and Amateur Surgery

Chapter 173: Sky, Sea and Amateur Surgery

The water opened up before Flora and her companions like a roll of parchment as they emerged onto the rocky spur. The Waking Sea was seething quietly in its usual fashion, circling the smugglers' isle and nudging petulantly at the hull of the sole boat anchored there. White crests capped the fidgeting grey waves; the surface of the water restless enough that no reflection of the night sky could be seen. Overhead hung a full tapestry of stars, and it was clear and cold enough that no obscuring veil of cloud masked their artfully-arranged brilliance.

While the Orlesian crew made ready to depart - clambering along wooden cross-beams to unfurl the sails, manning the windlass in preparation to raise the anchor – the Rivaini alchemist was bound to the base of the mast itself. He was not only wrapped tight with corporeal chains, but also with Morrigan's enchanted bindings; the man was so wholly wrapped that his head seemed to emerge from a bound cocoon.

Flora watched the alchemist as he was constricted, interceding to insist that the chains and magical ropes allowed enough room for him to breathe. When the alchemist snarled that he did not need kind treatment from a _she-dog worth no more than a Tranquil,_ the queen had retorted that she only wished to deliver him to her husband _alive._

" _Majesté?"_

Bernard de Vannes was standing on the top deck, hunched over a crate spread with charts, rolls of parchment and various metal instruments. His bristling moustache twitched as he gazed anxiously down at the range of navigational aides, a bead of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

" _Madame,_ you said that you could navigate us back to _Highever?"_

There was a raw note of doubt in his tone; it was clear that the sailor harboured serious doubts over the queen's capability to do as she had so confidently promised.

Flora began the laborious process of moving towards him – which involved crossing the lower deck and ascending a steep flight of wooden steps – when she felt a _twinge_ deep in her abdomen. It was a feeling utterly unlike any cramp she had felt so far, and she wondered if perhaps she had taken the steps too quickly. Pausing, she waited with baited breath to see if the _twinge_ would repeat itself. When nothing seemed to follow, the queen continued on towards the new captain and his navigational paraphernalia.

She spared only a brief glance towards the crate – just long enough to establish that there was nothing of use to her there. The parchment displayed an array of confusing charts, numerical data and scrawled nautical logs in italicised Orlesian. The instruments – an astrolabe, a quadrant and a ring-dial – were equally bemusing, reflecting the light from the nearby lanterns in their burnished surfaces. Flora had no idea how to use any of it, but she also did not _plan_ to make use of it.

The queen waddled past the useless paraphernalia and the twitchy Orlesian sailor, heading towards the raised deck at the rear of the ship. Gilded mermaids decorated the rail near the wheel, their long tails wrapped artfully around the wooden struts. Such decoration appeared to be the ship's general theme – at the front of the vessel a similarly elaborate figure of a mermaid rose proudly from the prow. Long, intricately crafted locks were draped over a golden cleavage; seashells and seaweed were tangled into the fall of sculpted hair. The mermaid stared sightlessly forward into the mists with a mysterious half-smile, her lips slightly parted.

Flora eyed the smaller version on the rear deck for a moment, thinking that only an _Orlesian_ merchant vessel would have such ornate décor. She reached forward and touched the top of the mermaid's head, tracing the outline of a seashell with a rope-worn fingertip. From somewhere within the bowels of the ship echoed the low mechanical cranking of the windlass.

" _Madame,"_ she heard Bernard murmur deferentially, shifting from foot to foot. _"Madame,_ we are raising the anchor. You… you said you had an idea of what course to take?"

The sailor was clearly intimidated by the typical damp mists that swirled above the surface of the Waking Sea; a miasma that obscured vision beyond fifty yards. These mists often descended in the absence of a storm, veiling the shore and striking fear into the hearts of inexperienced navigators.

Flora ignored the Orlesian and tucked Beraht's head between her knees, lowering her hands to the wooden rail. Next, she expelled the contents of her lungs in a long, low exhalation and closed her eyes. Finally, she took a deep breath, filling her belly with the coarse air of the Waking Sea, cool, familiar and briny.

When she opened her eyes once more, she looked first down at the water, which gnawed impatiently at the hull of the ship like a hungry Mabari. Flinging up petulant sprays of seafoam against the wood, it seethed and brooded, but lacked any true ire. When Flora licked her lips, she could taste the salt on her tongue, sharp and grainy.

 _I spent ten years living on your shores. I know you like a child knows a parent. I can read your fluctuating moods and your shifting temperament. I know how to spot the signs of your growing anger._

 _I've seen enough ships hurled onto the Hag's Teeth to have some idea how they ended up there._

Next, the fisherman's daughter tilted her face up to the sky, which still clung to the last vestiges of night. In contrast to the mass of heavy, rain-filled mist that hung above the sea, the skies overhead were as clear as polished glass. On the eastern horizon a faint grey line heralded the arrival of dawn; yet for now the stars still held command over the vault of heaven. The men and women of Herring did not know the academic stylings of the constellations – _Silentir, Eluvia, Tenebrium –_ they used far more prosaic names: Fish-Hook, Leaping Salmon, Torn Netting. The brightest star in the sky had the simplest cognomen of all.

 _There's the Bait,_ Flora thought to herself fondly as she gazed up at the gleaming pinprick. _Look at how it dangles just out of reach of the Salmon._

 _But it's a little further away than I'm used to. Highever lies six headlands from Herring._

 _What course do we set to close that gap between fish and lure?_

Flora lowered her gaze and found that her arm was already raised; a finger pointing firm and assured into the mists gathering on the horizon.

"That way," she said, delighted at the confidence in her own voice. "And avoid the dark line of water, just over there. It's a current that'll take us too far towards _Fish-Hook."_

The Orlesian sailor looked at her, and Flora could see the scepticism curdling his gaze; his callused fingers wringing the grubby, lace-trimmed hem of his shirt.

"Are… are you sure, _Madame?_ I don't wish to doubt you, but- "

 _You are the queen of Ferelden, and a former Grey Warden. What do you know about any of this?_

"Trust me, _"_ she breathed, solemn and earnest. "Before I was queen – before I was a _Warden_ – I grew up by this sea. My Herring-dad and I sailed on it almost every day."

The daughter of Eleanor Mac Eanraig, the infamous Sea Wolf of Highever, cast a fond look over the brooding swell of waters around them. Reaching down awkwardly past her stomach to retrieve Beraht's head, she cradled it to her bosom in a sudden surge of sentimentality towards her childhood home.

"There's no part of Ferelden I know better than this."

The Orlesian sailor bowed his head, hair flopping over the balding patch at the peak of his skull.

" _Comme vous voulez_ , _majesté."_

"Mercy buckets, Burdurv," replied Flora vaguely, the corner of her mouth turning upwards.

The anchor was hoisted into the bowels of the ship, and with a tug of the rigging, the vast sails were unfurled. The Waking Sea waged constant war against a converging mass of turbulent air; fortunately, one dominant northerly wind soon filled the great canvas squares. The merchant vessel sprung forwards from the rocky spur, its prow breaking through the waves with the gilded mermaid smiling benevolently into the face of the mists.

The Orlesian crew had quickly returned to their old posts, conversing in their native tongue as they reallocated the jobs of those who had not survived their dwarven imprisonment. A slender youth clambered into the crow's nest in a vain attempt to see beyond the cloaking mists; two more began repairs on fraying sections of the rigging. Bernard de Vannes himself took control of the wheel, his moustache twitching nervously.

Sten, as a Par Vollen native, was naturally comfortable aboard a ship. Although the deck rocked in a languid roll with each trough of water navigated, the Qunari walked as easily as he did ashore. Despite a plethora of resting places, he chose to stand a few feet in front of the chained alchemist, arms folded and sheer contempt writ across his face. One brave Orlesian suggested that he perch himself on a nearby crate; a proposition met with silent, icy disdain.

Morrigan, who was not _entirely_ at ease on the open ocean, disguised her discomfort by going through a pouch of concoctions retrieved from the Rivaini's supplies. She took great delight in tossing each carefully formulated phial overboard as the alchemist's face contorted in grimaces of agony.

"What an _amateurish_ attempt at a toxin," she declared loudly, sniffing one violet-hued flask before hurling it over the wooden rail. "It bewilders me how you could have believed yourself to possess even a _modicum_ of talent. Really, 'tis laughable. And rather pathetic."

"Don't poison the fish," Flora interjected, shuffling past with a small grunt of effort.

Morrigan let out an almost girlish giggle, curling her lip up in a sneer intended for the alchemist before turning to the queen.

"Oughtn't you be below deck, ideally horizontal?"

"Eh?"

" _Resting,"_ the witch explained with a roll of her gilded eyes, her gaze dropping to Flora's swollen stomach. "Conserving your strength. I'm not sure how _wise_ it is for you to be prancing around up here in your current condition."

"It's physically _impossible_ for me to prance," replied a wistful Flora, absentmindedly swinging Beraht's head by the blood-soaked beard. "My _prancing_ days are long over. I can't remember the last time I pranced. Or skipped. Or flounced. Or cavorted."

Morrigan, bored, had stopped listening. Flora's pale grey eyes settled on Nathaniel Howe, who had seated himself on a low seaman's chest near the rail. His face was pallid and he was clutching his bandaged arm; but did not appear to be in excessive pain. The arl's son was clearly used to being at sea – he had made the voyage back and forth over the Waking Sea on several occasions.

He looked up briefly as Flora approached, then back out at the swirling miasma of mist that stalked the circumference of the ship.

"This fog is as thick as Amaranthine soup."

Flora had no idea what Amaranthine soup was, but naturally concluded that it could not be as good as a traditional Herring stew. Her eyes dropped appraisingly to the makeshift silk bandage wrapped around Nathaniel's upper arm, her brow furrowing in concentration.

"Move over," she instructed, then straddled the leather chest in ungainly and unladylike fashion. "I'm about to _commit surgery_ on you."

" _Commit_ surgery?" repeated Nathaniel, with mild trepidation. "Maker's Breath, that's an interesting choice of vocabulary. Do you – by chance – have any _experience_ in mending wounds of this sort?"

Flora shot him a look of classic Herring disapproval; lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

"I've been mending wounds since I was a little gribble-worm," she intoned, reaching out to loosen the fisherman's knot fixing the 'bandage' in place. "I was a _spirit healer. Everyone_ knows that!"

"The crucial element of that sentence being ' _was',"_ Nathaniel replied, wry and without rancour. "You've no magic anymore."

The queen's infamously sulky mouth contorted itself into an even more exaggerated pout as she unwound the bloody length of silk.

"Well, I've been mending _nets_ since I was a gribble-worm, too," she retorted, letting the silk drop into a pile beside her bare foot and leaning forwards to inspect the wound. "And all this needs is a needle and thread. No-one can sew more neatly than me. Apart from Mad Liza."

"Ah, and where's Mad Liza when you need her?" offered Nathaniel through gritted teeth, glancing briefly down at the wound's gaping, scarlet mouth.

"Back in Herring, in her cave, with her lobster army," said Flora, who often did not grasp sarcasm or rhetorical questions. "But _my_ stitches will do just fine."

Fortunately, the Orlesian merchant vessel carried a plethora of supplies related to the mending of fabrics. Flora had requested a needle, a skein of black embroiderer's thread and a cup of seawater. This was an old Herring trick – the salty contents of the Waking Sea were extremely effective at cleaning dirt and residue from tools. Although Flora did not quite understand the reason _why_ purifying both wounds and instruments was important, she knew that it was vital. Whenever her spirits – namely Compassion - had heard anyone espouse either miasma or the Maker as the cause of infection, it had let out the glistening shiver of sound that passed for laughter.

An Orlesian sailor – after much miming – had managed to decipher Flora's request and brought her the desired items on a tray. Flora lifted the cup of seawater, then kindly decided to give the arl's son some warning.

"This will sting," she informed him bluntly, then sloshed half of the cup's salty contents directly into the gaping wound.

Nathaniel let out a hiss of pain, shortly followed by a string of fluid curses of both Marcher and Fereldan origin. Flora shot him a disapproving look, putting a defensive hand over her stomach.

"My children have little _ears,_ you know," she chided him, sternly. "They can _hear_ you."

She patted the round flesh of her stomach – partly visible through the gaping tartan of the pyjama shirt – and felt a small, disgruntled nudge in response.

"Maker-forsaken- argh, blast it! For the love of Andraste's ashes!"

"I've seen Andraste's ashes. I've _felt_ them."

"Curse me for a – _what?"_

"I carried them in my boot for two days," continued Flora, misty-eyed with reminiscence. "That was a _long_ time ago. We had to take off our clothes to get the Ashes. That was the first time I saw my husband naked."

"By the Maker," croaked the younger Howe, with an incredulous shake of his head. "You're a peculiar girl. Beautiful, but bloody _odd_. Can we get on with this, please?"

But Flora was staring off into the middle-distance, a dreamy expression on her face.

" _So handsome… so muscular…"_

"Are you _drooling?"_

"Mmmm – _right."_ Flora forced herself to focus. "Please try not to move."

She doused fingers, thread and needle in the cup of seawater, then expertly inserted the end of the skein through the tiny metal eye. Reaching forwards – naturally, neither blood nor exposed flesh daunted her – the queen gripped the wound closed between the finger and thumb of her left hand. Her right hand wielded the needle, eyes narrowed in concentration. Many cumulative days of her childhood had been spent with needle and thread – mending nets, repairing torn leathers and ripped sails. She had never sewn up _flesh_ before, but reasoned that it must work on similar principle.

The sun was now beginning to rise in the east; the pallid light of pre-dawn filtering through the surrounding mists. As the amateur surgeon worked away, Nathaniel Howe gritted his teeth and distracted himself by reluctantly admiring the queen's finely-hewn features. Even in Flora's current bedraggled state, the artistry of her face was undeniable. The individually striking features - pale, grave eyes, a delicate nose and the wide, full mouth with its petulant droop were arranged in such a way that they complemented one another in beguiling concord. The black eye delivered by Beraht seemed especially obscene against such a canvas; like some statue from antiquity casually vandalised by a looter.

"You've the colouring of Bryce Cousland," he observed through a clenched jaw. "There's no mistaking that fox-hair. But you've a far fairer face than your siblings. You must've stuck out like a sore thumb in whatever northern backwater they hid you away in."

Flora resisted the temptation to jab her patient with the needle. She let out a noncommittal grunt, inching her fingers gradually up the closing wound as neat little stitches emerged in the flesh. Nathaniel Howe continued, determined to distract himself from the needle's persistent bite and tug.

"We've met before, but you wouldn't remember it. I was at your Maker-blessing ceremony when you were a babe. Our whole family was invited."

The queen grimaced, remembering how Rendon Howe had pulled her covetously onto his bony knee and remarked sardonically that he had done so before, nearly two decades prior.

"I don't remember much of Highever," she replied, pushing the needle through another ridge of flesh. Her fingers were now thoroughly bloody, and she paused to apply another dose of salty water.

"Son of a bastard Mabari! Shit, that stings like a- "

"My brothers are disappointed that I don't remember much," Flora continued with a rueful shrug. "But I was only five when I was sent away. I've tried hard to remember as much as I can, but I… there's only fragments left. I remember a little of my father. Nothing of my mother, really. She had dark hair?"

"Aye, black as a crow's wing before it faded," Nathaniel Howe confirmed, recalling Eleanor Mac Eanraig's proud, haughty features. "You truly don't remember your own mother?"

"No," replied Flora, knotting the end of the thread and pulling the needle free. "There we go, Nanthanile. All done."

Both queen and arl's son looked down at the formerly gaping wound. The two halves of flesh had been sewn neatly together with a row of small, dark stitches, each evenly spaced with a few millimetres between them. There was only the slightest ridge in the flesh; the wound was cleanly closed.

"Time will heal it," Flora said after a moment, rinsing her hands with the last of the salt water. "Let's wrap it again."

The queen retrieved the final item provided on the tray – a length of clean, white linen – and carefully bound Nathaniel's upper arm back up.

"I don't know how long you should wait to take the stitches out," she continued, wistful as she remembered how healing used to take a mere handful of moments, simple as a long potent, exhalation. "I don't know how long stab wounds take to heal. Six weeks?"

Nathaniel let out a rueful laugh, casting a wry glance around the ship. Several young sailors were extinguishing the lanterns to save candle-wax; anaemic sunlight now spilled across the deck. The mist appeared to be growing less dense, it had the texture of spun gossamer instead of the thick Amaranthine soup he had compared it to earlier. The ship's gait was lazy and remarkably even; it seemed that the Waking Sea was showing the merchant vessel some temporary kindness.

"I won't last six heartbeats once the Theirin sets eyes on me, my lady Cousland," he said with a grimace of a smile, shrugging his non-injured arm. "He'll gut me like one of your precious fish. You ought not have wasted your time repairing the wound."

"You'll get a trial," replied Flora, sternly. "I'll make sure of it. You helped me escape, after all. And you saved my children from that blade."

She shot a dagger-filled glare at the alchemist, who was still slumped at the mast. The Rivaini was murmuring incoherently to himself, dried saliva covering his tattooed chin.

As the sun fully broached the eastern horizon, the last ghosts of stars vanished. The miasma still swirled thick around the ship, cloaking any glimpse of the coast. A favourable wind filled the sails, pushing the merchant vessel forwards through the choppy waves and troughs of the Waking Sea. The nervous Orlesian captain, Bernard du Vannes, gripped the wheel and kept to the course set by the queen.

Flora had intended to stay awake, despite the sleepless and action-fuelled night. She did not feel as though she _needed_ to lie down – in fact, she still felt fidgety and oddly restless - but she had experienced several intermittent twinges while sewing up Nathaniel's wound. They were not painful, but there was a dull ache in the base of her spine unlike anything she had felt before.

 _I must be tired,_ she thought to herself, naively and incorrectly. _It's my body telling me to get some rest._

She was reluctant to sleep below deck in case she needed to be consulted in matters of navigation. The Orlesian sailors had created a makeshift nest amongst a clump of spare sails and blankets. They apologised frenetically in broken Kingstongue over the paucity of the sleeping arrangements. The queen, who had spent a decade sleeping on the cold earthen floor of a fisherman's hut, assured them through gestures and earnest nods that it was perfectly adequate for her needs. She curled herself up amidst the sails, pulling the canvas up to her chin and yawning; turning her face away from the rising sun. The gentle sway of the deck helped to settle her, and despite the occasional odd cramp from within her belly Flora managed to ease herself into a fitful sleep.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Omg this chapter and the next couple of chapters took so much bloody research! I know sweet FA about ships and ship vocabulary! My Google history is full of searches along the lines of WHAT IS THE THING THAT MAKES THE ANCHOR GO UP haha. But I wanted to try and make it realistic. Other than needing to make myself Boat Expert, I enjoyed writing this chapter a lot. I like how it showcases Flo's non-magical talent – her ability to read the sky and sea and dictate the ship's course, and how she can 'mend' wounds effectively using the sewing skills she perfected in Herring. This whole arc of the story was intended to show Flo that she was capable of _being_ capable without her magic. Since, she's pretty much believed that she's useless right from Chapter One! Incidentally, typical Flora - despite being terrified of the prospect of childbirth for the past 500,000 words, she doesn't actually realise that she's in the early stages of labour, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	174. The Growing Storm

Chapter 174: The Growing Storm

The Orlesian ship continued to plough on sightlessly through the mist, following the course set by the queen's confident finger. Above the soupy fog, a pallid Kingsway sun had risen; though its anaemic rays were not strong enough to dissolve the miasma that veiled the horizon. Against all seasonal convention – autumn on the Waking Sea tended to be as temperamental and treacherous as winter – the climate thus far had been relatively benevolent. The sails billowed with a helpful wind, the waves posed no great challenge to the mermaid-headed prow as it dove bravely, blindly forwards.

Flora was awoken just after midday by Morrigan hissing furiously at a pair of hapless, trembling Orlesian sailors. They were trying – in vain - to manoeuvre a piece of canvas above the queen to shield her from a persistent drizzle. The witch, perched in a crouch on a nearby crate, was attempting to deliver instructions.

"Curses! Fools! 'Tis hopeless, and now the rain has woken her up. Can you not see her condition? She is _grotesquely bloated with child."_

Flora did not have the heart to inform Morrigan that it had been the witch's unsubtle hissing and not the gentle patter of the drizzle that had woken her. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, grimacing as another twinge racked her loins. Flemeth's daughter spotted the wince and went very still; if she had been in bestial form, her ears would have stood tall and pricked.

"Florence, are you… did you – did you _feel something?"_

There was a brittle edge to the witch's enquiry; though she was making an uncharacteristic effort to sound gentle.

"I- I don't know," replied Flora, somewhat uncertainly. "I feel a cramp – my back aches. I don't know if it's any different from cramps I've had before."

The witch watched the queen's face closely. The queen peered down at the swollen expanse of her stomach, then gave it an experimental nudge. She did not know what she was expecting in return, but received no helpful response or indicator. A sigh emerged from the hollow of her throat; this was new and unchartered territory. Morrigan reached out and brushed her fingers very gently over the top of Flora's head, sweeping a stray crimson strand from her cheek.

"Let's get you back to your brother-warden, hm?"

The Orlesian sailors hurried to help the queen to her feet. The rhythmic sway of the ship's deck was a little more energetic than it had been earlier – the waves had picked up some vigour as the morning drew into afternoon – but Flora was able to navigate her way towards the wheel without difficulty. Bernard de Vannes still clutched the ring of polished wood in a death grip, his teeth gritted.

" _Madame,_ the mist is not clearing," he muttered, the ends of his moustache twitching in agitation. "I cannot see any indication of the coast."

A particularly enthusiastic wave flung itself up against the hull, sending a thin wash of salty water across the deck. This provoked an anxious murmuring amongst the sailors as they cast dubious looks over the rail into the unfriendly grey depths.

"Well, no," replied Flora in surprise, casting her equally cool, pale gaze on the Orlesian captain. "This is the _Waking Sea._ It's always like this."

"The _Miroir de la M_ _è_ _re_ is a sheer pleasure to sail upon," replied de Vannes, wistfully. "You know it, _majesté?"_

"Yes," said Flora, her attention caught by a bird circling overhead. "The water beside Vallyroo. My friend Leliana has talked about it."

" _Oui,"_ replied Bernard, flinching at the verbal mangling of his beloved home city. "It is as glass. See? _As glass."_

He blew air through his lips in a typically Orlesian manner, flattening his hand and sliding it sideways through the air as though skating on ice.

"It sounds slippery," retorted the queen of Ferelden bluntly, loyal to her beloved stretch of choppy and temperamental water. "And don't _worry._ We're going the right way. See, the cormorant?"

Flora pointed upwards but the dark-winged gull had already swooped back into the thick veil of cloud.

"The cormorant never flies far from the northern coast," she continued anyway, the bird's absence proving no discouragement. "We have a song about it. Though we don't call it the cormorant, because that wouldn't rhyme. We use its other name."

" _Qu_ _'est-ce que c'est?"_

"The shag! It's a classic Herring celebratory song. _The Shag: Harbinger of Storm and Shipwreck."_

" _Storm_ _et shipwreck?"_ repeated the Orlesian, going a shade paler behind his moustache.

Flora nodded, enthusiastically.

"It has a really catchy chorus! ' _Whenever the look-out spots a shag, a sailor ends up in a body bag'."_

The queen made a little drumming motion on the ship's wheel and beamed at the blanching captain.

" _Sacré bleu!"_ croaked Bernard, gripping the ship's wheel more tightly to keep himself upright. "Please, _madame,_ no more. My nerves cannot stand it."

As the afternoon edged slowly towards evening, the mist surrounding the ship gradually began to dissipate. This was due to a low, growing turbulence in the air; the day's persistent breeze had suddenly graduated into a wind of far greater potency. The sails – previously plump and full – began to creak as the gusts tested the strength of their bindings. The roll of the deck, which had been akin to the gentle rock of a baby's cradle, became more of a drunken lurch. The restless air was accompanied by a strange, muted light in the sky; the sun veiling itself behind a thin layer of dissolute cloud. Although it was still mid-afternoon, the world seemed to be darkening in slow and persistent increments.

The Orlesian sailors muttered anxiously to one another, casting glances at the sky overhead. In the distance, a bank of dark cloud gathered like an encroaching army; preparing to advance over the horizon. Morrigan, already discomfited by the sea voyage, strayed restless about the ship. She stalked barefoot over the decks, thoroughly disconcerting the crew; transforming without notice into an ebon-winged crow and fluttering up to perch on the cross-spur. Every so often, possibly to calm her nerves, she would taunt the alchemist bound to the mast. The Rivaini still clung to the last vestiges of defiance, hissing the occasional curse or epithet in his native tongue.

"There's a storm brewing," he croaked out in a delight, canting his tattooed chin upwards. "We'll all be sent to the depths of the Waking Sea. Down, down, down into the darkness."

"Quiet, _vashedan,"_ snarled Sten, who had not moved from his watch. "I need little excuse to hurl you overboard in your chains."

Flora, meanwhile, was perched at the prow of the ship, wedged in the polished _V_ where the two halves of the bow came together. She had her elbow resting on the rail and her chin on the crook of her arm, she was not looking at the horizon but down at the swirling, seething waters. A vague smile was writ across her face and her eyes were unfocused; even the intermittent pangs in her belly were not enough to distract her from her surroundings.

" _Madame?"_

A young sailor clad in a tattered silk shirt approached with head bowed deferentially. An unexpected roll of the ship caught him off guard and he stumbled, clutching at the rail to keep his balance. Flora reluctantly tore her gaze from the restless sea, turning her eyes on the anxious sailor.

" _Majesté…_ captain wish you come? He is… to have… the query."

Flora heaved herself from the bench, accepting the hastily offered hand of the young sailor. There was another strange twist from deep in her belly and she grimaced, putting a hand down reflexively to cup the mound of flesh.

"Ouch! Owww."

" _Madame!"_ squeaked the Orlesian, gaping at her in alarm. _"Majesté!"_

"I'm fine," muttered the queen through gritted teeth, feeling beads of sweat break out on her forehead. _"Fine._ I'm coming."

"Do you wish the arm?"

The sailor waved his arm, eyeballing the tilting deck with some trepidation. Every so often, a fine spray of saltwater would fling itself over the wooden boards, leaving them glistening in the strange, muted light.

"I wish the arm," replied Flora after a moment; she had decent sea-legs, but desired to take no chances considering the sudden lurches of the ship.

Together, they made their way past the foremast – where the alchemist hissed something dark in her direction – and then past the second mast to the rear deck.

Morrigan, who was looking distinctly green about the gills, distracted herself by joining the odd couple. She wound her black-nailed fingers around Flora's other elbow, helping to steady the queen as the ship pitched into another wave.

"This is intolerable," the witch hissed darkly into Flora's ear, casting a malevolent eye up at the drizzle. _"This_ is the Waking Sea that you droned tirelessly on about for a year? It does _not_ live up to your praise!"

"It's beautiful," corrected Flora sternly, negotiating the steep steps up to the rear deck with the sailor steadying her from below. "I think it takes a while to _appreciate it._ What's wrong, Burdurv?"

Bernard de Vannes was gripping the wheel with both hands, the ends of his moustache drooping tragically as he gnawed at his lower lip. His gaze swivelled from the waves breaking against the hull to the mass of ominous cloud growing on the horizon. He then turned huge, despondent eyes on Flora; nobody in Thedas could pull off misery quite like an Orlesian.

" _Majesté,_ there is a storm brewing!"

"Mm," replied Flora, cheerfully. "It's the Waking Sea, there's always a storm brewing."

The Orlesian captain gaped unhappily at her, mind scrambling to assemble an appropriate response in a tongue she would understand.

" _Madame,_ should we turn back? Drop anchor? I am not used to navigating during such conditions. I am used to the _Miroir de la M_ _è_ _re,_ which is- "

"As flat as glass," finished Flora, hastily. "I know. And _no,_ we're not turning back! Or dropping anchor. That would be the worst possible decision. The Waking Sea does _not_ respond well to cowardice."

The Herring native, who had seen countless ships torn apart by a combination of wind, wave and reef, spoke from experience. Although the half-drowned men she had revived on the beaches had rarely addressed her afterwards, she had overheard them conversing with each other and with the men of the village as they waited to be collected. In addition, from her vantage point on the Hag's Teeth, the young Flora had observed how vessels could escape the storm relatively intact; through following certain procedure.

"If the wind is getting stronger, you need to take down that sail," she instructed, pointing up at the billowing canvas affixed to the rear mast. "Leave the one at the front up. And we don't stop – we keep going. Keep up as much speed as we can and angle the prow into the wave."

Plucking a hair from her head, Flora held it up and watched the wind catch it, looking not only at direction but at the ferocity of the tug.

"That's the Marcher's Breath," she added, the corner of her mouth turning upwards. "From the north. It's a good strong wind, it'll push us all the way back to Highever."

"Which is, _majesté?"_ the captain countered, a faint note of pleading in his tone. "We have not seen even the faintest hint of coastline. We could be sailing into the open Amaranthine Ocean."

He faltered as Flora turned her pale, disapproving stare on him; grey eyes wide and reproachful.

" _Don't worry,"_ she replied, firm and insistent. "This mist will clear soon – the Marcher Breath will blow it apart – and you'll see that I'm right."

Bernard de Vannes gazed at Flora's face for a long moment. She looked back at him with the same calm resolve that she had worn before the armies at Denerim; the face that prompted the confidence of ten thousand troops in the leadership of a nineteen year old girl.

Finally, the captain bowed his head towards in acquiescence; wiping sweaty hands on grubby breeches before gripping the wheel once again.

"As you wish, _madame."_

The afternoon slid slowly into a dark and menacing dusk. The mass of cloud drew nearer as the rear sails were bundled up against the mast. The rain stopped and started; the fitful inconstancy somehow more unnerving than persistent drizzle. The sailors no longer chattered to one another but worked in grim silence, relocating the cargo to the bottom of the ship, tethering all loose crates and fixing ropes along the decks for people to clutch. The waves were now the size of a Qunari – they had been the height of a dwarf – and lashed up against the hull with such ferocity that the ship shuddered with each watery blow.

Suddenly, there came a shout from the sailor in the crow's nest, high and excited.

" _Terre en vue! Terre en vue!"_

The cry was soon taken up by the rest of the crew, their voices swallowed by gusts of wind.

" _Terre en vue!"_

" _Nom de Créateur! Terre en vue!"_

Flora, who was seated on a bundle of spare canvas near the mast, shot a confused glance at Morrigan. The witch was perched on a crate nearby, her nonchalant attitude betrayed by a muttered curse each time that the ship pitched into a particularly deep trough of water.

"What does _terronvoo_ mean?"

Morrigan gave an ill-tempered shrug, drawing the threadbare blanket more tightly around her shoulders.

"Perhaps it means _giant shark!"_ continued Flora, once it became clear that her companion was not going to offer a more substantial response. "Or vast, be-tentacled octopus."

Bernard de Vannes, the relief palpable on his face, pointed a triumphant finger towards the horizon.

" _Land, majesté! Land!"_

Sure enough, a line of dark clifftop had emerged on the horizon perhaps eight leagues to the south. The shadowed crags were interrupted by a spot of blazing light; the silhouette of a vast, sprawling fortress just about visible. Despite the dimming light, the distance and the faint veil of the drizzle, Flora recognised the outline of the castle at Highever in the span of a heartbeat. She felt the breath catch in her throat, the fingers of her right hand instinctively moving to touch the golden rope of her wedding band.

"Alistair," she whispered under her breath, allowing her husband's name to emerge from her lips for the first time since boarding the ship. _"Alistair._ I'm coming."

Morrigan glanced sideways at the longing in the queen's tone, and managed to restrain herself from making a sarcastic comment.

Flora opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words, a sudden, strangled gasp emerged from her throat. Her womb had just contracted in a series of muscular cramps more powerful than any she had ever felt, a rolling and persistent wave of pain that crashed against the walls of her belly. She found her fingers flailing out against the canvas; they were snatched up and gripped tight against the witch's palm.

"Aah – aah!"

"Breathe," commanded Morrigan, sternly. "Fill your belly with this salt-filled air you adore so much. Come _on,_ Flora."

Flora took a gulp of air, clinging to the witch's hand as the muscles in her belly contracted without mercy. The pain continued for several minutes without cessation; the queen hunched forwards over her stomach and gasped in great, gulping breaths.

When the cramping finally abated, it was like the sun emerging from the cloud after a storm. She exhaled unsteadily, turning wide and shocked grey eyes up to Morrigan's taut, feline stare.

"Morrigan, d-do you… do you think…?"

"Well, 'tis obvious," replied the witch, brisk to hide her alarm. "Your children are preparing to make their entrance into this world."

 _It's happening,_ Flora thought to herself, in slight disbelief. _They're coming._

She waited for the inevitable rush of fear and panic; for the light-headed swirl of terror that caused her fingers to tremble and sweat to break out on her forehead. These emotions were the ones she had channelled when fooling Beraht; drawing from months of deep-rooted dread. The night before Flora had been abducted, she had believed herself to be in labour – and had broken down in wails of distress.

Yet, now that the moment was _here,_ no such feelings came. There was no swell of blind panic, no nausea, no frightened tears making their way down her cheeks. There was still apprehension, but it was low and muted; smoothed over by a firm, steely resolve. The queen glanced over at Beraht's head, which lay neatly in a coil of rope beside her feet.

 _I killed the man who abducted me,_ she thought to herself, heart beating in slow, determined throbs. _I survived the Carta's evil intentions. I helped us sail through the mists. All without my magic._

 _I can do this without my magic, too._

 _I'm ready when you are, little babies._

She repeated this sentiment out loud, her words snatched up by the wind and thrown to the merciless waves.

"We are _not ready,"_ snarled Morrigan, a note of agitation in the correction. "We are in the middle of the ocean, being tossed around like a leaf on the breeze!"

"Oh!" repeated Flora, in alarm. _"You're right."_

She looked down at her stomach, assuming her sternest tone.

"This is a royal proclamation from your mother: DO NOT MOVE! Stay where you are! Go… go back in! Turn around! Reverse!"

Morrigan let out a humourless snort, glancing up as Nathaniel made his way towards them. Her snort turned into a genuine cackle of malicious laughter as the deck heaved and he went staggering sideways, clutching the mast in an effort to keep upright.

"Are you alright?" the arl's son asked, once he had successfully navigated the treacherous, tilting deck.

"No!" retorted Flora, shooting a baleful look at her belly. "The twins have had enough. They're breaking free."

"Oh, shit," said Nathaniel, reaching out to steady himself on the rail as the ship pitched forward over an alarming steep trough. "Hold on!"

The mermaid at the prow plunged headfirst into another wave; flinging cold, salty water over much of the deck. The sailors shouted out a warning and scrambled to cling onto whatever solid part of the ship was in reach. Fortunately, the water flooding over the deck was only several inches' worth; not enough to drag anyone down to the cold depths of the Waking Sea. The bones of countless generations of men – including, probably, those of Alistair's own father – lay mouldering away a mile below the surface; known only by crustaceans and tiny, nameless fish.

Morrigan and Nathaniel reached out to grip the queen's elbows, who – to their alarm – had hauled herself onto the bench beside the rail. Flora clung to the wood, her hair blown back like crimson seaweed caught in a current; eyes shut and a beatific smile across her face. The saltwater spray had soaked the tattered tartan shirt, the last of Beraht's blood peeling in damp flakes from her skin.

"Fool!" snarled Morrigan, nostrils flaring in agitation as she raised her voice above the wind. "Idiot! Get back down here immediately, or I'll bind you to the mast alongside our prisoner!"

Between them, the two managed to manhandle Flora back down into a sitting position.

"Isn't it _wonderful?"_ she breathed, beaming and unafraid. "The Waking Sea."

" _Wonderful_ isn't quite the word I'd use to describe it," called Nathaniel, anchoring the queen more tightly with his sound arm. "Do you think the ship will hold together?"

Morrigan lifted her soaking head – the Witch of the Wilds, like everybody else, appeared thoroughly bedraggled – and narrowed her eyes towards the coast. The braziers and torches of Highever blazed away atop the cliffs, but far enough that each source of light merged into a golden blur. Her gaze then moved to the sail still mounted on the forward mast. The billowing sheet of canvas was being tormented by the wind, gnawed and plucked at relentlessly with airy claws. It was starting to look distinctly ragged in places, and one side was beginning to pull loose from its fixings.

"It had better," the witch replied, her words drowned out by the thunderous battle between wind and water.

"It _will,"_ added Flora, whose confidence was based on nothing but sheer, dogged faith. "The Waking Sea won't betray me."

 _I'm it's most faithful daughter._

* * *

OOC Author: OOhhh this was a fun chapter to write! Also quite difficult, it was a bit of a writing challenge because I've never written anything aboard a ship before – especially not involving a storm at sea, haha! Anyway, so Flo is properly in labour now – and she knows it. I wanted this to be a contrast to when she thought she was in labour back in chapter 155. In that chapter, she was in hysterics, sweating, crying, terrified of giving birth without her spirits. Now, she's – well – not entirely prepared, but a little bit more ready than she was beforehand. Although we'll have to see if the twins will obey their mother's 'royal proclamation' to _go back in_ and _reverse,_ lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	175. The Return to Highever

Chapter 175: The Return to Highever

The ship ploughed onwards through the waves; the sightless mermaid at the prow smiling blindly in the direction of Highever. The evening had closed in properly now, the bank of storm-cloud overhead inching ever closer with menacing purpose. The wind from the Marches tugged at the sails and hurled itself across the decking, plucking up stray ropes and tossing them joyfully through the air. Yet, for all its bluster, there seemed an unnatural element of _restraint_ to the storm's assault: the waves tilted the ship, but never enough to pitch it at a dangerous angle, the gusts plucked at the sails but did not pull them free. Whenever the ship listed to one side, a current would surface from the depths and nudge it back on track.

On the top deck the queen was clutching the rail, bent double in agony as the muscles in her stomach constricted like a vice. This set of contractions had come just under a candle-length after the previous ones; a halving of the previous interval.

"Aah! Aaah, _aah- "_

"Howl! Howl into the wind!" Morrigan instructed, gleeful at how the sounds of Flora's pain were disconcerting the Orlesian sailors. "Let these men witness the suffering woman goes through as a result of their folly!"

Flora, rather incongruously, started to giggle; little gasps of choked laughter escaping from her throat as she bent over the rail.

"You – _ow, ouch! –_ you think I should howl? Like a Mabari?"

"No, not like a _dog._ Like a proud beast of the Wilds!"

Flora cackled, then let out a strangled squawk. She looked down in horror at her own bare thighs, her jaw dropping with almost comical incredulity.

"What was that?! Aah! Aaah! I've popped! I'm leaking! I'm leaking!"

" _Calm down!"_

A sweat had now broken out on Morrigan's high, tan forehead. Still gripping the alarmed queen by the elbow, she swung around to face the captain. Bernard de Vannes was clutching the wheel in a death grip, teeth-gritted and eyes fixed straight ahead on the Highever coast.

"Can you not sail any faster? These babes will be here in a matter of hours – _if that."_

Bernard du Vannes gave a helpless shrug, his moustache quivering. The Orlesian sailor was trying his best to mask his superstitious fear of a woman giving birth on his ship – which, traditionally, was rumoured to result in _doom._

"We can only go at the speed dictated by the storm, _sorcière."_

The approach to Highever was marked by a great prong of rock, like an elongated elder sibling of the Hag's Teeth reef at Herring. The harbour itself was located in a natural inlet, guarded by a vast iron chain slung between the cliffs and the rock prong. The harbour chain rested on the surface of the water and could be raised – to allow access to trade and passenger vessels – or lowered to defend against pirates, raiders, or _Orlesians._

" _Majesté,"_ called out Bernard, not daring to tear his eyes from the braziers marking the harbour entrance. "Your brother is the teyrn, _oui?"_

"Oo-eeee," replied Flora, much happier now that the contraction was over. She was leaning against the rail, head tilted back, Beraht's grisly relic clutched in a fist. Despite the instability of the ship's deck, she was kept firmly anchored in place by Morrigan at her left and Nathaniel on her right.

"Will he lower the harbour chain for an Orlesian ship, _madame?_ "

Flora bit at her lip for a moment, mulling over the captain's question.

 _I think Fergus would admit any ship in distress, no matter its origin._

 _But, let's make sure he does._

"The red silk," she said, remembering the great rolls of it stored below the deck. "Put a length of it up the mast. Someone'll see it, and… they should know what it means."

 _Long, wine-red ribbons; just like the Warden-Commander's high ponytail._

 _Visible right across the battlefield. A symbol of defiance._

A banner of crimson silk was duly retrieved from the depths of the hold and hoisted to the apex of the flagpole. The wind teased and tugged at the delicate length, but strangely made no further effort to tear it free. The silhouetted mass on the clifftop began to coalesce into separate shapes; the outlines of rooftops and towers emerging from the gloom. Castle Cousland appeared with almost startling suddenness, a vast and behemoth structure perched above the town like some formidable guardian. The blur of light separated into pinpricks of flame as each individual brazier came into view.

The Marcher's Breath filled the straining sails, propelling the vessel straight towards the wide entrance to Highever harbour. The golden mermaid smiled into the face of the storm; her hair extending in painted coils back along the salt-scarred prow. The lookout, leaning as far as he dared over the mermaid's hair, squinted across the turbulent waves with a hand shielding his eyes from the rain.

" _La chaîne est abaissée! C'est abaissée!"_

Further back on the top deck, Flora was suffering through another punishing contraction; hunched against the rail with a stray piece of rope clenched between her teeth. Bright red in the face, she bit down on a wail of pain, clutching Morrigan's hand in a death-grip. At intervals, the sea flung great handfuls of chilly salt-water across the deck, thoroughly saturating the ship's occupants.

On hearing the lookout's shout, Flora spat out the rope and twisted her heaving abdomen awkwardly towards Bernard de Vannes. The Orlesian sailor, assisted by a second, was visibly struggling with the wheel, desperately fighting to keep the ship on course.

"W-what does that mean?" she croaked, flailing a hand towards the prow. "I heard _chain."_

"The harbour chain is lowered, _madame_ ," called back the captain, his voice quavering and his eyes wild with fright. "But we are about to lose our sail."

All faces turned towards the foremast. The great canvas sail had come loose at one corner, twisting in the wind like a piece of unpinned laundry. It had torn in several places already, great, violent rips as though something untamed had clawed at it. The looser it pulled, the more the ship listed to one side; driven inexorably towards the craggy spur.

"Shit," breathed Nathaniel, risking a glance over the rail. The rocks gleamed wet, jagged and black in the darkness; the maw of some submarine beast eagerly awaiting its next meal. "For the love of Andraste, if we get dashed against those rocks, we're lost."

Just then, the wind finally did what it had been threatening for the past few hours. The sail gave a great, weary groan, then wrenched itself free of the mast; flapping off into the air like a pale-scaled dragon. Only the barest scraps of canvas were left clinging to their fixings.

" _Attendez!"_ bellowed Bernard de Vannes as the ship began an inexorable tilt to the starboard side. The crew clung onto whatever was at hand, Sten braced himself in place with a snarl of defiance and the queen was clutched by her companions.

The merchant vessel gave a great groan of protest, its masts thrust bare into the sky; the only means of controlling its propulsion gone. With the loss of the sail, the strain of wind and water on the hull became twice as potent. The old ship lurched through the waves like a drunkard, and despite the frantic attention of three men at the wheel, the tiller made no difference in its course. The maw of rocks loomed before them; the mermaid smiled blindly towards her own impending destruction.

" _Regardez!"_ came a sudden cry from a sailor on the lower deck, a note of disbelief in his tone. _"Regardez!"_

He thrust out a finger towards something that had just landed on the waterlogged wood. A rope lay there, incongruous and unexpected as a snake. It was not constructed from the pale fibres used by Val Royeaux ropers, but woven in a richer hue.

Before anybody had time to react, a dozen more ropes were flung onto the deck; six from each side. A hoarse northern voice bellowed through the air, the words seemingly rising from amidst the turbulent waves.

"Grab the bloody ropes and tie 'em fast!"

The Orlesian sailors sprang into action, grabbing the ends of the ropes and knotting them around various sturdy parts of the ship's structure. The ropes went taut, straightening the tilted vessel and guiding the prow in gradual increments away from the rocky spur.

"What in the Maker's name," muttered Nathaniel, using his good arm to hoist himself up on the rail and peer down. "Who'd be brave enough to sail out in this weather?"

Flora beamed, clasping Beraht's head beneath her arm before twisting as much as she was physically able.

"Fishing boats," she breathed, feeling a sudden storm-swell of emotion within her gut. "Fishermen would."

Sure enough, a dozen fishing vessels flanked the wounded ship as it limped towards the harbour, their ropes steadying the sail-less vessel and guiding it towards the quay. The men aboard these small boats were all veterans of the Waking Sea; equal in skill and daring to any Herring native. They called out to each other in terse, economical sentences; communicating only the facts necessary for steering the larger ship safely into harbour.

"Keep 'er steady, now!"

"Hey, hey – watch yer port-side!"

Then, in a slightly different tone: "Ah! _Me bloody paintwork!"_

The Waking Sea roiled and spat in the background, watching as the Orlesian merchant vessel slipped from its clutches behind the natural defence of the rocky spur. The waves, which had stood at the height of the Qunari, now eased to an agitated chop; the wind settled to a stiff breeze. The fishing boats steered the ship through the harbour, guiding it safely past the sandbars and treacherous channels, and towards the mooring posts at the far end.

On the deck, the Orlesians were calling out delightedly to one another in their native tongue; the deck bathed in flickering orange as the braziers on the quay spilled light over the wounded arrival. Bernard de Vannes slumped at the wheel – his steering no longer required – and muttered a quiet prayer of gratitude to the Maker.

Sten, who had not allowed their peril at sea to distract him from guarding the prisoner, reached forward to check that the Rivaini was still bound firmly. The alchemist appeared bitterly disappointed that they had not been sucked into the depths of the Waking Sea.

On the top deck, Nathaniel and Morrigan gazed at one another in exhausted, wordless relief; for once, in complete accord of emotion. All three of them – including the queen - appeared as though they had spent half the journey being dragged _behind_ the ship; thoroughly bedraggled and with their clothing in shreds. Morrigan's leather garb had fared the best, since it had been relatively ragged and tattered to begin with.

"Maker's Breath," croaked Nathaniel finally, his throat hoarse from salt-spray. "I can't believe it. _We're here."_

"I never want to set foot on a ship again," added Morrigan, in dark and ominous tones. "'Tis the most _repulsive_ form of transportation."

On the other hand, the queen – despite the tangled, half-collapsed ponytail, the torn tartan shirt, the bruises and the black eye – was radiant with delight. She had her face pressed to the gap between the wooden rails, calling down to the nearest fishing boat.

"Have you taken your lobster pots in? They'll be halfway to Kirkwall if you haven't!"

"Aye, milady," replied the fisherman, who had recognised Bryce Cousland's daughter from her distinctive colouring. "Lost a couple o'nets, though."

"Oh no! Big ones?"

"Twelve-footers."

" _Oh no!"_

Flora was about to lament further on the fate of the nets, when her belly spasmed in another violent rack of cramping. She slithered back onto the wet decking, hunching over and reaching blindly for something to grip. Morrigan's hand immediately sought out her fingers, clutching them tight within her own. The pointed nails dug into the queen's palm but Flora did not care, clinging onto her companion's hand as though she were a sailor washed overboard.

"Aah, aah - "

"Come on, Flora – breathe deeply."

Flora dropped her chin to her chest and gritted her teeth, tears rising to the corners of her eyes. The drizzle had saturated the ragged tartan shirt; it clung to her body as it contorted itself in bent-over angles.

"It hurts!" she gasped, outraged. _"It hurts! Nobody said it would hurt this much!"_

Morrigan made a soothing noise through her pursed lips, crouching besides the queen like a great, black-feathered bird.

"Come, come – surely, 'tis not that bad?"

Flora shot the witch a baleful look from the corner of her eye, stray strands of crimson plastered to her cheeks. The wind had blown loose the leather tie; it clung stubbornly to a small chimp of hair, but the ponytail had thoroughly disintegrated.

"It _is that bad!"_

After a few minutes, the contractions passed; the queen slumped in slight shock over her tender belly. Morrigan tutted under her breath, then reached forwards with both hands and gathered up the mass of tangled oxblood. With a deft twist of her fingers, she bound Flora's hair back up in its customary high ponytail.

Flora inhaled, lifting her chin and feeling the familiar weight of her ponytail down her back.

"You'll be absolutely fine," the witch said briskly, her amber eyes settling on the queen's face for a brief, purposeful moment before darting to take in their surroundings. "I have seen many ignorant beasts of the field birth their children without issue."

Although the contraction was now over, Flora kept her tight grip on Morrigan's fingers; suddenly immensely grateful for her old companion's presence.

"You think I'll be fine?"

"Of course," retorted Morrigan, then the edge on her voice softened slightly; her words took in a quieter, more reflective modulation. "You're far from ignorant, my friend. Despite- " here, she had the grace to blush. "Despite what I may have implied over the past year. I think you are quite remarkable, actually. And I am grateful that you – that you tolerated me in your company for so long."

Flora put her arm around Morrigan's neck and kissed her impulsively on the cheek; former mage enfolding witch in a brief, somewhat bedraggled embrace.

"You're _always_ welcome with us," she breathed, solemn and earnest. "Always."

The fishing boats, their small, sturdy sails full of Marcher Breath, continued to lead the limping vessel into the main part of the Highever harbour. Lights ignited from the quayside as curious residents struck up torches; startled faces appearing at windows to watch the wounded ship's arrival. They could see that it was an Orlesian vessel – the ornate decoration and gilded mermaid at the prow sung out its foreign origin – and wondered how it had ended up blown so off course. Those inhabitants of 'Lowever' with sharper eyes spotted the fluttering skein of crimson silk at the head of the mast, and soon excitable rumour began to spread amongst the townspeople.

 _That's the queen's symbol. A red ribbon._

 _Is it – do you think? Could it possibly be…?_

Meanwhile, in a temporary lull between increasingly rapid contractions, Flora's head was swivelling about the ship's deck. Her gaze moved from the alchemist – still slumped incoherent at the mast – to the ghastly head of Beraht, then sideways to where a speechless Bernard de Vannes was being plied with cheers and brandy from his crew. Finally, her eyes settled on their intended target; standing near the rail, half-submerged in shadow.

Nathaniel Howe was not looking up at the unfolding town of Highever as it blazed in torchlit glory before them. Instead he had his head bowed, his eyes closed; his lips were moving in utterances of silent, resigned prayer. Arl Howe's son was preparing himself for the vengeance of Alistair Theirin, which was sure to be exacted at the end of a blade.

"Nathaniel," Flora said, finally getting his name correct. "I promised you a trial, remember?"

"Aye," replied the sole surviving Howe son, grimly. "I.. I would appreciate the chance to speak, to try and explain my actions. Even if the outcome is my head rolling across the floor of the Landsmeet chamber."

Flora nodded, acknowledging the truth in this.

"It's Alistair's decision," she replied, blunt and honest. "He's the king. But I'll speak for you."

He shot her a sideways glance, shrewd and thoughtful, a query in the depths of his dark eyes. She met his gaze and understood the question in it; any native of Herring knew how to read the unspoken language of a person's face.

"You took a blow that would have struck my- "

The queen broke off her sentence as another contraction arrived without warning; even more merciless than the last. She sucked in a great lungful of air and then exhaled it in a trembling gasp, trying to follow Morrigan's instruction to _breathe, deep and slow, almost there._

" _Owww, owww- "_

As a panting Flora bent forwards, ponytail hanging forwards like a waterlogged banner, Morrigan and Nathaniel shared a quick glance over the top of her head.

"They're coming quicker now," the arl's son muttered; he was wholly unfamiliar with childbirth and had gone a faint shade of green. Morrigan nodded, angling her head sharply around like a crow scouting for larger birds, the frustration writ raw across her face.

"We need to get off this damned ship!"

Even as she spoke, there came a deep shiver through the wood as the vessel came up against the dock; men on the shore shouting as ropes were flung out to anchor the wounded ship. Torches blazed in an erratic crowd on the quayside, and half of the town seemed to be clustered in clumps around the mooring posts. The moon emerged from behind a veil of cloud as though it too was curious to see what was taking place on the Highever dock, bathing the harbour and its occupants in gossamer-thin, silvery light.

"Tie the rope off!"

"Drop the anchor! Eh, for the love of Andraste – they're _Orlesian. Drop le anchor!"_

"Get the gangplank out, fasten it tight!

Then, like the thundering approach of a cavalry charge, there came the sound of hoofbeats. Metal horseshoes collided with the hard stone of the quay, accelerating and urgent; there was a collective gasp from those gathered on the side of the harbour, and then a hasty rustle of movement as the crowd parted. Then the timbre of the clamorous hoofbeats changed. For a single breath the iron shoe thudded against salt-soaked wood; then came to an abrupt, clattering halt.

" _Cher Andraste,"_ murmured one of the Orlesian sailors, jaw dropping and eyes wide with shock. _"Le roi."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOOHHH we're back! Back in Highever! And Flora is very much in labour now, haha. She's not dealing very well with the pain, I thought it was nice to have Morrigan there at her side. And not quite babies yet…. But babies soon…. I promise! Anyway I hope I wrote this chapter ok, I'm not experienced at writing ship based drama, lol. And incidentally, le roi means something in French :P Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	176. The Birth

Chapter 176: The Birth

The Orlesian sailors crowded out of the way, fatigued and awestruck; hastening to remove themselves from the path of the man and horse too impatient to wait for the gangplank to be positioned. The four-foot gap of air and harbour water proved to be no obstacle; they had been surmounted in a single, effortless leap.

Flora, still hunched over her own spasming belly, heard and yet did not comprehend the meaning of the hoofbeats against the decking. Something else invisible and inexorable drew her chin from her chest and her pale gaze forward: a bait-line, a fish-rope, a connection no longer of shared blood but of something far more potent. The rain seemed to hang motionless in the air, the wind held its breath; the quiet, foreign murmurings of the sailors faded into the background. Even the wracking cramp from her abdomen seemed to give her a brief respite, almost as though the twins themselves were able to sense the arrival of their father.

There came a sudden, painful inhalation of shock and disbelief. It did not _sound_ like Alistair; but the figure that had just dismounted from the horse did not _look_ like the man she had last seen five days prior. There was a gauntness to his cheeks, accented further by the shadow of unshaved growth. His eyes were wreathed in violet shadow; the bright, green-flecked hazel blazing with a desperate fervour. Like a Mabari mortally wounded, or a young lion in the last throes of some fatal affliction; each slow, painful movement he made seemed fuelled by stubbornness alone.

Now, Alistair raised his head towards where Flora knelt as though in a dream, trepidation, nausea and raw hope writ across his haggard, handsome features. He stared at her as though uncertain whether she was _real;_ as would a man tormented by spectres both in the waking hours, and – cruelly - during the few ragged hours of sleep he had managed to claim. None of these had been in a bed, but on the saddle or slumped in an armchair; and never for more than a handful of hours at a time.

The gangplank had now been placed and others were pushing their way onto the ship. There were crowds of townspeople clustered on the quayside shuffling forwards to get a better view. The amber torch-light flooded their faces like spilled brandy; disbelief and hope writ across them in equal measure as they stared up at the top deck. Several had recognised Nathaniel Howe, and murmurs of disbelief sprang up amidst the shock.

Flora had not known how she would react in the moment when she first set eyes on her husband, her brothers, the rest of her friends and companions. She had not allowed herself to think on it, she had been so entirely focused on removing her children from danger. Besides, she had _always_ preferred to be guided by instinct, rather than plan her actions and words beforehand.

 _This is a moment that will be written about, I know it. I have to make it memorable. I never want to be in this situation again._

In defiance of the agonising rippling of her womb, Flora rose to her feet; assisted by Morrigan and a sweating Nathaniel. She lifted her chin as she gazed down at the lower deck, the crimson ponytail streaming down her back and her cool, composed Cousland stare sweeping across the crowd gathered there. In one hand, she held aloft the ghastly head of Beraht, livid and pale; her other hand was cradled beneath her aching belly.

"I've brought back the leader of the Carta," the queen called, letting the hoarse, distinctive modulations of her voice roll over the crowd. In case there was any doubt, she thrust the grim relic forwards; its eyes rolled back and partially open. "The man who abducted me."

"Slain by my _own_ hand," she continued, lifting her chin. "I've also brought back - in chains -the man that brought about my abduction- " here, she gestured to the senseless Rivaini, still tied to the mast. "And I've taken some bounty to compensate Highever's people for the expenses of their search. The other Carta dwarves are imprisoned on an island, which I can locate on a map. Here are the keys to their cells."

Flora took a deep breath, aware that her words were being carved on the minds of every person present; and would soon be flying across Ferelden, and further, in the form of letters, gossip and rumour.

She also knew that – in that moment – Alistair could not care less about the impression that her return made, or the new verses that bards would surely add onto _The Lion and the Light;_ he was not thinking about the impression that this moment would make on Ferelden's history. He was a man thinking of nothing more than his wife, who had been stolen away from him for five days with a belly full of children, and who was now – by some Maker's miracle – standing only a few yards away.

Alistair was staring at her as though she was not quite real; as if some fragment of the Fade had slipped through the Veil and taken on the shape of his queen. There was something terrible about his hollow stare, where raw exhaustion mingled with a dawning, disbelieving hope. The shifting deck, the grumble of waves and water, the excited murmurs of the crowd faded into an unintelligible background hum.

"Flo?" he breathed, his voice breaking on the single syllable.

Flora felt a great wellspring of emotion swell in her throat. For the past five days she had focused so wholly on maintaining a cold, implacable composure that she had not allowed herself to dwell on thoughts of Alistair in case it undermined her steely exterior. The girl who had spent her pregnancy weeping over torn leggings, poorly-packed bags and – once – Alistair's facial hair, had not shed a single tear for the duration of her capture.

"Alistair," she whispered, the pent-up emotion suddenly flooding free. _"Alistair."_

The king took the steps up to the higher deck in three great strides, crossing the waterlogged wood in a single heartbeat. The Orlesian sailors melted away before him, eyes wide and all cloaked in awed silence. Alistair did not spare them a glance, nor did he look to Morrigan, or to Sten, or even to Nathaniel Howe. His eyes bore solely into his wife alone: his gaze sweeping from her face to her belly, and then back to her face. Flora dropped Beraht's head without a second thought and reached out her arms.

An indescribable sound escaped her former brother-warden's throat and he lunged towards Flora; gathering her against his chest with a low, desperate moan. Flora wound her fingers into Alistair's tunic, which seemed to be as equally bedraggled and well-worn as her own pyjama shirt, and pressed her face against the familiar broad expanse of his chest. She inhaled his scent and felt her knees weaken with sheer, overwhelming relief. Alistair seemed to be beyond any coherency; he was breathing in erratic bursts and his mouth moved silently as though he had forgotten how to use it. He seemed as unsteady as she on his feet, the powerful frame temporarily as weak as a kitten.

"Is… is this real?" he finally managed to croak into her hair, each word a visible effort to utter. "Flo, is it you?"

"Yes," she breathed back, and there was a lump in her throat that stole the air from her lungs. "It's me. It's _us._ We're back."

It took the king a moment to realise the significance of Flora's use of the plural – _we are back, all of us, mother and unborn children back from the vast unknown –_ and when he did, another inimitable groan escaped from deep within. A choked sob of mingled relief and disbelief followed; a trembling hand reached down to cradle the swell between them. Flora let him grope the warm mound of still-occupied flesh, then let her own fingers slide between his, clasping their palms together in this most familiar of gestures.

"I kept them safe," she repeated, trembling and earnest. "I brought them back."

"My sweet wife," he muttered, made feverish by the potency of his emotion. " _My sweet wife._ Oh, my darling girl- "

Alistair gathered her up once more against his chest, murmuring incoherent and effusive thanks – to Flora, to the Maker, to any benevolent spirit who might have interceded on her behalf. Then came the kisses, a dozen of them pressed feverishly into her hair, onto her neck, her cheeks, any inch of bare flesh that his lips could reach. Flora closed her eyes and let his relief and pure, blinding joy wash over her in waves; she could not recall the last time she had felt so wholly, thoroughly content.

"I never want to be apart from you again," she mumbled into his shoulder, abrupt and certain. "Never, _ever_ , again."

" _Never,"_ he promised with fervid assurance, his eyes still blazing with an element of wildness. "Maker's Breath, Flo. _Never again._ I'm never letting you out of my sight."

They clung to each other in the drizzle, lantern-light glancing off each raindrop in dizzying patterns. His fingers wound themselves into the ragged remnants of the Mac Eanraig tartan shirt and she pressed herself against the broad muscle of his chest, as though they were attempting to mould themselves into one entity.

As he drew back to deliver another kiss, Alistair spotted the bruising around Flora's eye socket. Immediately, he took in the shocked, swift breath of a wounded animal; reaching out to touch it in disbelief. His fingertips barely brushed the violet skin before being snatched away, as though burnt.

"Sweetheart – you're _hurt?_ Ah, Maker, I failed you _so badly-"_

His voice broke on the words and Flora reached up to cup his handsome, ravaged face between her palms; wanting nothing more than to assuage her beloved husband's guilt.

"Alistair, _no- "_

"I swore to protect you on our wedding day," he croaked, confronted with the physical manifestations of her captivity. "I've failed as a husband _and_ as a father- "

Appalled, Flora shook her head rapidly; raindrops dripping from loose strands of crimson.

"No, no- "

As though looking for someone to take out his agonised guilt on, Alistair's eyes slid sideways; settling on the grim, silent spectre of Nathaniel Howe. The arl's son was standing at the rail with resignation writ across his face, his hands conspicuously at his sides to show the lack of a weapon. At first Alistair, paying no heed, had believed him to be part of the ship's crew. Now, illuminated by the guttering light of the ship's lanterns, the Howe features made themselves manifest; the distinctive line of the nose, the shrewd, dark eyes, the sallow cast of the skin.

The king's pupils flared in sudden, shocked recognition; then constricted to the intent pinpricks of a predatory stare. Flora felt the grip on her body loosen, then saw Alistair's hand descend to his belt, fingers wrapping around the hilt. With a sudden, violent tug the sword was unsheathed, flashing bright and silvered in the moonlight.

In recent months as king of Ferelden, Alistair's role had been more political than military; he had no cause to draw his blade, or to participate in active struggle against an enemy. He no longer wore armour on daily basis, instead donning the fur-etched leather of a king-in-peacetime. Yet beneath the mantle of administration lay a brute physicality, a raw strength that had never been allowed to go dormant.

Now, Alistair's wrath was channelled into a sudden, violent release of brute force; focused on the unfortunate Howe. He lunged across the deck and grabbed the man by the throat, thrusting him back against the ship's rail and raising the sword so that the point nudged into the delicate hollow of the throat.

" _You did this!"_ the Theirin roared, and for a second those venerable enough to remember the old king could have sworn it was Maric the Great standing before them; avenging either the murder of his mother or the desecration of his country.

"You took my wife," he bellowed, and such was the incandescence of his fury that it was not overshadowed by the howl of the wind or the growl of the Waking Sea. "My _children."_

For several heartbeats, nobody dared to move; the rain lashing down on the wounded ship as though it were some dramatic tableaux. The king, his blade held to the man's throat, the resigned man offering no protest as he was thrust against the rail. Those crowded on the lower deck - Flora's brothers, her companions, knights and sailors and various gaping onlookers – all stared up, as would an audience or members of the chorus; their part was not to intervene, but only to observe.

There was something inhuman about Alistair's anger; a product of the five days spent oscillating between catatonic grief and feverish, frenzied searching, the lack of adequate sleep or nourishment, the need to find someone to blame for the rope-marks on his wife's slender wrists and the bruising mottled around her eye. The miasma of rage circling the king was almost visible, the air curdling from the vitriol rising from his quivering frame. It was a cloud so dense that only one thing was able to penetrate it; the slender, skein that had kept brother- and sister-warden connected throughout the worst days of the Blight.

 _Our bindings were forged by something far greater than a Chantry blessing, or a simple collision of two hearts. We were joined forever on that day at Ostagar when Ishal fell and the Wardens were slaughtered._

There was a pale flicker of movement in the corner of Alistair's vision; he slid his eye towards it with the brittle wariness of a predator. The movement had been Flora's hand lifting towards him, her fingers stretching out through the rain. There was no tremble to them, the queen was wholly, utterly confident in what she was doing.

 _Brother-warden,_ the empty palm implored.

The tip of the sword dug into Nathaniel Howe's throat a fraction of a moment longer, then dropped away. Alistair exhaled unsteadily, a great and weary breath that he seemed to have been holding since she had disappeared five nights prior. He let both sword and man drop; the former fell to the deck with a muted thud and the latter slumped, gasping for air, against the rail.

"We are _Fereldan_ ," Flora said, aware that her low, husky tones carried over the deck and were audible to those listening. "They can go before the Landsmeet _._ "

The message was clear: justice would be carried out through the proper channels, not through an assassin's dagger or the wrath of an angry mob.

Even as Flora spoke, her pale eyes sang out in entreaty to this most beloved of companions; her fingers still stretched out towards him. The king walked towards her as though she were a figure from a dream, his own hand rising blindly to grope through the air. His mouth formed the words _my love;_ his gaze was focused unblinking on her bruised and earnest face.

To Alistair's horror, before he could reach his queen she crumpled before his eyes, first hunching over double and then dropping to her hands and knees on the deck. There was a shocked inhalation from those watching, ripples of anxiety emanating outwards like a stone dropped into a pond.

Alistair, abandoning all thoughts of blame or vengeance, hurtled over the wood and crouched at his wife's side. His voice was high and hoarse with panic, arms reaching out to encircle her.

"Flo? _Flora!"_

"I'm- I'm…" she croaked, barely able to force the words out of a throat constricted with pain. "I'm - _ah_ \- "

"Are – are you _injured?"_ Alistair's voice escalated several degrees of alarm, terrified hazel stare scanning his bare-legged, pyjama shirt clad wife for any previously hidden wound.

"No-oooo!" Flora's reply deteriorated rapidly as a contraction knocked into her like a wave of unexpected force rolling into shore. "Ah, ah- "

Morrigan, who had no patience for theatrics, decided that it was time for her to intercede. Slithering down from her perch with feline fluidity, she gathered her tattered skirts about her and cleared her throat to gain the king's attention.

"Unless you wish for your sweet wife to birth your children before all and sundry," she hissed, eyes flashing gold and lamp-like in the darkness. "You ought to remove her to a more private location _immediately."_

Alistair's jaw dropped and a cloud of contrasting emotions passed over his face: shock, panic, and disbelief all muddying together like a child swirling a stick in a rock-pool. Finally, his expression settled on delight, a damp brightness gleaming in his eyes that had nothing to do with the ship's lanterns.

"Flo," he croaked, reaching out to touch her flushed cheek. "Flo – are you… are you in _labour?"_

"AAAHHHHHH," came the response, accompanied with a wild, slightly desperate stare.

Alistair's face vacillated instantly back to panic, head swivelling as he mentally flailed. He, Wynne, and Fergus has planned for this moment for months – the delivery room chamber was all prepared, along with a half-dozen midwives, three healers from Jainen Circle, a plethora of bedding, dressings, and an elaborate receptacle of blessed water sent from the Divine Justinia.

Unfortunately, all of the above were located within a lofty turret of Castle Cousland, high on the cliffs overhead. It took a man on horseback almost a half-hour to ride between the harbour and the fortress, let alone one also bearing a woman in the advanced stages of labour. Such a journey would be extremely difficult for them to make in Flora's current condition. Yet, the king could not forget that his own mother had perished during childbirth.

"Flo, I- I don't know what to do - " croaked the father-to-be, terrified. "Nothing's _here- we aren't ready- "_

Alistair and Flora stared at each other for a heartbeat in mutual, terrified paralysis, aside from the persistent convulsions of the latter's aching womb. Stripped of all identity save for that of first-time parents; all that they had accomplished over the past year melted away into irrelevancy.

"Nonsense," came Wynne's brisk voice, so achingly familiar that both Alistair and Flora turned their faces towards it in relief. "We've everything we need. First things first, let's get Florence off this ship. It's giving me seasickness even though we're in harbour."

The young couple were surrounded then, their companions crowding the deck and taking charge of the situation. Fergus, reaching out with a trembling hand to brush the top of his little sister's head, directed his knights to take the alchemist and Nathaniel Howe to the dungeons. Likewise, Finian began to converse in fluent Orlesian with Bernard de Vannes, organising accommodation for him and his crew for the immediate future. He too spared a brief moment to kiss his sibling on the cheek; utter relief wracking his sleepless features. Teagan stooped to assist Alistair to his feet – the colour was draining rapidly from the king's face – then dropped his hand to Flora's shoulder, gripping onto her with a sudden reluctance to let go. Zevran, his olive face sallow and ghostlike, hovered at the periphery. His fingers crept compulsively over the hilts of his daggers as his gaze swung between the alchemist and Nathaniel Howe.

Flora's companions – and her family – were desperate to embrace their returned queen and ask her a thousand questions; yet they also recognised that assuaging their own concern was not an immediate priority in current circumstances. There would be time for embraces, for questions, for outpourings of sheer relief later; once babies and mother had come safely through the birth.

After thirty years of residing in a Circle, there was little that Wynne had not seen – or any event that she was not prepared for. When the guard patrolling the ramparts of Castle Cousland had come running to seek out the teyrn - fresh returned from a day of searching – and gasped that a ship carrying the lady Cousland's banner was approaching the harbour, Wynne had possessed the presence of mind to make some additional, quiet preparations of her own. Chief amongst these had been to find the chief midwife, the taciturn northerner Mab.

Flora was aware of nothing except the salt-stained planks an inch from her face, the convulsions of her stomach and the grip of her husband's arm around her shoulders. Everything else had faded into a confused, muddied background of sound and noise, shouts mingling with the growl of the wind and lantern-light lurching in dizzying arcs as footsteps crowded the decking around her. The pain had two natures: a bright, sharp white light that drowned out her surroundings; and a monster that took great, toothy bites from her abdomen, leaving her raw and tender. Flora was not used to pain – save for the dull, constant throb of her knee. Her body had once been able to anaesthetise itself reflexively; the silver-gold miracle of her magic numbed as it healed. Those days were long behind her, leaving her at the mercy of the light and the lion gnawing at her womb.

Flora felt herself being lifted in someone's arms – she was relatively certain it was not Alistair - and it was so uncomfortable that she let out an inadvertent wail.

"Aah- "

"We're taking you off the ship, child," came Wynne's voice from somewhere beyond the fog of pain. Then, her voice sharper: _"Alistair,_ calm down. Your hysterics are not helping."

Voices converged around the queen; they were leaving the ship and returning to solid ground. Dimly, Flora heard the sound of guards clearing back the crowds: _go on, get home, see, the lady Cousland is back, let her have her bairns in peace._ Flora closed her eyes, gulping down as much of the damp, salty air as she could manage. It tasted familiar – it tasted like _home,_ and suddenly she did not want to return to the chamber at the castle. Alistair had once told her about the ordeal of Connor Guerrin's birth – the dark, stifling chamber, the chanting priestess, the drawn curtains and gallons of perfumed wood burning away in the fireplace, creating a sickly-sweet miasma that mingled with the scent of sweat and terror.

Flora opened her eyes, and realised two things in quick succession: firstly, she was being carried by an ambivalent-looking Sten, secondly, that they were heading away from the crowded harbour. To one side lay a swathe of seaweed-strewn sand, interrupted by the occasional boulder and mangled contusion of driftwood. Ahead lay the ramp that meandered leisurely up towards Highever proper, and the castle at the peak of the cliffs.

Alistair was at her other side, their fingers tangled together; a faint grey cast to his features indicating how frightened he was. Teagan was at his elbow, keeping the distinctly unsteady king on course.

"Nothing is how I planned," Flora's husband was croaking, his pupils dilated until only a thin hazel border was visible. "Flo was meant to be indoors for the birth– well fed – _warm –_ and calm! She was meant to feel _safe."_

Flora wanted to retort that she did not need anything to feel safe, save for her husband; and he was with her. But they were almost at the foot of the road that crept up the side of the cliff, and she had to act now, or –

 _Or I'll end up in that stuffy chamber, with the curtains drawn and hot, perfumed air, with the men waiting outside in the corridor and blood all over the sheets – no!_

"Sten," she hissed, and the Qunari dropped an ashen eye to her. "I'm not going up to the castle."

Sten was the only one of Flora's companions who would not attempt to argue with her. This was not out of any sworn oath – Sten's prescribed fealty had ended with the Blight – but a deeper, indescribable loyalty that the Qunari would flatly deny if questioned.

The warrior turned right without hesitation, leaving the dirt road and tramping over the sandy path leading down to the beach. The coarse, gritty swathe was silvered by moonlight; the tide was throwing up grumbling sprays of foam fifty yards offshore. The sand was left in strange, ridged patterns in the wake of the water, as though shaped by the lazy fingers of some vast marine deity.

Flora could hear the alarm and consternation of her companions, and ignored it. She clung to Sten's neck, lifting her head and scouring the swathe of beach.

"There," she whispered, pointing to a patch of sand above the line of seaweed that marked the limit of the tide. The half-rotted hull of a fishing boat rose from the sand, covered in limpets and barnacles; the salty remains of rope trailing forlornly from its bow.

"On a _beach!"_ Alistair was now wailing to Teagan, terror and foreboding in his tone. "Flo can't give birth on a _beach. It's raining! And cold!_ What if the tide comes in? What if – if a seagull tries to steal one of the babies?"

"A woman doesn't need a castle or richly appointed chamber to give birth," replied Wynne, briskly. "She just needs to feel comfortable in her surroundings."

The elderly mage had seen something bright and determined on Flora's face when she had pointed to the beach; something wholly different from the wild panic that customarily resulted when they had discussed her labour in the past.

"Besides, we have Mab here. Mab is a native of the northern coast too."

"Ooh, aye," grunted the formidable old midwife, who had already hoisted up her skirts and tramped expertly over the sands in their wake. "Skingle born an' bred. Don't you worry, laddie- " the 'laddie' in question was the king, "I'll see these babes out alright. Put a cloak down, will yeh?"

Teagan whipped off his own cloak and spread it over the sand, his lips drawn taut and white with tension.

Flora, once she had been lowered onto the cloak, let out a long and unsteady breath. Her belly, though tender, was mercifully quiet; affording her several peaceful minutes to look around and take in her surroundings. Her brothers were huddled beside the broken hull - Fergus had just arrived, panting, out of breath, and boggling at their location. Bryce Cousland's sons were conversing in hissed undertones, Finian's arms were waving as he gesticulated.

An agitated Teagan had been pacing back and forth over the sand, until he almost tripped over a half-hidden rock. Now he stood, quivering like a flagpole in a stiff breeze. The promise that Flora had forced him to make back at the Circle – _if it comes down to it, save the twins, not me_ – was clearly weighing heavily on him. Zevran was the opposite, he crouched as still as a predator posed for the kill; his eyes swivelling for anything that might threaten their labouring queen. His luminous, coal-dark eyes were wreathed in shadow; this was a man who had been a stranger to sleep for the past five days.

Morrigan and Wynne were gathered on Flora's left side, the disparate mages united – for once – on the common ground that the queen represented. These two women had squabbled bitterly for much of the past year, disagreeing on everything from the Circles to the nature of the Fade, yet now they knelt in utter cooperation on the sand, ready to offer assistance if needed.

Alistair, who still held a greyish-white pallor beneath the natural olive of his skin, had lowered himself to the sand behind Flora. She leaned into him, grateful for the firmness of the muscled chest against her back. Alistair's breath was warm over her neck, her ears; the sheer physical _bulk_ of him was so comforting that Flora wanted to cry with relief. Her left hand was caught tight in his, their fingers wound together like tangled fishing line.

"Are you sure about this, my love?" he breathed into her hair, trying his hardest to suppress his own apprehension. "My own sweet wife. Is this what you want?"

Flora looked about her: at the drizzling sky, the silvered sands, the tempestuous grumble of the Waking Sea fifty yards to the south. The night sky was strewn with serpentine twists of clouds; the faintest glimpses of stars like distant ships' lanterns. She wondered if any of them belonged to the _Peraquialus,_ which roamed the skies in defiance of any astrologer's attempts to chart it. Between sea and sky loomed Castle Cousland, perched like a squat and rugged sentinel on its lofty headland.

"Yes," she said, and felt a strange surge of contentedness. "This is _exactly_ what I want."

Meanwhile, Mab the midwife – a northerner who had presided over each Cousland birth since Fergus – was busying herself. Flora's thighs were bent apart with efficient swiftness, the small-clothes were discarded and a practised gaze assessed the state of affairs.

"Righ'," she announced, settling back on broad calves and looking about her. "I need blankets to wrap the wee ones in, a basket, bowls of salt-water, an' a fire built. I know you fancy ones ain't used to the sky pissin' on yeh."

The midwife did not ask the queen whether she _minded_ the gathered audience. Out of those present, only Wynne had direct experience of childbirth – Fergus had spent Oriana's eight hour labour drinking Fereldan whisky and sweating nervously in a nearby chamber – and it was customary for a noble woman to give birth with only a midwife and a few female servants in attendance. It was _not_ customary for a noblewoman, especially a teyrn's daughter and a _queen,_ to give birth on the open sand in the company of almost a dozen others.

Yet, Flora was no ordinary noblewoman. First and foremost, nobody wanted to leave their former Warden-Commander's side as she underwent this most perilous of feminine experiences. Secondly, in an odd and inexplicable way, everybody present felt a peculiar kinship with the unborn prince and princess. Although the twins had been made from Alistair's seed and grown in Flora's womb, it had been Morrigan and Wynne who had first suspected their existence. Finian, Zevran and Teagan had learnt about them from their second month of being. They had all helped Flora with her nausea, made her peppermint tea to calm her stomach, and reassured her about the labour; they had all had experienced sleepless nights worrying about not only the nineteen-year-old upon whom Ferelden depended, but about the babe (as they thought back then) growing within her. The twins had inadvertently accompanied Flora and her companions on each of their escapades since the return to Ostagar – they had fought werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, battled maleficar in the tunnels beneath Denerim, combated Darkspawn, demons and dwarves alike. They had even – unwittingly – participated in the final battle against Urthemial. As a result, Flora's company felt as though they had a justifiable excuse to be present at the birth – they did not want to miss the arrival of their youngest companions into the world.

Finian and one of the Cousland retainers went scuttling off to gather driftwood for a fire. With the assistance of Teagan and Fergus, a low-hanging rope was slung from the bow of the boat-hull behind them. Mab, with the ominous prescience of one who had overseen hundreds of births, informed the queen that she would want to cling onto the rope during the worst of the contractions. A pale Flora nodded, apprehensive yet determined, grateful for the reassuring warmth of Alistair's palm against hers.

"Here you go, lad," the midwife added, passing a small strap of leather to Alistair. "Stick that in her mouth to bite down on when it gets bad."

"Like a horse with a bit," replied Alistair, blanching at the thought of his wife in throes of agony. "My darling. I wish I could take this pain off you somehow."

"Me tooo- _oooo,"_ replied Flora, eyes widening as she felt her stomach begin to convulse once again. "Aaaah, oh no!"

She ducked her head very low to her chest, loose strands of damp hair plastered to her cheeks and exposed collarbone. A groan escaped from her throat, low and miserable, like a wounded animal; her fingers clenched around Alistair's hard enough to make him wince. In a macabre twist of events, Beraht's blood was still dried beneath her nails.

"It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!"

"Does it hurt worse than your sore knee, my love?"

"YEEEEES," she roared, snapping her head back in agony as her toes curled into the sand. Alistair coughed – she had inadvertently headbutted him in the throat – and gripped her hand as hard as he dared.

"My – poor – baby," he croaked weakly, momentarily breathless. "You've a hard little skull, my dear."

Wynne had let the head of her staff rest between Flora's bent knees for illuminative purposes; Mab was crouched there with a narrow, appraising eye.

"How much?" mage asked midwife in an undertone, a skein of white hair dropping loose from her bun. The midwife replied with finger and thumb held about an inch and a half apart.

"What does that mean?" demanded a frantic Alistair, spotting the gesture from the corner of his eye.

"It means we don't have long to go," replied Wynne gently, reaching out to administer a soothing pat to Flora's strong knee. "There, my dear. You're doing so well."

" _How_ long?" gasped out Flora, sweating and trembling against Alistair's chest. The contraction had passed, but she had a nasty feeling that it was only going to be a brief respite.

"A couple?"

"A couple of minutes!"

" _Hours."_

" _HOUUUUUURS?!"_

Finian, hearing his sister's howl of rage echoing across the sands, came scuttling back at rapid pace with an armful of driftwood.

"Does he not resemble a crab, _carina?"_

The murmur came low in Flora's ear. Zevran had dropped to crouch beside her, lithe and elegant as a cat. At first, the elf had tried to keep some distance; but he simply could not turn the other cheek as his friend contorted in agony mere feet away. As he had hoped, Flora was always distracted by a marine reference.

"A crab?" she whispered, turning her head against Alistair's chest and gazing at the elf's wan, weary face. "Crabs walk sideways. _Lobsters_ walk forwards."

"Ah," replied the Antivan. He smiled and there was something soft and vulnerable in his tone; like a creature exposing a flash of naked underbelly. " _Mi sirenita._ I missed talking about shellfish with you."

He reached out and touched Flora's cheek with a richly-hued finger, careful to avoid the bruising around her eye.

"I see you did your usual trick."

"Hm?"

"Turning adversary into ally. Foe into friend."

Flora thought for a moment, nestling back into the comforting bulk of Alistair's chest.

 _I suppose that has happened more than once. Zevran himself. The assassin who tried to kill me outside the Brecilian Forest. Loghain Mac Tir. The Templar who was meant to Tranquilise me on Arl Howe's order. And now Arl Howe's son._

Zevran smiled down at her, and there were none of the usual emotions contained within the curve of his mouth: no lasciviousness, or sly humour, or gentle mockery. Instead, affection was writ nakedly across his careworn features; he let his finger fall with a touch of wistfulness.

Flora smiled blearily back at him, dazed by the temporary respite from the pain.

"I have to tell you how Beraht died," she replied, barely above a whisper. "I'll tell you when this is all over. Please remind me."

The driftwood was stacked into a pile, though it was so thoroughly saturated that it refused to take Fergus' flint and tinder. After listening to the teyrn curse for several minutes, Morrigan let out a hiss of impatience and let the head of her staff drop towards the smouldering wood like the swing of a pendulum. The wood ignited with sudden heat, flaring upwards in a gusty inferno that had all the appearances of a regular bonfire.

A flood of warmth spread across the sand, bathing the young couple's faces in mellow light. Alistair kept a tight, unerring grip on his wife's hand, his mouth beside her ear; murmuring a constant stream of reassurance. Flora clung to each word, the sweat on her forehead mingling with the drizzle.

 _My love,_ he breathed into her ear as she bit into the leather with tears sliding down her cheeks. _My brave girl. I'm so proud of you. My warrior queen._

Teagan had instructed a wide-eyed squire to fetch some nourishment; the squire scuttled off, and returned with a bevy of castle servants. The queen was given a few biscuits to perk her up – she had not eaten since the middle of the previous day – and the others downed tankards of heated cider. Alistair, who already felt nauseous, had no desire to augment the churning of his stomach. Fortunately, the rain had eased off but the thunderclouds were still gathered on the horizon with ominous purpose. It was as though the Waking Sea had granted its daughter a brief respite from its fury; though accompanied with a warning that its patience was not infinite.

Mab was humming to herself, an off-key northern folk-tune that Flora's companions vaguely recalled emerging from their own queen's mouth. She checked between Flora's thighs at regular intervals, but mostly guided her through each set of contractions. They were becoming increasingly intense; the muscles constricting with agonising tightness as the labouring mother moaned.

"Count through your breathing with me, lassie," the midwife instructed, sternly. "Yeh need to focus on something other than t'pain."

"I… I can't… count very high," warned Flora, who had abandoned her numeracy practice along with her literacy while on progress. "C-can I name fish instead? By season?"

"Aye, girl."

"Marlin, snapper, yellow-tail, jack- " began the queen breathlessly, heels dug into the sand to brace herself for the next wave of pain. "Mackerel, silver eel, wrasse- "

"Oh, aye, lass!" interjected Mab, the daughter of Skingle natives and a lifelong resident of the Storm Coast. "What nonsense is this – _silver eel_ before _wrasse?_ Oh, my days! Everyone knows it'd be t'other way round."

Flora's nostrils flared, the old rivalry between the fishing villages surging to the fore.

"Only if it's been a particularly cold winter," she retorted, indignantly. "Most of the time, silver eel spawns during the spring-tide shallows. Wrasse comes in with the sprackle-fish and the gut-crab!"

"Lassie, I _know_ you were raised in Herring - and that ain't your fault – but you ain't right on this one!"

"I am, eh!"

Alistair had absolutely no idea what his wife was talking about, but was grateful for anything that distracted her from the pain. He was still in partial shock that the mother of his babes was _really_ back in his arms, sweaty, warm and thoroughly solid. Kiss after kiss was pressed to the back of her head as she babbled on about _spawning seasons_ and _roe-marks,_ openly inhaling the salt-scent of her hair.

Meanwhile, Finian and Fergus were standing near the upended hull of the boat, downing hot cider in a state of mutual stupefaction.

"Ferg," said Finian at last, eyeing the waves crashing against the shore in the far distance. "This feels like some surreal Fade-dream. Is our sister really giving birth - on a _beach -_ while arguing about bloody fish-spawning seasons with the midwife?"

"Yes," Fergus replied simply after several moments. "It's real. But, it's _Flossie._ Would you expect anything else?"

Fergus was not talking about the spoilt, petulant little _teyrnina_ who had once lived at Highever; but the girl who had received a healthy dose of Herring along with her inherited Cousland qualities.

The night deepened past its mid-point, the darkness on the beach grew more lustrous. The cloud wreathing the heavens finally dissipated with a sigh, letting moonlight blaze uninterrupted across the starry firmament. The Waking Sea – in perpetual, choppy motion - could never mirror the sky above, but the lines of breaking surf now had a silvered luminescence. Nobody, save for a local, would call this stretch of sea pleasing to the eye; but the night blurred its coarse edges, smoothed away some of the harshness and loaned it some temporary beauty.

The long beach at the base of the Highever cliffs was deserted, save for the bonfire blazing away at the end nearest the harbour. Silhouetted figures were positioned around the flame; they spoke in low undertones, took long gulps from hip-flasks and occasionally stood to stretch stiff limbs. In their midst, the queen lay slumped in the arms of her husband; still engaged in vociferous discussion with the midwife. Every time a contraction arrived- with increasing frequency – Flora had broken off her argument to bite down on the leather strap and cling to Alistair's hand, teeth gritted and bare toes curling in the sand.

"Ooh- " she croaked when one such spasm finished, her eyes wide and startled. "That didn't feel _quite_ as awful as the last. What were you saying about the grey salmon? Skingle ain't got – _hasn't_ got a river, so how would it know anything about their spawning?"

But Mab was not listening, her experienced gaze directed between the queen's legs. When the old woman drew back, she directed a swift nod towards those who were gathered nearby.

"Time to start pushing, lass."

"Wha- " croaked Flora, blinking very rapidly. _"Whaaa- "_

For a heartbeat, she felt an irrational surge of terror. This was, oddly enough, not due to the upcoming pain that was sure to ensue – but the fact that her children were about to _leave_ the safe confines of her body. For all the nausea, stress and discomfort they had caused over the past eight and a half months, Flora had strived her utmost to keep them safe within the growing expanse of her stomach.

Now, she did not know whether she was _ready_ to stop carrying them; for them to be expelled into the world without their determined northern mother as a barrier. More selfishly, Flora was also frightened at having _nothing_ within her – the loss of her spirits had been somewhat alleviated by the presence of the twins; the queen had carried on conversations with the babies in her womb much as she had done with her Golden Lady and Silver Knight, though these were admittedly one-sided dialogues.

 _Who will I talk to in my head now my children are gone?_

Tears came suddenly to Flora's eyes and she inhaled unsteadily, twisting her head towards her best friend in a silent plea for reassurance. Alistair grinned back down at her, his own eyes glinting with dampness prompted by a very different cause. Excitement had flared across his olive cheeks, his handsome face bright and expectant.

"My love," he murmured, the green flecks in his irises standing out like shards of glass in the firelight. "My sweet wife. Our _children_ are – they're almost- "

He tried to continue speaking, but ended up mouthing helplessly; utterly lost for words. Flora stared at him for a moment, feeling a sudden, startling revelation blossom within her.

 _These babies have survived more than most grown men. They're going to be fine outside my belly._

 _And I can talk to them face-to-face. That's much better!_

When the next contraction arrived, battering at the walls of her stomach like an army laying siege to some enemy city, Flora was ready for it. She had the leather between her teeth, one hand clasped in Alistair's and the other gripping onto the rope; her toes dug into the coarse sand of the beach.

" _Push,"_ instructed the midwife, all arguments about spawning seasons forgotten. _"Push, push, push, lass!"_

Flora was used to pushing; since in many ways, she had spent a great deal of her life _pushing._ She had pushed out the fishing boat with her Herring-dad every morning for years; she had pushed a mop around the flagstones of the Circle Tower after being expelled from countless classrooms. She had pushed back against all expectations of what an uneducated nineteen-year-old girl could accomplish; and pushed against the wishes and twisted desires of wicked men.

 _This is the most important push of all._

Flora let the pain roll through her like a wave, using it to focus on what she needed to do, and then she _pushed._

"Good girl, keep breathin'" chanted Mab, her eyes now as focused as a hawk. "Push, push, push."

The storm clouds on the horizon continued to brew, creeping forwards ominously towards the beach. Yet the wind was on the side of those gathered on the coarse sands – it blew back against the oncoming thunder, slowing the course of its progress. Even the waves seemed in moral quandary about what to do: whether to throw their lot in with the storm or the winds.

Meanwhile, Finian – against his better judgement – downed his hot cider and murmured in a low undertone to his brother, Zevran and Teagan.

"I'm going to take a peek, I'm rather _curious_. Everyone always says childbirth is a _beautiful thing."_

Teagan and Fergus both pulled simultaneous grimaces of warning. Zevran, who had seen many births during his childhood in an Antivan brothel, let a rather malicious cackle slip from his throat.

"Enjoy the sight, _amor. Carina_ is growling like a Mabari, bless her."

Flora was indeed growling – the wood gripped between her teeth didn't allow for a satisfactory _scream._ Another contraction had arrived, the pressure was now unbearable; tears slid down her cheeks and mingled with the sweat. Alistair's fingers were knotted with hers so tightly that she did not think they could ever be untangled.

"Push, push, push- " chanted the midwife, dousing her fingers in saltwater and leaning forwards. "You're doin' wonderful, lass."

"Oh, my dear," breathed Wynne, who had relocated herself to the midwife's side in case healing was required. "My dear child, I can see the _head._ Come on, beautiful baby!"

From behind her, Flora heard Alistair inhale a sharp, shocked breath; joy and terror mingling in a swift jab to the gut. Determined, she waited for the next wave of pain and then rode it like a leaping salmon; sinking her teeth into the leather as she let out a throaty, thoroughly northern growl.

Finian, who had received an eye-full of emerging head, proceeded to go as white as a sheet. He swayed for a second, then crashed out onto the sand in a dead faint. Everybody ignored him – Morrigan gave a faint cackle – instead, they closed ranks around their youngest companion as she growled and sweated on the sand.

"One more," instructed the midwife, with brisk encouragement. "Come on, lassie. This is nothin' compared to slaying an Archdemon!"

Flora tucked her chin into her chest, her hair plastered to her throat; and – once again – gave an almighty _push._

There was a sudden, intense relief of pressure; Mab ducked her head and held out her hands to receive something. Nobody dared to speak, or to breathe; everyone's hearts stood momentarily still in their chests. Even the waves and the wind seemed to freeze in unnatural tableaux, like the strokes left in the wake of a painter's brush.

Alistair's fingers tightened so hard around Flora's that in normal circumstances she would have cried out; but both young parents were waiting with baited breath, straining to listen. Then there came a bellow of outrage, loud and ferocious as hearty lungs were filled with air for the first time.

"A boy!" announced the midwife, holding up the squalling, red-faced creature. "It's a boy."

Flora felt Alistair flinch as though struck behind her, the shock arriving as a physical blow. There was a ripple around Flora's companions; the tension of the past five days suddenly collapsing into disbelief and joy. Teagan immediately began to pour out more ale, Fergus sat down hard on the sand in sheer relief, and even Morrigan was trying her hardest not to beam.

 _We have a son,_ Flora thought to herself, utterly confused and yet with a strange, burning heat spreading steadily through her limbs. _We have a son._

"Big and strong," continued the midwife, dabbing blood away from the head. "Listen to that bellow!"

The baby was already thrashing his arms and yowling, horrified at being so rudely expelled from warmth and comfort. Mab, with her four decades of expertise, had swiftly sliced and knotted the cord, then patted the baby dry. One of the woollen blankets was retrieved and loosely wrapped around the study little body; his plump limbs flailing.

"Ready, lass? Eh, he's a wriggler!"

Flora nodded mutedly, unable to take her eyes from the squalling infant. The baby was placed on her bare breast – the tartan pyjama shirt was now thoroughly in tatters – and she reached up to hold him in place. Alistair, still in shock, slid his arms around them both; gaping down into the angry, reddened face of his child.

"Hello, son," he croaked, barely able to get the words out.

Flora was not sure she could even speak – though tears were slithering down the bruised contours of her cheeks. At once, she realised that the burning heat inside her was none other than fierce, pure love for the little creature rooting away on her chest. He was snuffling, making motions that she recognised from nursing the Chasind babe. She reached up, and gently steered his head towards her breast. The baby's lips latched around her nipple and plump cheeks immediately began to work; suckling greedily away at his mother.

Wynne, for once not caring about appearing a sentimental old lady, had tears pouring openly down her face. Morrigan – startlingly enough – was patting the elder mage's elbow, somewhat awkwardly but with genuine consideration.

"Congratulations," murmured Teagan throatily, who had swiftly wiped at the corners of his own eyes. "A beautiful little pup. What time is it? The archivists will want to know."

"The fourth hour was rung just a few moments ago," replied Zevran, his voice oddly constricted. _"Amors,_ I am so happy for you both."

Flora smiled dazedly, touching the baby very gently on the back of his little head. Wisps of blond hair curled faintly about his ears, and she smoothed one down with a finger.

"He's got yellow hair," she breathed in wonder, twisting her head to look up at Alistair. "Like you."

The king was barely holding it together. He shook his head, teeth gritted, certain that he would howl with emotion if he let his lips part. Instead of speaking, he ducked over Flora's shoulder to press trembling lips against the baby's downy head.

"And long limbs," added Wynne, mopping at her own cheeks. "He's going to be tall, like his father."

Just then, the centre of their attention paused in his feeding to take in his surroundings. A solemn, somewhat bemused grey gaze swept over the gathered faces, assessing each blurry feature gravely. The baby then returned to his mother's breast, resuming the hungry suckling. Alistair and Flora both stared down, mesmerised, at the flexing of the plump little cheeks.

"This is _everything_ compared to slaying an Archdemon," the queen whispered eventually, the pain and aching of her body temporarily alleviated by sheer, floating bliss.

Finian was revived shortly afterwards with the help of some rejuvenating magic and hot cider. Still slightly pale in the face, he admired the baby and congratulated his sister; hissing a dire warning to Alistair to _stay at the top end._

After several minutes, the baby hiccupped, yawned, and fell promptly asleep with tiny fists flung above his head. His parents stared down at him in fascination, open-mouthed and incredulous.

"He fell asleep," croaked Alistair, admiringly.

"He's so _clever,"_ added Flora, amazed. Did you hear him hiccup?"

"It was a truly majestic sound," agreed Finian solemnly, patting his sister gently on the head. "Well done, Flossie. Your little prince is perfect. Does he have a name?"

"Haddock," she replied promptly, enjoying the sight of a dozen jaws dropping in horror. "I'm only _joking._ We haven't thought of a name."

Teagan let out an exhalation of relief, lowering his voice to murmur in an undertone to Fergus.

"Thank the Maker. _'King Haddock I of Ferelden' -_ the Orlesians would never let us hear the end of it."

Just then, Flora's face contorted in a grimace, pain flickering across her own grey eyes like lightning across a clouded sky. Her head dropped and she looked down at the swell still remaining in her stomach, inhaling an unsteady gulp of air. The wave of pain had rolled down her belly once again, but she was ready for it this time; the tears had dried on her sheets and she was determined to shed no more – at least, none that were caused by fear.

Alistair gripped her shoulders, his eyes searching for the midwife. Mab was humming to herself, pushing the bloodied cloths to one side and retrieving fresh ones. At the king's frantic beckon, she chuckled hoarsely and returned to her station between the queen's legs.

"My, this little one is impatient! Papa, do you want to take the boy?"

Flora gathered up the baby in its blanket and passed him to Alistair. Alistair took his son as though he was made of glass, the little boy almost comically small against his father's powerful frame. The king pressed another reverent kiss to the newborn's forehead, then lifted his eyes to Fergus.

"I need to focus on Flo. Can you hold him?"

Fergus nodded, reaching down to take the baby with an ease that suggested that the rhythms of fatherhood were still embedded within him. The baby grumbled at the movement but did not wake, nestling a plump cheek against the fold of blanket.

Flora and Alistair's eyes both followed the progress of their newborn, before another contraction rolled through her belly. She bent double with a gasp and he moved with her, rubbing the base of her spine with a firm palm and murmuring in her ear.

"Aah, aah- "

"Push," intoned the midwife, reaching forwards. "This one is in a hurry."

Flora didn't know where the leather strap was and so she gritted her teeth, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead with the effort. Her labour had begun almost twenty-four hours previously, she'd had two hours sleep and a few pieces of bread; an exhaustion almost as potent as the pain crept upon her.

A strangled grunt of effort escaped her throat; she flailed her fingers blindly and felt Alistair catch her palm, enfolding it within his own strong grip. He could feel her grasp weaker than the last time and quailed inwardly, clutching her as though willing some of his strength to seep into his tiring wife.

"One more push and then you can rest," Mab promised, seeing the tiredness shadowed across the queen's face. "One more, and you'll have your… eh, what d'ye reckon it is?"

"Girl," croaked Flora, remembering the strange fluctuations of her cravings.

"Aye, then," replied the midwife, who knew better then to question a mother's instinct. "Then you'll have your wee daughter."

This was motivation enough. Flora clung to Alistair's hand, ground her teeth, dug her heels into the sand and _pushed._

A light drizzle began to fall. Fergus practically contorted himself in half to stop even the smallest drop of rain from landing on his nephew's face, pulling out a wing of his tunic with his free arm to provide temporary shelter.

"Maker's Breath," hissed Finian, enviously watching the heat from the fire flicker over the newborn. "Blast this rain! I hate the northern coast."

Zevran let out a grumble of agreement, muttering something along the lines of wishing that he too were snuggled against a teyrn's broad chest.

Twelve minutes after the arrival of her brother, a little dark-haired girl emerged into the world with a similar lusty bellow; equally loud as her elder sibling. She flung her fists into the air in alarm as the cord was cut and tied; within moments, she too was patted dry and wrapped loose in a blanket. Fergus checked hastily that the howl of his sister had not waken up the boy; miraculously, he was still fast asleep.

"Your daughter," announced Mab, smoothing a dark curl of hair away from the baby's plump cheek. "Bonny little lass she is, aye."

Alistair inhaled in unsteady wonder, staring at his daughter as though unable to believe that she was real; that he and his sister-warden had created such sheer perfection amidst the tainted ruins of Ostagar, with the ghosts of the dead breathing down their necks and the stench of Blight heavy in the air.

The infant girl was still grizzling, huge grey eyes staring belligerently around at the faces that surrounded her. Flora was temporarily mired in shock that it was _over_ – her belly no longer occupied, her children emerged into the damp and drizzle-filled air. The distressed cry of the baby roused her from her clouded thoughts. She reached her arms forwards to receive the squirming blanket, letting the baby settle on her chest. Just like her brother, the little girl immediately latched onto the breast and began to suckle with gusto.

"She's got a good appetite," remarked Wynne fondly, as Flora stared down at the dark head of hair in weary wonderment. "Like her parents."

"'Tis true, you've always been a pair of gluttons," added Morrigan, but there was no malice in her words. Even the witch was not immune to the presence of a newborn baby; she half-smiled at the ebon-haired infant, wondering wistfully if her own mother had greeted her with as much joy when she was born.

"She's a big one, too," chimed in the midwife, casting an expert eye over the little girl's limbs. "She'll be as tall as her brother, aye. Inherited pa's height."

Alistair beamed, reaching around his wife's shoulders to stroke the baby's downy crown very gently with his thumb. His daughter made a soft snuffling noise as she fed, small fingers clenched into fists.

"She's beautiful," he croaked, only just managing to keep his emotions tethered. "Just like her mother."

Flora cradled the baby's head in a cupped palm, as she had done with the Chasind babe, and eyed the tufts of ink-black hair.

"Typical northerner colouring," murmured Teagan, weak in the knees with relief that the birth was over. The bann had experienced many sleepless nights in recent months; ever since Flora had extracted his promise to prioritise the lives of the babes over her own.

"I wonder where she got it from," the queen breathed, curious despite the exhaustion creeping up on her like a slow, relentless tide. "Did you have dark hair when you were little?"

This question was directed to Alistair, and received a shake of the head in response.

"I don't think so, my love. One of my earliest memories is being called _straw-head_ by the other stable-lads."

"Flo," interjected Finian wonderingly as he gazed down at the little, black-haired girl; drizzle and discomfort temporarily forgotten. "You know who had dark hair?"

Flora tilted her pale, weary face up to her brother; eyes sliding sideways as Fergus came to join them with the infant boy still cradled delicately in both arms. Tiredness was advancing on her, slow and inexorable as the tide; her thoughts moved sluggish as driftwood in the shallows.

"Our mother, Floss," added Fergus very softly, tucking the fold of blanket closer. "I remember how her hair used to look before it faded – black as a night without stars."

The teyrn coughed, self-conscious at his own inadvertently poetic reference. Flora stared down at the top of her greedy daughter's head, one tiny fist curled against her breast. For the first time, she felt a tentative tendril of connection with the shadowy figure of Eleanor Mac Eanraig, who had possessed hair like the glossy underside of a crow's wing.

The little girl fed for a few minutes and then hiccupped, a sound which had everyone gazing down at her in enchantment. While the princess was being cooed over and admired, Flora tilted her head back and caught Alistair's gaze with weary ease. His eyes immediately swung from his children to his wife, lips descending to press against the back of her sweaty head.

"Alistair?"

"My love?"

"I'm tired."

The king inhaled sharply, arousing himself from a cloud of dazed contentedness. Wrapping his arm more tightly around his shivering queen's shoulder, he gestured sharply for some blankets. A lance of alarm penetrated his mind as he saw Flora's head drop to her chest; as though she were about to fall asleep.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, tilting her chin upright with delicate fingers and warming her cold cheeks with his breath. "It's almost over, I promise. Then you can rest. How long do we have to wait before we can move her?"

This last question was directed to the midwife, who was washing her hands in one of the salt-water bowls. Mab clicked her tongue appraisingly, her gaze dropping between the queen's thighs.

"Eh, we need to wait for the afters- "

Mab interrupted herself, casting an appraising eye up at the exhausted queen. Flora was slumped against Alistair's chest, her head bowed and her hair plastered to her shoulders with drizzle and sweat. Alistair had handed over the hiccupping little girl to Teagan, who took her as though she were crafted from delicate eggshell. The king's attention was now focused unblinking on his wife, who was visibly flagging.

"Shall I speed along the process?"

Alistair looked to Flora; Flora gave a half-hearted gesture of acquiescence.

After an extremely uncomfortable few minutes spent with the midwife pressing down on a tearful Flora's tender belly, the afterbirth was passed whole and intact; much to the relief of those aware of how vital this was. The queen then had to grit her teeth for a final time as Mab rinsed her down with seawater; neither of them understood _how_ the salt helped to prevent infection but knew its importance regardless.

There was a faint grey smudge on the eastern horizon, the arrival of dawn dissipating the gathered storm clouds. For once, the Waking Sea had held back its wrath; the first of the big autumn storms had skulked away after only a token effort. Still, sea-mist hung in the air like breath on a cold morning and there was a distinct bite to the breeze.

Although Morrigan's magic-fuelled fire, restocked with the ample driftwood strewn about them, had kept the small huddle on the beach warm, the king decided that it was high time for them to retire indoors. Having been fed, his infant son and daughter were wrapped in blankets and held close to the chests of his companies. They seemed contented enough for now - the little boy was fast asleep and his sister peering around in bleary confusion – so their father was focused on his exhausted wife.

"Can I move her now?" he was asking Mab, who was shamelessly biting each of the gold coins she had received from Fergus as payment for her services. "The bleeding has stopped, hasn't it? I want to get her indoors; she needs to rest."

Any bleeding had been indeed stopped, thanks to some timely intervention from Wynne. Mab gave a nod, dropping the final coin back into its pouch. She reached out and gave Flora's bare thigh a pat, flashing the queen a crooked, yellow-toothed smile.

"Well done, lassie. Yeh did well, an' yeh babes are fat and bonny. I never heard such bellows before, eh!"

Flora summoned the energy to return the smile; proud of her children for announcing their arrival into the world with such vigour. The chill of the night air had suddenly taken on an unfriendly edge; the daughter of the northern coast decided that she would now quite like to be _indoors_ , with a fire nearby and a plethora of blankets. Even the queen's legendary stoicism had its limits, and it was nearly expended.

"I'd like to go in now," she whispered to Alistair, who tightened his grip on her and nodded. "I'm cold."

* * *

OOC Author Note: WELL, there we have it! I was originally going to split this up into two chapters, but I decided to take pity on poor Flo who has been up the duff for two years now lol XD So apologies for the massive chapter! But at least the twins are here :P We have a little blond boy and a dark-haired girl, both with big grey eyes like their mother! I wanted Flora to give birth on the beach because it seemed like a good way to fuse both of her backgrounds – the Waking Sea in the foreground, Castle Cousland looming overhead. And she also – for the first time – is seen taking charge of her own labour. Throughout the story, others made plans for the birth that didn't involve her; now, she's decided for herself how she wanted it to go – which I think was important!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter! It's good to have the twins out into the world :P Also lol at Finian fainting ahahaha, he should have known better than to venture down the business end :P

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	177. Reunited at Last

Chapter 177: Reunited at Last

The drizzle continued to spatter down onto the huddle of figures gathered on the beach. On hearing his wife's small whisper that she was cold, the king made an impatient gesture to one of the Cousland retainers hovering in the background. Moments later, Flora felt something familiar being wrapped around her shoulders, heavy, woollen and warm. Even in the pre-dawn murk, the identity of the garment was immediately recognisable. It was the lurid, mustard-yellow dressing gown that Flora loved so much; the one rudely torn from her during her abduction.

Flora exhaled in relief, comforted by the familiar itch of the ugly wool. She lifted her weary gaze from her daughter – who had flung an arm out from the bundle of blankets in defiance of Teagan's delicate attempts to tuck it back in – to her son, who was curled sleeping in his uncle's arms. Having reassured herself that they were both well, she let her head drop back against Alistair's chest and felt his lips immediately press against her hair once, twice and then a third time, as though reassuring himself that she was still present. Flora knew that her best friend's fury at her abduction was not vanished, only temporarily suppressed; she knew that sooner or later, there would be questions, tears, guilt and recriminations. Her brothers and companions would also have their own plans for revenge and reprisal; again, Flora was aware that this would unfold in upcoming days. Yet, the consequences of her abduction had ceded priority to the birth of her children, and – for now - everybody was so mired in relief and joy that thoughts of vengeance were temporarily stifled. The only one of Flora's companions who looked ready to swim out to the smuggler's isle and wreak immediate bloody vengeance on the remnants of the Carta was Zevran. The elf stood slightly apart from the others, still as a predator in waiting; a strange, fatalistic blankness to his features. The only movement came from his fingers, running compulsively over the hilts of his blades.

The horses were brought down to the beach as the queen tried to prepare herself for the journey back to the castle. Although she had been mended, she was still exceptionally sore, and each movement felt stiff and laboured. Even the process of being lifted onto the saddle was so painful that she inhaled a sudden, shocked breath. Alistair, feeling her flinch against his chest, was immediately solicitous; trying frantically to find a comfortable way to hold her.

Due to their laboriously slow pace, the half-hour journey up to the castle took twice as long. Conscious of his wife's intense discomfort, Alistair nudged the horse forward at a snail's pace; trying to make the passage as smooth as possible. Fergus and Teagan – each clutching a bundled newborn to their chest as though holding some priceless chalice containing Andraste's Ashes – rode abreast of the king, equally slowly.

Many townspeople – on hearing the news that the queen had returned – had chosen to celebrate the news in the taverns. Already, ale-fuelled gossip had begun to circulate: that the lady Cousland had slain the leader of the Carta (true), cut off various parts of his body for trophies (partially true) and then gone on a bloody, murderous rampage, slaying all who stood in her way (patently false). One tavern in the smith's district had already renamed their richest spiced rum _The Queen's Vengeance._ The veracity of these rumours did not matter; by morning, such stories would be travelling the trade routes of Ferelden – and beyond.

 _This is what the Queen of Ferelden did while heavy with child! This is what the Hero of Ferelden accomplished, even without her magic! She slew the man who abducted her and made a triumphant return to Highever. She passed through the Waking Sea's wrath like it were naught but a spring breeze._

Fergus did not want his sister gawked at by curious onlookers as they returned to the castle. The guards had been sent ahead to clear the streets and check that all the braziers and torches sufficiently illuminated the cobblestones.

The journey back up to Castle Cousland was one of the worst hours that Flora had passed in her two decades of life. Despite Alistair's best efforts to cushion her from the impact of the horse's gait, some jostling was unavoidable. They had just reached the garrison near the castle's lower entrance when the discomfort became intense enough to prompt tears. Alistair, whose emotions were also resting on a knife-edge, clutched his wife in horror as he heard her dissolve into sobs of pain.

"Almost there, my love," he croaked in dismay. "My sweet girl."

The infant boy chose that moment to start up an angry grizzle. He had woken a short while previously and spent several minutes blearily mouthing the front of Fergus' leather tunic. Receiving no succour, the little prince let out a demanding wail of hunger. Fergus, who vaguely remembered what such a cry sounded like, frantically tried to soothe the two-hour old baby.

"Hold on, little chap," he murmured, tucking the blanket more closely around the precious bundle. "Not far now."

The baby had no understanding of the concept _hold on;_ he could not understand why he was not being fed _at that very instant._ The grizzle graduated to a wail; Flora, who had felt a pang in her breast at the sound, held out her arms. Her own pain and exhaustion was shoved to the back of her mind; the tears drying on her cheeks as she focused instead on the needs of her son.

The horses paused for a moment, just long enough for the teyrn to hand over the baby with painstaking care. Alistair gripped his wife more tightly as she shifted on the saddle, letting the fold of the mustard dressing gown fall open to bare a breast for the hungry infant. As soon as the infant's lips latched on, he settled down; one plump cheek resting against her skin. Flora leaned back into Alistair's chest, inhaling unsteadily as she cupped the newborn's head with a palm.

"Just a little longer, my love," she heard her husband mutter in her ear, his arms anchoring her securely in place. "Then you can rest."

She nodded, too fatigued to even summon a word of response.

Their arrival back at the castle passed in a blur for the queen; who had been fuelled on some bread, a handful of biscuits and sheer adrenaline since waking in the hold of the captured ship. She was drained in every way that could be described, her body felt as though each part of it had been stretched out of shape, she was cold, and hungry, and utterly exhausted. Torches moved in bright, flickering points around her; a cluster of tangled voices echoed against the solid walls as they came to a halt within the courtyard. Flora felt the baby being gently removed from her breast and forced open a heavy eye to see her son in Wynne's arms. She just about managed to swivel her gaze across to where her daughter was nestled to Teagan's chest – the stubborn little girl was still defying his attempts to keep her arms contained within the blankets. Having reassured herself of the whereabouts of her children, Flora closed her eyes and let herself subside within a dark well of unconsciousness.

* * *

When Flora awoke, for a brief and dizzying moment, she felt a surge of blind terror. Her hands had instinctively dropped to cradle the swell of her stomach; there was nothing there, and she assumed for a single nauseating moment that Beraht had done what he had promised and taken her children. She let out a strangled gasp, and then felt the achingly familiar pressure of broad arms encircling her; her head guided protectively beneath a bristled chin.

"Sweetheart, we're here."

This utterance contained far more than three simple words. It meant _you're safe, our children are here, it's all over. It's all over._

 _I'm here._

Someone had taken off the tattered remnants of the Mac Eanraig tartan and replaced it with a clean linen nightshirt. The chamber slowly came into focus around Flora as she blinked and rubbed cautiously at her face. Her bruised eye socket was still tender to the touch; the one that had borne the brunt of Beraht's angry fist. She recognised the room as the one assigned to her and Alistair – she had only spent two nights there – the guest chamber that Maric had once used on his visits to Bryce Cousland. High-ceilinged and decorated in simple Fereldan style, with dark wooden beams crossing creamy plaster walls; the curtains had been drawn against the sunlight and a fire set in the great hearth. A large wooden cradle, ornately carved with laurel leaves and the crossed spears of Highever, stood at the side of the bed.

Flora looked at the cradle for a moment, in slight disbelief that the twins she had grown in her belly for almost nine months were now out in the world. She then felt an unsteady exhalation against the back of her neck; lips pressed against the skin in a soft, repetitive brand of comfort. Her fingers tangled against a familiar, callused palm, the metal of their twisted gold bands brushing.

Flora twisted her head with a grimace – her whole body felt horribly stiff and sore - and raised her eyes to Alistair's hollow-cheeked face. She was lying in her husband's arms; he had clearly no intentions of releasing her from his grip even within the safety of the bedchamber. His gaze was wreathed in violet shadow, a growth of five days covered his chin, he had the look of a man dazed from lack of sleep. Yet beneath the exhaustion there was a raw throb of joy and disbelief. Here was a man who had experienced the whole spectrum of emotion – from sheer anguish to full-hearted exhilaration – in a mere handful of hours.

"You look like _you've_ been kept prisoner by dwarves for five days," Flora observed reaching up to brush her husband's cheek with sore fingertips.

She had meant the comment light-heartedly, but the corner of Alistair's mouth twisted in wretched dismay. His handsome, weary face crumpled and he clasped her more tightly; dropping his face to her neck as a half-sob slipped from his throat.

"I'm so sorry, my … can you ever forgive me?"

"Whaa- " said Flora, confused. "Forgive you for what?"

"I should have protected you," he croaked, each word emerging half-formed and barely coherent. "And the twins. When you lost your magic, I- I swore to be your shield. And… and I _failed._ "

He lowered his face to her shoulder, inhaling the scent of sweat and salt-water; clutching her like she might slip away again if he let go. Flora twisted as much as she was able – with a flinch of discomfort – and put her arms around his neck, savouring the familiar sturdiness of his chest.

"You've never failed me," she whispered back, directing her words straight into her despairing husband's ear. _"Never,_ Alistair _._ It wasn't your fault."

Alistair grimaced against her shoulder, fingers tightening involuntarily. Flora felt him shake his head in response, throat too constricted to speak. She let her fingers wander over the breadth of his shoulder-blades, stroking small, affectionate circles and mumbling soft, reassuring sounds into his ear. It took a long time for him to release his grip; each time his fingers began to loosen, he would panic at the moment of separation and clutch her with renewed vigour.

"I'm never letting you out of my sight again," he breathed, feverishly. "I'll spend the rest of my years holding your hand, my love."

"Um," said Flora in response, uncertain how effectively Alistair could rule a kingdom if he was constantly glued to her side.

"I can't risk anything else happening to you," he continued, a hollow undercurrent of despair to the words. "I swear, Flora, I was going mad with you gone. The thought of you – helpless, and vulnerable – as the Carta's prisoner? I think I _did_ lose some part of my mind."

This was almost exactly what Morrigan had told the queen, back within the prison cell on the smuggler's isle. Flora flinched – the thought of her best friend in distress hurt like a physical blow – and nuzzled her head against Alistair's chin.

 _At some point, we'll have to talk about what happened when I was a prisoner. That I was strong without my magic. That I wasn't helpless._

 _But not now._

"It was a horrible thing," she whispered, soft and earnest. "But it was nobody's fault but the Carta's. And they'll get their just rewards. Beraht already got his."

Flora flashed an impromptu, benevolent smile across at Beraht's head, which was incongruously propped on a low dresser beside a pewter basin.

 _There's Herring grit in my heart and Cousland blood in my veins. It's not a good combination for my enemies._

 _Were you underground during the Blight, dwarf? Did you not hear about what I've done over the past year?_

 _It was your biggest – and your last - mistake to assume I was helpless just because I'd lost my magic._

The king had also been gazing across at the Carta leader's severed head; resting on the mantel like some gruesome ornament.

"My sweet wife," he said at last, the words muffled against her rain-dampened hair. "Maker's Breath, but you're an incredible woman."

Flora – like most Herring natives – did not take compliments well, and shot him a dubious look. Alistair opened his mouth and seemed about to continue in similar fashion, and so she silenced him by impulsively pressing her lips to his.

A constricted groan of relief escaped from the king. There had been moments over the past week when he believed that he would never again receive a kiss from his wife, or inhale the salt-scent of her hair, or hear the distinctive, lowborn husk of her voice. He took her cheek in a hand – careful not to touch the bruise around her eye – and let his mouth pay homage to his wife in a way other than words. Their lips had always worked well together, yielding and pressing in a natural, tender rhythm. When their tongues met, it was like old lovers reunited; exploratory and filled with wonder.

Neither wanted the kiss to end, but a whimper from the crib served as effective interruption. The new parents broke apart, turning towards the wooden cradle. Alistair shifted his long-limbed frame across the mattress, reaching into the depths of the crib to retrieve a round basket.

"They're so little," he breathed, placing the basket on the bed and gazing down at the infants nestled within. "They seemed lost within the crib, so I… I just put them in here. I think it used to have apples in it."

"Little compared to _you,"_ Flora mumbled darkly, recalling how it felt to push each infant between her thighs. "They seemed very _big_ to me."

Alistair was unable to stop a grin of pride from spreading across his exhausted face, reaching down to stroke a thumb over his son's downy golden head. The little dark-haired girl was sleeping, but her brother was blinking in confusion, his vision not developed enough to see much beyond the basket. One hand was clenched in a chubby fist; the fingers of the other were inserted in his mouth.

"The midwife did say that they were large, especially for twins," he replied, unable to take his eyes from the contents of the basket. "Maker's Breath, they're so perfect. _You're perfect."_

Flora awarded him another sceptical glance at such superlative comment, wondering if she could _actually_ still smell the metallic scent of Beraht's blood; or if it was just her mind playing tricks on her.

"He's hungry again," she said, recalling how the malnourished Chasind babe had suckled at his own fingers. "Little gobbler-fish. Could you pass him to me? I'm sore, I can't move."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaaah, this was a sweet chapter to write! Husband and wife reacquainted at last! Although I'm not sure how much I would be enjoying the severed head of Beraht sat on the dresser, lol. A nice accessory for the bedroom (not). Poor old Alistair has been through the whole gamut of emotions recently, haha! And I'm not sure how much 'rest' he and Flora are going to be getting, despite what he's promised her…

Also, no wonder Flo is so stiff and sore, going through childbirth without any kind of pain relief ... arghhhhhh.

Hahahah, such timing! After two years, the royal twins are here... just as when Kate Middleton gave birth to her own royal baby XD

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	178. The New Family

Chapter 178: The New Family

The mewl of a hungry baby rose to the rafters of the chamber, thin and demanding. Alistair reached into the basket and withdrew his son with exceptional care, supporting the little babe's head with a tentative palm as someone – probably Wynne – had instructed him. The baby was beginning to grow impatient for food now, small, needful cries escaping its throat.

Flora held out an arm, tugging free the lace on the front of her nightgown so that it hung loose from one shoulder. Taking the grizzling baby from Alistair, she leaned back against the pillows and let the infant settle on her breast. The memory of how scrawny the Chasind infant had been at a month old – especially when compared to these plump newborns – made Flora inhale a painful breath. She resolved to visit the carpenter and his son once she had recovered; keen to see how the tiny boy was faring.

The gentle pull of the baby's mouth, the flexing of its cheeks; the half-light in the chamber and the heat of the fire; all combined to put the queen in a state of lethargy. She let her head rest on the cushions, tired, hungry and yet oddly contented. Alistair, who had heard the rumble of his wife's stomach, had sprung to his feet and gone to retrieve some bread and cheese from the side-table.

"Flo," he breathed, returning to sit on the edge of the bed with a full tray. "Here you go, my love."

Flora opened her mouth to receive a torn piece of bread between her lips, half-smiling gratefully at him. Alistair smiled back at her, his eyes bruised with tenderness; fingers already tearing free the next bite-sized piece. The baby had briefly fallen asleep at the breast, but woken with a squeak as she shifted, cheeks pulling once again at her nipple. Both parents watched the infant in fascination; still awestruck that _this_ was the outcome of their impulsive coupling within the charnel-house of Ostagar.

Yet, as enamoured as he was with his little son, Alistair's eyes could not help but slide sideways to his wife. His gaze moved over the bruising that mottled one eye socket, then down to the painful marks left on Flora's wrists where she had been bound. Various other scrapes and bruises littered her body; remnants of the abduction, the incarceration, the escape.

Flora was so enthralled by the small sounds and movements made by their children that she did not notice the thunderclouds settling over her husband's face. Her son nestled within the crook of her arm, and she had one hand in the basket resting on the curve of her daughter's back. The little girl was snuffling; she too would be fully awake soon.

"Flo?"

She looked up and understood the situation in a heartbeat. The legendary Theirin anger was brewing on her husband's handsome face, the green flecks in his irises swallowed by a well of deepening shadow.

"Flo," he repeated, in a voice that was oddly constricted. "I want to go down to the dungeon to gut Nathaniel Howe and that Rivaini like… like _fish._ Then I want to take one of your brother's ship's and slaughter everything left alive on that island."

Flora understood that her husband was telling her because he needed her to dissuade him; that Alistair's rational mind needed an ally to subdue the raw, furious instinct that drove him to seek immediate revenge. She appreciated his marine-inspired reference, but was unsure whether it was deliberate.

"I promised that they would get a trial before the Landsmeet," she said, noticing how he was clinging to her every word, quivering with the effort of holding himself back from charging off with sword drawn. "And I don't want you to leave us. You said you'd stay."

This was the most effective panacea; Alistair's anger subsided like a wave sweeping away the curved ridges of sand left on a beach. He nodded, reaching out to edge his thumb tenderly around his wife's hairline, gaze softening.

" _Yes_ ," he breathed, to Flora's relief. "My place is with you. And our children. Is he finished?"

"Dunno," replied Flora, who had never abandoned this particular piece of Herring vernacular. "Maybe. I'm sure he'll let us know if he's not."

She put the baby over her shoulder – as she had once done with the Chasind babe – and patted him; Alistair watched her like a hawk to see how it was done.

 _I won't say anything about what the alchemist was planning to do to me yet,_ Flora thought to herself as the baby hiccupped. _I don't think Alistair would be able to restrain himself._

"Here," she said, passing him their son. "I think he's finished."

Alistair took the little boy in two careful arms – not yet confident enough to hold him in one – and surreptitiously inhaled his soft, clean scent. The baby eyed his father blearily, still utterly bewildered at the vast world that had unfolded before him over the past twelve hours. A few moments after being placed back in the basket, he let out a grizzle of distress and Alistair hastily picked him back up, unsure what to do.

Meanwhile, Flora was uncertain whether to feed her daughter from the same breast that had just suckled her son. She did not know if it was better to assign a particular nipple to each baby, or whether they should be swapped – nobody had _told_ her, and she had not had time to ask. The queen felt a flicker of resentment towards Beraht and the Carta: for stealing precious days where she could have prepared herself mentally for this new challenge. The transition from _prisoner,_ to _escapee,_ to _mother_ had happened so rapidly that Flora felt overwhelmed with all that she did not know.

"What do you fancy?" she asked the little girl at last, smoothing her fingers over the wisps of soft, dark hair. "Left or right?"

The baby's lips were already working at the thin air. Flora hastily made a decision, settling the infant in the crook of her arm and guiding her head gently into place. For several minutes, the infant drew hungrily from her mother and Flora watched her in fascination. Alistair, still holding the other baby as though he were made from fragile spun-sugar, carefully shifted himself onto the bed beside her.

The king and queen of Ferelden leaned back against the pillows in their half-shadowed chamber; the curtains drawn against the noise and light of the courtyard. Although it was the middle of the day, there was a strange hush in the air – on the teyrn's orders, everybody in the general area had been instructed to carry out their duties as noiselessly as possible. There was a tacit understanding that the new parents must not yet be disturbed; that they be granted some precious hours of privacy with their children before the inevitable retribution for Flora's abduction was set in motion.

Alistair watched his daughter suckling greedily – the little girl fed with the same vigour as her twelve-minutes-elder brother – and was unable to stop a beam of delight from spreading across his face. Ducking, he pressed his lips to his wife's hair in an attempt to convey some small measure of his adoration.

"I knew I was the luckiest man in Thedas when I married you, my love," he said at last, incredulous. "Now I'm the _happiest_ man in Thedas too. I'm- I'm afraid that this is some Fade dream, and... this isn't really happening…I'll wake up _alone."_

Alistair trailed off, the thought too awful to even contemplate. Flora nestled herself into his side as the little girl's fingers wandered absentmindedly over her breast.

"It's not a dream," she replied, confidently. "I promise. I can't dream anymore, anyway, so I _know_ this is real."

He smiled at her peculiar logic, leaning back into the cushions and taking a deep, steadying breath.

The young parents sat together in contented quiet; listening to the soft sounds of the little boy as he smacked his lips and nestled against his father's chest. Although she was under no illusion that this was anything other than reality, the situation still felt oddly surreal to Flora.

 _Over the past year, I've been made a Warden, the leader of an army, the queen of a nation._

 _And now I'm a mother. I've even never had a mother that I can remember. Apart from Ma, who wasn't the type of mother I want to be._

 _What if I don't know how to be one?_

She grimaced, struck by a sudden, cold jolt of trepidation. Fortunately, her former brother-warden had always been able to read the sea-changes in his wife's grave and lovely face; had always been able to interpret the underlying emotion beneath the cool nonchalance.

"We can do this, Lo," he murmured in her ear, tender and reassuring "We ended the Blight, remember? Being a parent has _got_ to be easier than that."

Flora nodded, gazing down at her daughter. The baby, who had fallen asleep for a few minutes at the breast, suddenly opened wide, luminous grey eyes and gazed solemnly up at her mother. The queen smiled back, the apprehension melting away like seafoam on the sand.

"I love you so much," she whispered, earnestly. "And _you._ I love you too."

This was directed to the little boy, who was blinking in confusion at the light reflecting from Alistair's shirt button. Then, Flora turned her face towards her husband with her mouth parted expectantly. He was already ducking his head to kiss her; their lips coming together in tender concord.

 _I adore you,_ said the urgent press of his mouth against hers.

 _You are my whole world,_ replied the equally fervent grip of her fingers on his shoulder.

Flora's stomach then communicated its own wordless – but equally potent – affirmation by emitting a loud rumble.

 _FEED ME!_

After both newborns had fallen asleep and been gently replaced in their basket, Alistair ventured to the doorway and gave a quiet knock. Immediately, the door was nudged open – it had been kept slightly on the jar, since there was little _true_ privacy for a royal couple – and Fergus himself sprang forth. Flora's brother had been sitting on a bench outside the doorway, awaiting any news or instruction. The teyrn was not alone; Finian and the rest of Flora's companions were gathered at the end of the passage, conversing in low tones. Quiet, weary relief hung in the air – more than one empty ale bottle rested on the flagstones.

"How is she?" demanded Fergus, craning his neck to see beyond the partially-opened door. "And the little ones?"

Alistair grinned, the anguish of the past five days smoothed away from his face and the Marician handsomeness shining forth once again.

"Flo's fine, a little tired and sore. But she's hungry – could we have some food brought up? And a bath."

Fergus immediately repeated the king's instructions to a hovering steward clad in Cousland navy. The servant – who had survived Arl Howe's treachery and bore a livid scar across his face as a badge of loyalty to the old teyrn - gave a smooth bow and scuttled off down the corridor.

Fergus managed to catch a glimpse of his sister, who was sitting upright in bed and eating a wizened apple that she had found - somewhat randomly - beneath the pillows. Flora caught his eye and smiled at him, opened her mouth as if to bellow _I'm hungry!,_ then remembered the presence of the sleeping babies and hastily cut herself off.

The teyrn smiled back at his little sister, then returned his gaze to Alistair's face, lowering his voice.

"Howe and the Rivaini have been locked in the dungeons. I've had to put two dozen guards on them – Zev's already tried to stick a dagger in the ribs of the tattooed one, and I doubt he's the only one who'll make an attempt."

Fergus coughed; he himself had swung a furious fist into the face of Nathaniel Howe as the man was bundled into the dungeon. The Howe had spat out several bloodied teeth but made no attempt to protest, merely flinching as the teyrn had released a stream of vitriol. Fergus had then readied his fist for another blow before Finian pulled him back.

Alistair nodded, anger curdling briefly in his gaze before he reined it close.

"As much as I'd like to see them both hanging from the ramparts, Flo has promised them a trial. They need to be kept alive until the Landsmeet, so keep guards on them full-time."

"When can we speak with Florence about the Carta?" Fergus continued, quietly. "I want to know everything that's happened – and where this isle is, though I've got my suspicions. I've several maps of the Waking Sea that show even the smallest islands. We need to know the number of prisoners there, and if any reinforcements are expected. Your Qunari friend is keeping some sort of silent vigil in the dungeon, and the witch has vanished, so they haven't been that helpful."

"Tomorrow," replied Alistair, with steel running through the word. "She needs to recover, not be interrogated. I won't have her answering any questions today."

Fergus nodded: this was reasonable and he had expected it.

"Finian's straining at the leash to see the twins," he said, changing subject with a grin. "I've never seen him so fascinated with babies before. Wynne is equally impatient, but she hides it well."

The teyrn did not add how eager he was to hold his own little nephew and niece; to see a new generation spring up to replace what had been lost. There had been too much blood spilled on the flagstones of Castle Cousland; though the stains had been scrubbed clean, the trauma had sunk deep into the bones of the old fortress. The arrival of two new Cousland babies - the first in over a decade – had breathed new life into the dusty hallways.

Alistair smiled, the pride gleaming bright like an over-fuelled lantern.

"Once Flo's bathed and eaten," he replied, casting a fond glance over his shoulder. "And if she feels up to it."

"I do!" yelled the eavesdropping Flora in unladylike fashion, temporarily forgetting the chamber's sleeping occupants. "I want to see _everyone,_ and my puppies- "

The petulant grizzle of a rudely awoken baby drifted up from the basket. The queen put her hands over her mouth, eyes expanding with guilt. Fergus chuckled, and there was a wistful edge to the sound – he recalled well the trials and tribulations of those early days.

"I'll leave you to handle that," he said wryly, clapping a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Food and a bath will be up soon."

It took only a few minutes to soothe the baby's cry – the little boy had been woken – but he then refused to be put down; squeaking in distress each time that his parents tried to replace him in the basket. Finally, Flora just tucked him into her arm, pressing an apologetic kiss to his forehead. The baby shot her a quizzical look, waving small fingers beneath his chin.

The bath arrived a short while later, accompanied by what appeared to be half the servants in the castle carting a feast's worth of food. Every single occupant of the kitchens had volunteered to bring up a dish or platter, keen to catch a glimpse of the little prince and princess. Alistair, standing at the head of the bed with one hand protectively on his sitting wife's shoulder, eyed the servants as they trooped in. Some were carrying only a single small bowl, or a lone jug of mead; each one surreptitiously slid their gaze towards queen and crib.

Flora didn't mind being gawped at; she was still mildly obsessed with the tiny, perfect features of her children. The infant girl was nestled in the basket sound asleep, her brother snuffled and yawned in the crook of his mother's elbow.

"Look at his little _nose,"_ she breathed, touching it very lightly with a fingertip. "And his _ears."_

The queen noticed, in some surprise, that the end of her finger was still red and tender. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had worked her way free of the alchemist's rope bindings; relying on ingrained memory to blindly decipher the knots.

Alistair ducked his head to press his lips into her hair, which now fell loose in a tangled mass around her shoulders. Yet from the corner of his eye, he spotted a red mark around Flora's wrist, the tell-tale remainder of restraints. Once more, a spear of cold wrath shot through his gut as he envisioned his heavily-pregnant wife bound and incarcerated; a thought that simultaneously made sour bile rise in his throat. His son then yawned and Alistair forcibly suppressed both his rage and his wretchedness, refocusing his attention back on his family.

"Part of me worried that they might turn out to be little Hurlocks," admitted Flora, which successfully distracted Alistair even further.

"Maker's Breath, sweetheart! _Hurlocks?!"_

"Mm," she replied vaguely, watching the little boy's eyes close in drowsy increments. "Because of all my exposure to Darkspawn. I think my body just purified it, though, like it did with other poisons. Here, he's asleep."

"Hurlocks," repeated Alistair, shaking his head as he took the infant with exquisite care. "Well, praise the Maker for your body, I suppose."

 _Praise the Maker for my spirits,_ thought Flora, wistfully. _I wonder if there's some way that they can see me, even though I've been severed from them. Although Wynne thought that they'd been blasted to all corners of the Fade._

The little boy gurgled softly in his sleep as he was placed next to his sister in the basket. Alistair gazed down at both of his children for a long moment, then roughly brushed at his eyes before turning back to his wife.

"Ready for that bath?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Poor Alistair is really oscillating between emotions in this chapter! One moment he's enchanted by his new twins, the next second he's raging at the injustices inflicted on his wife by the Carta, lol. Flora's just thinking about her stomach, and is happy that the babies didn't turn out to be Hurlocks, hahaha. It's quite nice to revel in domesticity for a bit lol, especially considering the drama of the past chapters! Also, we still have just Baby Boy Theirin and Baby Girl Theirin for names so far… that reminds me of playing the Sims, lol. I had a BIG Sims phase about a decade ago XD Oh and just in case anyone is worried... I know that there is a precedent for bath-time leading to PRIVATE TIME for our ex-Wardens, but there's no worries about that happening this time, lol. Can you IMAGINE?! Aaahhh

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	179. Naming The Babies: Part One

Chapter 179: Naming The Babies – Part One

It took some time to manoeuvre the wincing and sore queen out of the filmy linen nightgown. When Alistair lifted her up in his arms - despite his intention to be as gentle as possible – Flora drew in a sharp breath of pain. Despite being healed by Wynne, she still felt exceptionally tender and bruised from the waist down.

"Ow, oww- " she hissed, careful not to advertise her pain too loudly in case it woke the sleeping babes. "Oooh!"

"Darling," replied Alistair, distressed. "I'm so sorry. Do you want to be put down?"

"No, no," the queen croaked back, wrapping an arm around his neck and inhaling unsteadily. "I want to bathe, I have sand _everywhere_. I think there's seaweed in my hair."

Flora's prediction turned out to be correct; there was indeed a clump of dried-out olive kelp tangled amidst the crimson mass. As Alistair scrubbed gently away between her shoulder-blades, Flora leaned forwards and let the warm water seep beneath her fingernails; watching the last remnants of Beraht's blood dissolve into faint pink streaks. The water was warm, yet not too hot, and – to her relief - contained no fussy scented bath products save for plain soap.

"Have you thought about names yet?" she asked after several minutes, absent-mindedly combing through tangled skeins of wet crimson with her fingers. "For the twins."

Alistair had thought of nothing over the past few days save for his stolen wife and his children; but the latter had been nameless creatures within Flora's belly. He shook his head, wringing out the flannel before returning it to her shoulder-blades.

"No, my love. Apart from what we talked about at the Circle."

During one middle-of-the-night conversation several weeks prior- Flora had been kept awake by indigestion - the young couple had agreed that they would not place a dead man's mantle on the shoulders of their son. Both were aware that the people of Ferelden looked to the new arrivals as a fresh hope for the future, and thus did not want them to be a memorial to the past. This had been such an odd, adult conversation for them to have that Flora and Alistair had been reduced to fits of self-conscious cackles; while aware that many more such 'adult' conversations would follow when they became parents.

Alistair moved the heavy bulk of his wife's wet hair to the side and rubbed the flannel over the white brand emblazoned between Flora's shoulder-blades. This was where she had once had a pattern of freckles in the shape of the constellation _Peraquialus;_ only one tan pinprick had survived Urthemial's passage through her body.

"Do you have any ideas, baby?" he continued, leaning forwards into the bathtub to press his lips to the pale scarring.

 _Please, Maker, not Shark,_ the king thought wildly to himself, simultaneously aware that there was nothing he would deny his wife in the aftermath of her return from peril. _Or Barnacle._

"Crabcake," said Flora slyly, then giggled as Alistair dropped the soap with a splash. "I'm only joking. Do _you_ have any ideas?"

She reached between her knees and retrieved the greasy white bar, handing it back to a flustered Alistair.

"I – I do, actually," replied the king, once he had regained some composure. "It might sound a little silly, though."

Flora tilted her head and turned her pale gaze on him, kind and curious. She placed dripping fingers on his bare arm, his sleeves rolled up to assist with her bathing.

"I'm sure it's not silly at all, husband," she said, gravely. "What is it?"

"Well, it's for our… for our son," Alistair said, unable to stop yet another beam of disbelief and pride from spreading across his face. "What about – _Taron?"_

"Taron," repeated Flora, then smiled up at him with recognition in her gaze.

Months prior – before the final battle, before the Landsmeet, before Flora had even _discovered_ that she was with child – the two Wardens had stood at the railing of a pirate ship anchored in the Denerim harbour. They had gazed out – slightly overwhelmed – at the vast starry heavens, the never-ending spread of torchlit buildings and the behemoth silhouette of the palace on the cliff. To distract themselves from the enormity of their cause, they had fantasised about the differing directions their lives might have taken if they had been simply a stable-lad and a fisherman's daughter residing in the same village.

 _I would have married you as soon as your dad allowed it,_ Alistair had whispered in a wide-eyed Flora's ear as he embraced her at the ship's rail. _We would be living in a simple hut and have three children by now._

 _Three?!_ she had squawked, boggling at the prospect of birthing three children by the age of nineteen. _THREE children?!_

 _Yes. And we'd call them Taron, Dennis, and-_

 _Ragenhilda!_

"I like Taron," she whispered, reaching up her wet fingers to rest on Alistair's half-shaved face. He had taken advantage of the presence of warm water to begin removing the past five days' growth, but kept getting distracted by his wife.

"Are you sure?"

"Mm," replied Flora, settling back against the rim of the bathtub. "Dennis was the name of the Templar who captured me in Herring, though, and Ragenhilda is _my_ name. Well, _one_ of my names. So they're out. But I like Taron."

There came a gurgle from the basket and the heads of both parents rotated towards it like startled geese. Fortunately, the gurgle was followed by a contented little sigh as the infant settled back down into the rhythm of sleep.

Alistair exhaled, returning his attention to his dripping wife. The water in the bathtub was starting to get cool; rolling up his sleeves beyond the elbows, the king reached into the tub and lifted his queen bodily into the air. Although he did so with as much care as possible – and the task itself was easier now that she had been relieved of her burden – Flora still let out a hiss of pain.

"Ow, oww!"

Alistair murmured an apology into her hair, carrying her as carefully as possible over to the bearskin before the hearth. Lowering Flora onto the thick fur, he went to retrieve several of the hot-stone heated linen sheets that had accompanied the bathtub. Enveloping her in the clean, fresh-smelling warmth, he then kept his arms around her; reluctant to let go. Flora was equally keen to stay nestled against her husband's chest: she had missed him like a soldier would his sword-arm over the past five days.

"And I would… quite like our daughter to be named for you," Alistair said suddenly, much to Flora's alarm. "My darling."

The king then laughed at the misgivings writ naked across his wife's face, ducking his head to kiss her lips as they formed a question.

"I don't mean _Flora,"_ he continued, hastily. "But, I don't know – it seems the _right_ thing to do somehow. A way to mark what you've done."

Alistair retrieved a bone-handled brush and began to stroke the bristles through her hair, admiring the rich, wine-dark sheen. Flora could not stop herself from shooting him a look of trepidation through the damp strands of hair and he smiled, working out a tangled knot with far more gentleness than she herself would have used.

 _Bora,_ Flora thought wildly. _Gora. Snora._

"I know this sounds a little peculiar," the king continued, a note of wistfulness in his tone. "And, please, feel free to disagree. But there was a story I remember an old woman telling in Redcliffe, back when I was a child. I don't recall how I came to hear it – I was probably slacking off my duties at the stable – but I remember listening, just… absolutely _enthralled._ Funnily enough, I don't remember much of the story itself – something about a Marcher woman who dropped a ring into a river and told her prospective suitors that she would marry the first person who tracked it down – but I thought that the _name_ was beautiful. I mean, I never thought I'd have a _daughter_ to give it to one day, but…"

Alistair trailed off, swallowing hard.

 _It had better not be Anora,_ Flora thought grimly to herself. _Or Mandragora._

"Theodora."

"Theodora," repeated Flora, her eyes widening. _"Theodora._ Oh, I like it! Wynne used to call me Dora back in the Circle when she didn't know my name. To be fair, I thought her name was _Spleen."_

"You like it?"

She nodded and beamed; granting her seal of approval.

"So be it. Flora and Theodora," Alistair repeated, with a distinct tremor to his voice. "My two beautiful girls."

The last word cracked in half and he inhaled unsteadily, reaching to brush at his eyes with the back of his hand. Flora reached up, intent on rising to her knees and embracing him. This proved to be a little ambitious for one who had given birth only the previous night and a small squawk of pain emerged from her throat.

This served well enough to focus Alistair's attention. He scrambled to his feet with her in his arms, relying on powerful thigh muscles to propel them both upwards.

"When can I walk again?" Flora complained, winding her arm around his neck as he carried her back towards the bed. "I feel like a fish on land. But it's not a _good_ feeling."

"Wynne thinks tomorrow," Alistair began, lowering her onto the blankets. "But there's no rush, darling. I'll carry you anywhere you want, for as long as you need- "

He broke off, following Flora's bemused gaze into the basket. The twins had once again woken up hungry; they were busy attempting to seek out the nearest source of food. The little boy was gummily sucking on his sister's forehead, while she mouthed ineffectually at his shoulder.

"Are they trying to _eat_ each other?" Alistair asked, eventually.

"I…I think they want food," replied Flora, slightly uncertainly. "I'm going to try and feed them both at once. Can you help me?"

After some awkward manoeuvring, and creative rearranging; the king and queen had successfully managed to contort themselves into a position where both babies could feed simultaneously with their flopping heads supported. This involved some artful positioning of cushions, with Alistair's helpful elbow providing additional leverage. Flora, cross-eyed at the odd sensation, was then struck by a sudden thought as she slumped back against the pillows.

"I feel like a Mabari bitch suckling puppies," she breathed, stroking her thumb over her daughter's chubby arm as the little girl clung to her. "Can you ask Fergus to bring up Cod and Lobster later?"

Alistair nodded distractedly, eyeing the mottled skin around his wife's wrist. Each time he caught sight of any remnants of her incarceration, a sharp pinprick of fury pierced the warm blanket of happiness wrapped about him.

"How many names do you think they're meant to have?" Flora wondered, thinking on her own weighty cognomen. "My parents gave me _lots_ : Florence Popelyn Chastity Ragenhilda."

"Ragenhilda Chastity, my darling," corrected the king tenderly, forcing thoughts of revenge from his mind. "I don't think there's any rules about how many names you can give them."

Flora ducked her head to kiss her daughter's downy, jet-black head; expression thoughtful.

 _Morrigan joined Alistair and I because she was instructed to by her mother. But, in spite of her grumbles and insults, she never once let us down when we needed her. She fought at our side when the Circle was overrun with abominations, and when we ventured into the Brecilian Forests. She had a thousand chances to wing her way away and never return; and she didn't take a single one._

 _When Leliana joined us, I was unnerved by her exotic accent and fanatical devotion to her faith. I had no idea that she would become one of my dearest and closest friends. Where would we be without her sharp mind and political astuteness? She wrote the letters that summoned the armies to Denerim. She dressed me to make an impression before the Landsmeet. She spent a month in self-imposed confinement at Revanloch monastery to stay at my side._

 _Sten, the only one who possesses a face even more ambiguous than mine. I still don't know much about you – a situation which you seem utterly content with. But despite your contemptuous glares and scathing remarks, I always knew I could rely on you to do anything. I think you would have found a way to kill the Archdemon yourself if I'd asked you._

 _Wynne, who's been more of a mama to me this past year than either my birth or my adoptive mother. She's always tried to help Alistair and I to make sensible choices – even at the start, when she tried to stop us from growing closer, it was because she knew we were both inexperienced and naïve, and that it wasn't the right time for emotional dramatics._

 _Oghren, who made jokes in the depths of the Deep Roads to cheer us up when we were frightened. He knew that we were young, and not really sure of what we were doing – and he joined us anyway, loud and crude and ridiculously brave. He volunteered to come to the Darkspawn nest with Riordan and I to collect the blood for Loghain's Joining. He sat the long vigil for Riordan without being asked; and joined the Wardens to prove that he could be a better man than the one Branka accused him of being._

 _And last – but not least - how many threats, assassins, silent adversaries in the shadows has Zevran quietly dispatched over the past year? I know of some, but there must be others that he hasn't mentioned. He's taken blows that ought to have been mine; extracted me from countless difficult situations with either a quick wit or a quicker blade; made Alistair and I laugh even in the darkest moments of the Blight. I would trust Zevran with the lives of my children in a heartbeat._

"Taron Zevran Oghren Sten Theirin," she said, doubt creasing her brow. "Theodora Leliana Wynne Theirin. Taron _Zesteogh_ and Theodora _Lelwyn?_ _Wynli?"_

" _Zesteogh?_ It'd certainly give the scribes a challenge, my love."

The thought of naming an innocent baby _Zesteogh_ made Flora cackle so hard that her daughter came unlatched; the small lips mouthing in petulant confusion.

"Sorry," the queen apologised, nudging Theodora back into place. "No, we can't do that to our son. _Zesteogh!_ It sounds like someone being sick halfway through a sneeze. Also, I could never spell it."

Alistair grinned, ducking his head to nestle his cheek against his wife's hair.

"We'll start your literacy lessons again once we get back to Denerim," he promised, inhaling the mingled scent of soap and clean baby. "I'll have you reading the unabridged Chant by Satinalia, my beauty."

Flora shot him a look of horror, then canted her chin towards their daughter; who had finished feeding and was looking distinctly sleepy. Alistair reached to take the little dark-haired girl, lifting her carefully to his chest with his hand cupping her downy head. He then patted Theodora gently on the back, just as he had seen Flora do earlier.

"There are names that mean _things_ though, aren't there?" Flora continued, leaning back into the pillows and drawing up her knees. "Maybe we could choose middle names that honour our friends, without _literally_ naming them."

"Whatever you like, my love," Alistair agreed amiably, then grinned in triumph as the infant on his chest let out an air-filled croak. "Good girl, Teddy! I'll see if Fergus can dig out any books on names and their meanings. There must be something in that big, neglected-looking library."

 _I want to have some part of their name as a tribute to Herring, too,_ the queen thought to herself, beaming proudly at her daughter.

 _Barracuda is a classy and elegant name, fit for any princess._

 _Gritty? Gritina? Seaweedetta?_

 _Or Hag, after the Hag's Teeth reef. Hmmm!_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Not HAG, Flora! Anything but Hag! The thing about Flora is, she's not a very classy or elegant individual… lol. Princess Hag! Don't worry, it's not going to be Hag :P The babies will have two more names each, the first honouring their friends, and the second as a Herring reference.

Anyway, so we have Taron and Theodora so far :P More names to come next chapter! By the way, the conversation referred to in this chapter where Alistair and Flora discussed their alternate-reality situation, was Chapter 220 from the Lion and the Light :P

HAAAAG

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	180. Naming The Babies: Part Two

Chapter 180: Naming The Babies – Part Two

While her husband conversed in low tones with a hovering steward – requesting a book of name-meanings - Flora settled back against the cushions and fiddled with her wedding rings. They sat a little looser on her fingers than they had done prior to her incarceration; and she felt a fresh surge of indignation towards her Carta jailers for their lack of provisions.

 _At least I'll get to eat as much as I like now,_ she reasoned to herself, gleefully. _At least for a little while, I can be a complete glutton._

 _Oh! And now the babies are out, I can eat all the things that they didn't like. Chicken, beef, pork… lobster, oysters, crab! Prawns!_

 _Mmm, I really fancy a prawn platter._

Although it was mid-afternoon, the chamber seemed oddly separated from the progress of time; severed from the passing of the day by the drawn curtains, the fire-lit air and the king's stern instruction that they not be disturbed. The noises from the courtyard outside were muffled by the thick hanging curtains; dogs barking, voices, the rhythmic thud of hoofbeats all merged together in a faint tapestry of sound.

Alistair was aware that – by some measure – this self-imposed quarantine was _selfish_ of him. Flora had two brothers who were desperate to see their sister; she had companions who were equally eager to check on the welfare of their former Warden. Yet, the king did not yet want to share his wife with the world; he wanted to keep her with him in the warm, cedar-scented chamber for just a while longer.

Flora was sprawled on her back amidst the blankets, nightgown loosely fastened and slipping free from one shoulder. She was swivelling the glossy white pearl around her finger with a thoughtful expression; hair strewn over the pillows like seaweed left in the wake of the tide. Alistair clambered onto the bed beside his best friend, propping himself up on an elbow and gazing down into her grave, full-lipped contemplation.

"I wonder what _Flora_ means," she whispered, eyes huge with the range of possibilities. "I hope it means _fish-woman."_

Alistair opened his mouth as though to chuckle, but a sudden sob emerged instead; a sound made up of half-relief and half-disbelief. A drop of wetness landed on Flora's cheek and she blinked up at him, her brow furrowing in concern.

"Sorry," he croaked, grimacing as he angled his gaze away from her; squeezing his eyes together as if to force some restraint into them. "I – I just- I've been- so… so… without _you_ , Flo- "

Helplessly, the king mouthed a few more broken fragments, the green flecks in his eyes standing out like shards of glass. There was something raw and painful in his stare; as though a finger might be left bloodied if it reached up to brush away the tears.

Flora reached up anyway and drew his head down to her chest, letting his body cover hers and ignoring the protest from her sore abdomen and tender breasts. She felt his damp face settle against her collarbone and caressed the back of his neck; a soft rumble of reassurance emerging from her throat. He clung to her with unashamed need, fingers wound into the delicate gauze of the nightgown as though intent on anchoring her to him. Flora continued to murmur comfort against the top of his head, feeling the frenetic race of his heart begin to gradually slow. It took only a few minutes wrapped in his best friend's embrace for Alistair to fall asleep; much as it had only taken a short while for brother and sister-warden to find respite in the Fade during the darkest nights of the Blight. They had slept tangled together even before they had shared their first tentative kiss, the usual social constraints voided by the desperation of their situation.

"I love you," Flora whispered against his hair, hoping that her words could cross the Veil even if her own consciousness no longer could. "I love you. _I'm here."_

Alistair slept sounder and more deeply over the next two hours than he had done for the past four nights, with their ragged excuses for _rest._ He woke up to an infant's squeak of hunger; his wife's breath warm against his ear and the scent of her skin in his lungs.

"My sweet wife," the king croaked, joyfully realising that the past twenty-four hours were no cruel trick of the Fade. "You're really _here."_

"Mm," agreed Flora, her fingers wandering over the expanse of Alistair's broad shoulders.

"And… I'm a father," replied an awed Alistair, in a moment of pure, bright and scintillating joy. _"I'm a father._ Maker's Breath – I… I never thought I would, because of the taint…- "

The king draw in a sudden sharp inhalation, eyes darting between the crib and his yawning wife. Theodora was mouthing thin air, tiny fingers waving irritably.

"I wish that there was a way for me to thank your spirits," he said with a wistful note to his words, leaning over to reach into the crib and lift his daughter carefully upwards. "By the time I learnt I was going to be a father- "

 _It was too late. Your spirits were gone, Compassion blasted to smithereens by the Archdemon's soul and Valour vanished without trace; you were severed from the Fade and cut off from them forever._

Alistair cut himself off, aware that this was a topic still fraught with emotion for his queen. Flora blinked quickly, then took a deep breath and loosened the strings of her nightgown. Leaning back against the cushions, she let Alistair delicately position the little girl at her breast; reaching up to cup the back of the newborn's head.

"Drink up, Teddy," she instructed, although her greedy daughter needed no direction. "And I… I like to think that they're watching us, somehow. And that they're proud."

Flora did not know whether she was talking about her spirits or her dead parents, her revered Duncan or some strange amalgamation of them all.

"Of course they're proud," Alistair replied immediately, watching his daughter suckle with mingled tenderness and fascination.

"And you're proud of me?" Flora asked tentatively; seeking out validation from the person whose opinion she valued most of all in the world.

"Of course. Of _course._ Ah, my sweet girl- "

He pressed his lips to Flora's bare collarbone, soft and reverent.

She shot him a shy, delighted smile from the corner of her mouth, letting her head rest against his shoulder. They stayed in the same position for the next twenty minutes as the little girl greedily drank her fill; Alistair's arm tight around Flora's waist while she nestled contentedly into his side.

The afternoon crept on with gentle languor, spats of drizzles intermingling with anaemic fingers of sunlight filtering their way through the clouds. Castle Cousland sat with unusual stillness – the teyrn, in honour of both of his sister's safe return and the twins' birth, had given many of the household servants the day off. Several chose to stay in their private quarters, reclaiming the hours of sleep that been lost during the search for the queen. Most chose to walk down the wide, sloping road into Highever town; joining the celebrations that were still taking place in the taverns.

The chamber which had once housed a visiting Maric now played host to his son and grandchildren; the thick stone walls and heavy curtains proving effective barriers to the outside world. Flora slept for much of the afternoon, her body still exhausted from both the labour and the ordeal that had preceded it. The babies woke twice more, mewling their demands for food into the cedarwood-scented air. Once they had been fed, neither infant wanted to be put down; so queen took one and king another. Flora soon fell asleep again, slumped back against the cushions with Taron huddled on her chest. The baby's featherlight fingers wandered over her throat, grey eyes peering up curiously at their mother's bruised face.

Alistair took Theodora over to the table, keeping her nestled in an arm as he sat down before a pile of scrolls, rolls, books and stray sheets of parchment. Most were dusty and faded from age – it had been a long time since a Cousland had been born within the castle, and thus there was no demand for texts entitled _Traditional Fereldan Names and Their Meanings,_ or _Inspired By The Divines: Set Up Your Child For Greatness!_

While Theodora cooed and waved a chubby fist, Alistair began to pour through the possibilities. Most Fereldans shared a relatively small pool of names – habitual clusters tended to spring up in certain local communities, while cities saw more diversity. The king wondered, for a fleeting and wistful moment, who had given him his _own_ name. He had never asked Eamon before whether it had been his mother who mouthed the word _Alistair_ before slipping gently through the Veil; or perhaps it had been the old Theirin himself, issuing the instruction through letter to Eamon.

 _Maybe it was Eamon who named me,_ Alistair thought, hastily closing the cover of the Chantry-inspired book. _I'll have to ask him the next time I see him._

His daughter squeaked and the king bent down to nuzzle his chin very gently against her soft, downy head. The infant girl flung up a hand to grope at her father's face, her fingers brushing over the hair that still covered his jaw. Alistair had not quite finished shaving off the five days' growth, too distracted by wife and new babies. Theodora gave a grimace; she did not like the texture of the rough stubble.

"Sorry, sweeting," Alistair apologised, trying not to laugh at his daughter's perturbed expression. "I promise, I'll cut the rest of it off later."

He smiled down at her, and the little girl gazed back up at him with the solemn, pale stare of her mother. In response, the king let a thumb nudge against the chub of Theodora's rosy cheek; admiring the soft, warm _newness_ of her baby-skin. She flailed a clumsy arm in his direction and Alistair intercepted her fist, catching the tiny fingers with one of his own. The infant curled her fist around his finger and gripped it determinedly; squeezing with surprising strength.

Alistair had barely spent a day with his children, and yet with each moment that passed, he understood less and less how his own father had been able to forsake him. He gazed into his daughter's huge, solemn grey eyes; so utterly vulnerable and dependent, and thought that perhaps Maric had been a little mad.

"Alistair?"

The king's body responded before his mind even registered his wife's utterance, turning towards the bed within the span of a heartbeat. Flora, who had woken up from her nap, was yawning and fiddling idly with a strand of hair; Taron dozing gently away on her shoulder.

"My sweet wife," Alistair replied immediately, crossing the chamber in half the number of strides required from someone of lesser height. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," replied Flora honestly, shifting herself with a grimace against the pillows. "Would you comb my hair? It feels like… like two octopus fighting in a basket _."_

Alistair grinned down at her, lowering the sleepy Theodora into the crib as she yawned. Taron joined her a moment later, mouth slightly parted and one arm flung over his sister's chest.

"Maker, but I _missed_ you," he breathed, retrieving the bone-handled comb from the nearby nightstand. "And – wild hair and all - you're the most beautiful woman in Thedas."

"Hmmm!"

The weary Flora, tangle-headed, bruise-cheeked and feeling as though she'd been trampled by a herd of wild Fereldan Forders, eyed him with extreme dubiousness. Alistair chuckled at her expression, beginning to meticulously work the comb through the knotted strands of crimson.

"I mean it, baby," he murmured, taking care not to tug at her head as he de-tangled the knots. "You're a goddess. A gorgeous, indestructible goddess."

Flora shot a slightly anxious look up at the rafters, wondering if she were about to be blasted by some Maker-hurled thunderbolt for Alistair's blasphemous comment. When no divine retribution followed, she let herself pinken with shy pleasure at the complement.

"I love you," she whispered, tilting her head back onto his shoulder. Alistair reached up to caress her cheek; careful to avoid the bruise. The mark left by Beraht's callous backhand was still a deep violet, marring the unbroken creaminess of her complexion.

"I love you too, sweetheart."

Flora closed her eyes, yawning as the comb slid through her hair with quiet, even rhythm. Inexorably, after a few minutes, her head dropped forwards and a soft snore emerged. Alistair continued to brush through his wife's hair, touching each crimson strand as though it was a skein of precious, gossamer-light silk.

The queen did not sleep for more than a few minutes before she roused herself with a grunt, grimacing as she felt the soreness in her abdomen come flooding back. She noticed the piles of parchment and stacks of books on the table near the fire; many with several pages bent over to earmark them.

"Did you find their second names?" Flora asked, glancing into the crib to confirm that they were both still asleep. "Otherwise, it's going to be _Zesteogh."_

Alistair smiled, still in slight shock at his own good fortune.

"Actually, I did find a few possibilities," he replied, brushing his fingers affectionately over her forearm. "I looked for names that would honour our companions. So, for Theodora… I thought _Amity_ might work well. It's one of the old Chantry virtue-names – like _Chastity -_ but it means _friendship."_

"Theodora Amity," said Flora slowly, then smiled at him. "Meaning _friendship._ It's perfect _._ You're so _good_ at this!"

He smiled at her, irrationally delighted by her praise. His grin widened even further as she continued, shooting him a sly look from beneath her eyelashes.

"We'll have to have lots _more_ babies, so you can come up with names for them!"

 _But maybe not straight away,_ Flora thought even as she spoke, grimly recalling the twelve hours spent in labour.

It had been a light-hearted comment but the king of Ferelden still felt dampness prickling at the corners of his eyes; a throb of delight between his ribs.

"And for Taron," he continued, hastily. "I found a name that means _choice:_ Angus."

"That's a northern name!" squeaked Flora, enchanted. "Angus! There are seven _Anguses_ in Herring."

Even this doom-laden fact was not enough to put Alistair off.

"You approve, my love?"

"Mm," agreed Flora eagerly, thinking on how each of their companions had _chosen_ to join them on what must have seemed like an impossible mission. "They're _perfect._ _"_

Alistair grinned at her, delighted at such naked approval. Flora smiled sleepily back at him, reaching out to grip his hand and twine their fingers together.

"Spelling out their names will be a challenge for me," she mumbled, her brow furrowing as she tried to envision the twisted, curlicued forms of the Fereldan alphabet. "I need to review all my letters. I've neglected my studies over the past few weeks."

"You have been a little preoccupied!" Alistair immediately sought to reassure her, rubbing his broad thumb in circles over her knuckles. "We'll start up your lessons again soon, my love. You have to focus on feeling better."

Flora nodded, letting her head rest against the pillows as she yawned more deeply. For several minutes there was a comfortable silence, broken only by the rumble of flame in the hearth as it chewed through fresh cedar-wood. Alistair's wife let her fingers slacken as she slipped gently into sleep, her hand dropping into his lap.

Rage – sudden, hot and vitriolic - flashed over the king once again as he glimpsed the reddened chafe-marks on his queen's wrists. Unable to help himself, his gaze shot next to the bruising around Flora's eye; where the dead dwarf had possessed the sheer gall to _strike_ her _._ The urge to storm down to the cells and shove something sharp into the stomachs of both prisoners was overwhelming. Flora herself did not notice Alistair's quick, furious intake of breath. She had fallen asleep as quick as a child, still exhausted from both her recent ordeals.

Driven by the crimson heat of fury, Alistair unwound himself from his dozing wife and clambered to his feet. Already - in his mind's eye - he was picturing the Rivaini alchemist's head rolling in a bloodied smear across the cell floor.

Before he could take a single step towards the door, there came a soft squeak from the crib. Alistair stopped in his tracks; all thoughts of vengeance temporarily forgotten as he turned to attend to his children.

The little boy had woken up, eyes huge with fear at the absence of any parental figure within the limited bounds of his sight. His face contorted and his lips parted; a wail for attention rising in his throat. Alistair swooped forward and lifted his son from the crib, cradling the newborn against his chest and cupping the back of the small, round head.

"Hey," he murmured in the baby's ear, feeling tiny fingers grasp at his shirt. "I'm here, little one. No need to be scared. Shh, shh- let's not wake your mama up, hm?"

The infant boy snuffled at his father's chest, soothed by the low, comforting rumble of the words. Alistair continued to utter soft reassurance; letting the warmth of his breath whisper over the baby's skin.

"We're almost decided on your name," the king informed his son, watching the newborn yawn with a warm glow of pride. "I hope it meets with your approval. It seems odd that we don't get a choice in what our names are, really. Maybe we should get a chance to change them once we reach majority?"

Taron's eyes had closed, fingers gradually loosening on his father's shirt. Once Alistair was satisfied that the baby was properly mired in sleep, he replaced the little boy tenderly in the crib beside his sleeping sister.

"It's probably a good thing I didn't get the chance to change my name last year."

This came from Flora, who had woken up again after a particularly painful cramp in her shrinking womb.

"I would have changed it to Shrimparella," she continued, biting absentmindedly at a fingernail. "Or _Lobsteretta._ Or Crabbina."

"I like Crabbina," replied Alistair, feeling a small surge of dismay as he noticed the fading light between the curtains. Evening was drawing close; soon, he would be obligated to let in the others and his precious privacy with his new family would be over.

Flora was weaving thick bundles of hair into some semblance of a braid; though stray strands were already making bids for freedom, drooping around her ears like dangling seaweed.

"It would remind me of Herring," she said, a touch wistfully. "If I was called _Crabbina._ I thought that my Herring-parents had named me Flora, but it's just a nickname for _Florence_. My name is all Highever."

"Let's give Taron a second middle name, then," said Alistair, impulsive and yet utterly certain. "Pelegrín. After your dad."

Flora gazed at him, the heat of sudden tears burning at the corner of her eyes.

"Really?" she whispered, the word naked and hopeful. "After my dad?"

 _If he's the one that sowed the seeds of Herring grit in you, my love,_ Alistair thought to himself, fervently. _I – and Ferelden – owe him more than words could possibly say._

"Taron Angus Pelegrín," recited Alistair, determinedly. "It's decided. We can tell Fergus, and he can… let the scribes know. Or the clerks. Or, whoever records these things."

Flora reached forwards and gripped his hand, bowing her face against the back of his fingers. Wordlessly, she pressed her forehead against his knuckles, unable to speak. She would never have been so presumptuous as to request a tribute to her Herring-dad; but was touched behind belief that Alistair himself had suggested it.

The king slid his fingers between hers, clasping their hands together before bringing her wrist towards his face. He kissed her knuckles with tender reverence; trying to keep the trepidation from his voice with his next suggestion.

"We ought to have a Herring name for Theodora too," he said, bravely. "She can't have one less name than her brother. You choose it, sweetheart. My northern pearl."

Alistair then braced himself for the worst possibilities: _Mackerel, Pollock, Whitefin Tuna._

"Seashell," breathed Flora immediately, her earnest pale eyes settling on her husband's face. "I choose _Seashell."_

"Theodora Amity Seashell," replied the relieved king; it could have been _so much worse._ "Very pretty, my dear. Are we settled?"

Flora nodded, the corner of her mouth curving up in a smile.

"Yes," she said, shifting against the pillows to accommodate her aching belly. "It's decided. I think their names are _perfect."_

"Perfect names for perfect babies," repeated Alistair, the accompanying surge of pride thrilling him to the core. "Maker's Breath, Flo. I'm the happiest man in Thedas."

He drew her beneath his arm and she nestled contentedly against his chest, dropping her head to his shoulder. It must have been sheer coincidence; but the shape of their bodies seemed moulded to fit seamlessly against each other, the unapologetic breadth of his frame complementing the petite figure of his wife.

"I bet you thought I was going to choose something like _Glob_ - _Eel,"_ Flora whispered after a while, trying to suppress a cackle. "Didn't you?"

Alistair chuckled and remained silent, pressing his lips to the top of her head in a swift, affectionate gesture.

 _I've got to let the others in now,_ he thought, wistfully. _They want to see Flo and the babies, too. It isn't fair for me to be so selfish._

* * *

OOC Author Note: So we have Taron Angus Pelegrín, and Theodora Amity Seashell! Lol, I had to get a mad fish-based named in there somewhere, hehehe. I thought it was a nice idea to pay tribute to Flora's adoptive father – who instilled grit into his daughter, and taught her the quiet, determined stoicism that helped her get through the Blight. I also like the idea of Amity – it's one of those pretty Victorian virtue names, like Chastity, Verity, Hope, Grace – but meaning friendship, to honour their companions.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	181. New Companions Meet Old

Chapter 181: New Companions Meet Old

"Feel awake enough to see the others, darling?" Alistair murmured softly, savouring these last few moments of privacy between himself, his wife and their newborns. "I know they're eager to see you. They're probably scratching at the door."

Flora nodded, then darted out a quick hand to grab at his tunic before he could clamber upright. She reached up her arms and he ducked his head, and their lips came together in a swift and affectionate meeting. As with most of their kisses, the peck became more prolonged; he cupped her cheek in a callused palm and she parted her lips in blatant invitation.

When they parted, he was panting and she was a little wild-eyed; her nightgown slipping free from one shoulder.

"Shall I – shall I fetch the others?" Alistair croaked, checking surreptitiously that he was in an appropriate state to greet their companions.

A dazed Flora nodded, breathless and utterly conflicted. On the one hand: she missed her husband horribly and it had been over a _week_ since they had last lain together. On the other, although she had been healed _down there,_ it still felt incredibly sore and tender. It hurt even to shift position on the mattress, and she was unsure how it would feel to have her husband's not-inconsiderable manhood penetrate what had been so recently contorted by the passage of her children. In fact, the whole concept made her feel a little strange; and oddly apprehensive.

For the moment, the queen decided not to worry about it; eager instead to see her family and friends. She beamed, absent-mindedly pushing the nightgown back up on her shoulder as Alistair crossed to the chamber door. He ducked his head to converse with the guard waiting there, approving the entrance of others with a blunt nod. The king was still oddly reluctant to burst their little bubble of intimacy – which they only enjoyed on exceptionally rare occasions – but knew that he could not keep the door shut forever.

Alistair crossed to the table, where the servants had solicitously spread out the platters and bowls. He poured himself a flagon of ale, and was just reaching for the milk-jug when the door was nudged open in hesitant increments. Finian's face appeared at the crack, his face bright with anticipation despite the weary circle beneath his sole remaining eye.

"Can we come in?" he demanded in a hiss. In response, Flora gave a delighted squeak and held out her arms to her brother.

The new arl of Amaranthine strode across the chamber, stopping at the edge of the bed to embrace his sister in wordless relief. Flora clung to her brother, feeling the desperation and exultation in the grip of his fingers.

"Maker's Breath, Floss," Finian breathed, his throat constricting in a sudden swell of emotion. "What have you got against a quiet life, eh? Cavorting with dwarves, decapitating gang leaders – all while being the size of a small pony!"

Flora let out a half-sniffle, half-giggle; feeling the damp, crumpled silk of Finian's tunic. The fact that her fastidious brother had not changed his clothes in days reminded the queen how traumatic her abduction must have been for those left in her absence. She made no reply, but tightened her grip around her brother's shoulders, kissing him squarely on the puckered scarring across his cheek.

Meanwhile, the others had flooded into the chamber; caught between haste and the need to remain quiet. The presence of their youngest companions – the little, one day old twins – instilled them with delight and no small amount of relief. Wynne scuttled over to the crib and began to coo down at its occupants; who were dozing with their foreheads pressed together. Teagan went across to Alistair and clapped him on the back, murmuring quiet, earnest congratulations.

Fergus made a beeline straight for his sister; waiting for Finian to draw away before embracing her himself. She hugged him back as though they had been the closest of siblings for two decades; in her heart, Flora had assigned Finian and Fergus firmly in the role of _beloved family._

"Floss," the teyrn murmured, a distraught flicker passing across his face, "Can you ever forgive me?"

She blinked at him, thoroughly confused.

"Eh?"

Fergus half-smiled at his sister's northern vocalisation, though dismay still clouded the pale grey-blue of his eyes. He reached out and touched her cheek, careful to avoid the bruising.

"This is your home, pup. You should have been safe here. _I_ should have kept you safe."

Flora wondered if she would ever lose the instinctive urge to flinch whenever anybody described the fortress of Castle Cousland as her _home._ Instead, she reached out and put a hand on her brother's elbow; her pale eyes meeting his earnestly.

"You weren't to know that the Carta had broken into the old tunnels," she replied, ever practical. "And I shouldn't have gone wandering around lonely cellars in the dark, on my own. I… I think part of me still believes that I've got a shield."

Flora gave a self-depreciating shrug, acknowledging her own tendency towards recklessness. Fergus grimaced, but there was less self-blame in his face now; some of the tension wracking his body had eased with this absolution of guilt. Turning towards a lighter topic – he had, after all, promised Alistair that they would not discuss Flora's captivity until the morrow – the teyrn grinned, gesturing towards the crib.

"Congratulations. And well done, Floss – I don't think a Cousland has given birth outdoors since the _very early_ days of our dynasty! And I doubt _anyone_ has given birth on a beach, so that'll be a first for the family archives."

Finian, who had been watching his dozing niece and nephew like a hawk, had swooped in the moment that one of them yawned. The little girl was plucked into the air and nestled against her uncle's chest, blinking up at him bemusedly.

"What gorgeous little creatures," the arl murmured, admiring the fair swell of the baby's cheek and the plump, rosebud mouth. "Especially now that they aren't so red and squashed."

Flora snickered, able to acknowledge the truth in her brother's words even as Alistair's nostrils flared in loyal indignation.

"Though, there was no way they were going to be hideous," continued Finian fondly, admiring the soft, dark wisps of hair. "With those two as parents. Hello, little Finianetta! I'm your _uncle."_

" _Finianetta!"_ spluttered Alistair, almost choking on his ale. "That's not her name."

Wynne – who had scooped up the little prince the moment that his bleary eyes had opened – pounced with similar speed now that the issue had been raised.

"Have you thought about names, yet?" she asked, keeping her voice deliberately nonchalant. "The scribes are eager to fill in the blank spaces on their official announcements. Horsemen and hawkiers are waiting!"

Alistair and Flora both nodded in simultaneous, confident assuredness. The company waited with baited breath, gripped in throes of terror and trepidation. Whilst waiting to be admitted into the bedchamber, they had discussed the _worst case scenarios_ amongst themselves. Finian had struck fear into their collective hearts by suggesting _Crabcake Sharklord_ for the boy, and _Fishetta Barnacle_ for his sister.

"Taron Angus Pelegrín," Alistair said, unable to stop himself from beaming with pride. "And Theodora Amity Seashell."

There followed a sigh of such audible relief that it drew the attention of both babies, who squeaked and squirmed against the chests of their respective bearers.

"Fine names," breathed Fergus, surreptitiously wiping a drop of sweat from his forehead before making a gesture to a hovering secretary. "Send the message out, Ben. By raven to Denerim and Redcliffe, by horse to Amaranthine and… and to Herring. Also, out to Wardens' Vigil, the Circle- have I missed anywhere?"

"Orzammar," added Teagan. "And White River."

" _Seashell?!"_ hissed Finian to Wynne in the meantime, who gave a soft snort in response.

"It could have been much worse," she murmured, thinking of _Fishetta Barnacle._ "And remember; the mother is young."

Finian nodded, expression softening as he blew a kiss to his sleepy, contented sister. Theodora had begun to mouth hungrily at the front of his tunic, and he let out a squeal, noticing the trails of dribble.

"Aah! This is _Orlesian silk!"_ he reprimanded, simultaneously nuzzling his nose against her soft, dark head. "Albeit not in the best condition. I'm assuming this means you want some dinner, Theo? I won't be much help in that area, I'm afraid."

Flora, nightgown slithering from her shoulder, reached up to take the hungry girl in her arms; settling Theodora in her elbow. The baby clung to her breast greedily, seeking out the nipple with demanding lips.

"Finian," Flora whispered, tiny baby fingers creeping over her skin. "Where's Zevran?"

Finian gave a helpless shrug, a flicker passing across his fine-featured, lividly scarred face.

"Ferg and I stopped him from sticking a dagger into the ribs of that Rivaini with all the tattoos. Haven't seen him since. Has anyone else?"

There were head-shakes all round.

Flora grimaced, shooting a glance across at Alistair. Her husband was busy piling up food from the table onto a platter, propping a precarious stack of bread rolls with a foundation of cheese wedges. A small tomato slithered free from the mound and bounced across the flagstones, rolling towards the hearth.

Alistair, his mouth full of Fereldan cheddar, made his way back to the bed. He lowered the tray to the blankets before thrusting a pear towards his wife.

"Darling, eat this. You need to get your strength back."

Flora obediently took a bite of the pear, sweet juice dribbling down her chin.

"Alistair, nobody has seen Zevran for ages," she mumbled through a mouthful of fruit; anxious, pale eyes settling on his face. "I don't understand why he's not here."

Alistair nodded, swallowing the cheddar and turning to Fergus.

"Could you have someone look for him?" He then added in an undertone: "Though, if he doesn't want to be found, there's no chance. That elf can blend in like a bread roll in a bakery."

Flora, who had overheard the murmured comment, took a gloomy and overly large bite of the pear. Cold and sticky pear juice landed on Theodora's head; the baby's mouth detached from the nipple and her face crumpled in alarm.

"Sorry, baby!"

While the apologetic queen soothed her horrified daughter, Fergus reached out to put a hand on Alistair's shoulder.

"What else do you both need?" he asked, recalling with a pang of wistfulness how Oren had been handed off to nurses and nannies almost from birth. "Just name it and it'll be brought to you. All my resources are at your disposal. Do you… do you need a wetnurse? Or any servants?"

"We don't need any nurses or servants," replied Alistair, determinedly. "Thank you. But, if it's alright, there are a few other things- Lo?"

"Um," said Flora, brow creasing in thought. "Fresh linens, please. Some clean blankets. And a prawn platter."

"I'm assuming that's for you, Floss!"

"Yeeees! I've missed shellfish _so much._ I still can't believe the twins wouldn't let me eat it!"

A sticky-headed Theodora was handed to her father, who held her to his chest with yet another helpless grin of pride. Wynne, who had delivered the little boy to his mother for his turn at the breast, immediately swooped down on the king with a finger jabbed towards the dresser.

"Alistair, when are you going to get rid of that ghastly ornament? It's going to give the babies nightmares! And start breeding _flies."_

"I know!" Alistair hissed in agreement, patting his gurgling daughter between the shoulder-blades while eyeing Beraht's decapitated head balefully. "Flo's attached to it, for some reason. She wants it stuck on a spike above the Denerim Westgate."

"That's all well and good, but can't it be kept somewhere other than the _family bedchamber?"_

Alistair nodded, brushing his lips over the top of Theodora's downy head and wondering absentmindedly why she tasted _sweet._

"You're right. Sweetheart?"

"Eeeeeh?" Flora looked up from where she was feeding Taron, his little hand splayed like a starfish on her breast.

"I think the dwarf's head should be taken away and pickled in vinegar," he said, carefully. "You know, to preserve the features in all their… uh, glory."

Flora thought for a moment, then smiled vaguely at him.

"Mm, that's a good idea!"

Alistair and Wynne exchanged a look of relief; while a hovering Cousland retainer stepped forward to whisk the head into a bag.

Meanwhile, Flora roused herself with difficulty from a fog of drowsiness, blinking to clear the bleariness from her eyes. Finian and Fergus were conferring quietly in one corner; Wynne and Alistair fussed over Theodora's sticky head, dabbing gently at her with a napkin. Taron continued to draw hungrily from the breast, determined to get his fill. Teagan was leaning down to the table, scrawling out some hasty words on a sheet of parchment.

"Bann Teagan?"

The quill stopped partway through a sentence; the bann returned upright and turned towards the bed. He had _almost_ grown used to seeing the object of his shameful affection half-naked – Flora, in true Herring fashion, had no qualms about feeding her children in the company of others - but not _entirely._

 _She's suckling her son,_ the bann thought grimly to himself, unable to keep from admiring the contrast between the wine-red ropes of hair and the bare, creamy shoulder. _She's a mother, now._

Keeping his eyes fixed above the queen's throat, Teagan crossed the chamber and smiled down at her; reaching out to touch the back of the baby's chubby hand.

"You gave us all quite the scare, poppet," he said lightly, watching the little fingers curl into a fist in response. "Alistair, most of all. I hope that's the last time you're planning on getting abducted, hm?"

"Well," replied Flora gravely, settling her thoughtful, pale eyes on him. "I thought I'd make it a once-a-year thing. You know, like a special occasion."

Caught unexpected, Teagan laughed; not used to humour from this particular source. She smiled vaguely then patted the mattress with her free hand, gesturing for him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Bann Teagan- "

" _Teagan."_

"Mm," continued Flora, then lowered her voice. "I wanted to say sorry to you."

The bann shot her a bemused look as he sat on the mattress with a creak, auburn brows drawing close together in confusion. He had no idea what she was apologising to him personally for but was reasonably certain that there could be no valid reason for it.

"Petal, there's nothing- "

"There _was_ something," she said, stubborn in her insistence. "I put you in a terrible position, and I'm sorry."

Teagan did not understand what she was talking about, but was slightly mesmerised by the clear, silvered earnestness of her eyes; wide, grave and unblinking.

"Ahem – what?"

Flora lowered her voice, hunching forward over the feeding baby.

"Back at the Circle," she breathed, and immediately the bann knew what she was referring to: the promise that she had extracted from him to save the lives of the twins above her own. He flinched, and Flora noticed the slight, instinctive movement.

 _I asked him to potentially defy Alistair, to defy my brothers, all my friends. To be the man who let the Hero of Ferelden die._

"I'm sorry," she repeated anxiously, reaching out to put a hand on his elbow. "I shouldn't have placed a burden like that on you. It was unfair. Can you forgive me?"

Teagan was about to dismiss her concern in typical blasé fashion, waving off her apology with a smile and nonchalant comment; when instead he found himself nodding in quiet acknowledgement.

"It gave me a few sleepless nights, poppet," he admitted, thinking wryly that the pervasive, lustrous gaze was more effective at teasing out confession than any Chantry priestess. "Thank the Maker that the delivery went smoothly."

"Hm," said Flora, who was not sure whether _smooth_ would be her word of choice to describe the twelve-hour labour. "Yes. Ooh, are you done?"

This was not directed to Teagan, but to the little boy at her breast. He had pulled free and was smacking his lips; waving a small arm imperiously. Flora reached down to wipe her thumb gently over his mouth, smiling down at her son as he blinked up at her.

"Did you know that some fish have teeth on their tongues?" she breathed, lifting the baby to her shoulder and patting him. "I'm glad babies don't have teeth. Wait, when _do_ they get teeth? Will… will I get some warning? Will they just _pop out?"_

"Mabari pups get them at a month old," Teagan replied, reaching out to hold the baby's fat little foot gently. "By Andraste, but this one has the look of Alistair. I saw the lad when he was a week or so old – head of golden hair, and skin so brown he might have spent the past few months stripped to the waist taking in the harvest."

Flora beamed down at her son, who indeed had the olive skin of his father. Theodora was several few tones fairer; a shade more akin to Flora's own pale, northern complexion.

"When can I see my puppies? I want Cod and Lobster to meet the twins."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaaah, it's nice to have the twins meet their extended family! This was a nice chapter to write. Lol at Finian's reaction to Seashell…. But it could have been much worse, haha. Crabcake Sharklord! Hahaha. Now to introduce the puppies to the babies! Alistair has gone from having no family – save for a mentor – to having a wife, twins, and puppies, in just about a year, haha. Also wHEEre IS ZEVRraaaanan!? Flora will not be happy until he is found, lol. Ugh it took me so long to edit this because it was boiling today, we are having a heat wave (25 degrees C, which is a heatwave for us in Britain haha). Also I'm in mourning over my face, I put on fake tan (I am a natural redhead so I never tan Q_Q) and it's gone SO ORANGE. :( :( :(

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	182. More Reunions

Chapter 182: More Reunions

The company had just settled down for dinner in the royal couple's bedchamber, perching on bed, chairs and every available surface. There was a general sense of relief hanging in the air; like a great collective breath had been suddenly released. The dozing babies were nestled in their equally drowsy mother's arms, while Alistair perched on the edge of the bed and fed her bite-size pieces from his own plate. The teyrn, meanwhile, had headed down to the kennels to retrieve the young Mabari hounds. The puppies had somehow sensed that their mistress had been imperilled over the past week and had driven the kennel-master half-mad with incessant barks.

After a short while, there came a scrabble of paws against flagstones from the passageway, accompanied by a frenzy of yapping. They could hear Fergus trying to calm the pups, raising his voice over their desperate whines.

"Settle down! Settle, settle – there's pups even younger than _you_ in there, so calm yourselves! _Settle down,_ or I'll take you both back to the kennels!"

The door opened and Fergus appeared bent in half, gripping the two excitable pups by their collars in an effort to restrain them. Flora, unable to move from her sitting position against the cushions, beamed in delight.

"Cod! Lobster," she breathed, conscious of the dozing infants in her arms. "I _missed_ you."

The two Mabari went very still, their pale, dark-lined irises focusing on their mistress and the tiny creatures in her arms. In a heartbeat, their entire attitude shifted – the rambunctious yelps melted away, their short-stubbed tails slowly began to wag. Fergus let go of their collars and they approached the bed; a keen question in their intelligent eyes.

Flora sniffled, wishing that she could reach down to caress her puppies but unable to spare the arms. Alistair reached out to ruffle each sand-and-ochre head in turn, gesturing towards the bed.

"Cod, Lob, meet our children," he said, pride infusing each word. "When you're a little older, you'll be with them and my wife day and night."

The Mabari pups had grown tall enough to clamber onto the bed; which they did, with extreme carefulness. The mantle of duty seemed to have already settled on their velvet-furred shoulders, they carried their heads noticeably higher than they had done previously. Cod licked the tiny toes of Taron, who blinked blearily at this strange new creature manifesting within his undeveloped field of vision. Lobster snuffled at Theodora, who flailed a tiny arm and hit the little bitch square between the eyes. The exquisitely-bred dog did not flinch, but nuzzled the tiny girl's fingers with tender affection. Cod then settled herself with her head on her mistress' knee, while Lob lay at the edge of the blankets; suspiciously eyeing anyone who came near to this prized new litter.

When the Chantry bell in the distance rang out the ninth hour of evening, the teyrn decided that it was time to leave the royal couple in peace. Flora's head had dropped to Alistair's shoulder some time ago and the babes were curled together fast asleep in their crib, with Taron's small hand clutching his sister's shoulder. Alistair, near-delirious with happiness as he gazed down at his young family, shed several tears that had nothing to do with the ale he had consumed.

The last to leave, Fergus ducked to murmur in the king's ear; conscious not to disturb his snoring sister.

"Tomorrow morning, we'll have to ask Floss about her captivity. We need to start making plans to venture to this isle – Bryland and the division from the army will be arriving tomorrow, tide permitting."

Alistair nodded, darkness passing over his handsome face like a cloud across the sun. He took a deep breath – aware that he had to keep a restraint on his anger – and swallowed a knot of fury before replying.

"After she breaks her fast, then. I won't have her quizzed on an empty belly. Are Howe and the Rivaini still alive?"

"Aye, for now."

The two men exchanged a brief glance; painfully aware that they each had a clear motive to end the lives of the prisoners currently resident within Castle Cousland's dungeon. The fury felt by Alistair for the abduction of his wife was matched in equal measure by the teyrn; who was still in shock at this _second_ breach of the familial fortress within the span of a year. Already, quarriers had blocked up each of the old tunnels leading between town and castle; sealing their entrances with quicklime.

Fergus let out a soft sigh, the tension in his broad shoulders draining. He made as though to leave, then stopped and turned back towards the crib. Three paces took him to the foot of the infants' bed, where he stopped and rested his hands on the laurel-carved wood. The ornament crafted by the Chasind carpenter had been carefully fixed in place; intricate Mabari dangling from suspended strings. The teyrn gazed down at his sleeping niece and nephew - their lips parted and little faces peaceful – as a small, heavy sigh escaped his throat. It did not take a scholar to decipher Fergus' mind at that point. His thoughts were writ across his face plain as day, regret bruising his gaze like fallen fruit.

"Fergus?"

This came from the teyrn's sister, peering at Fergus from beneath her eyelashes.

"I thought you were asleep," he replied, softly. "You ought to be getting as much rest as you can, pup."

"Come back to Denerim with us," Flora whispered, impulsively. "Don't spend the winter here on your own. Stay in the Cousland quarters at the palace."

Now that Flora had been made a mother herself, she felt her brother's loss even more keenly. The thought of Fergus wandering the corridors where his family had been so cruelly slain made her breathless with horror. Although she did not know the exact day of Howe's treachery, she knew that it must not be far off.

A flicker passed across Fergus' face, an involuntary spasm of grief pulling at the corners of his mouth. He had been hundreds of miles away on the night that his family had been murdered; having followed Cailan's rallying cry all the way south to Ostagar.

"My wife's mind is set," Flora heard Alistair pipe up helpfully, and felt a surge of gratitude towards her husband. "She's got her most determined face on."

Fergus gazed down at his sister, her pale eyes meeting his with cool, stubborn expectation.

"Well, who am I to defy the Hero of Ferelden?" the teyrn agreed gravely at last, smiling at his sister's immediate beam of delight. "I've a capable steward here who can administer the teyrnir in my absence."

Before Fergus took his leave, Flora once again requested that Zevran be searched for. The queen was anxious about the well-being of their elven companion, whom she had last seen on the Highever beach the previous night. Fergus nodded – although he doubted that the elf would allow himself to be discovered before he was ready. The teyrn departed with a final reminder that _all_ his resources were at the couple's disposal – fresh blankets, bed-linens, wet nurses and nannies – and that he was only a chamber away should they need him.

The door was shut as much as the royal guard would countenance; left a fraction of an inch on the jar to satisfy their concerns. The soldiers were still furious over their own failure to protect the queen from the Carta – despite the fact that she had used a secret passageway to evade their pursuit just prior to her abduction. The fire in the hearth had been built up, and sweet-smelling rushes strewn around the bed. Various candles were lit and placed around the chamber; illuminating the stark elegance of the Fereldan décor in muted amber. There was a mural painted on one wall of a Mabari with a rabbit in its mouth. The flickering firelight almost made it seem as though its jaw was moving.

Alistair, holding his breath and intent on making no sudden movements, carefully shifted the crib alongside the bed. This meant that its slumbering occupants would now be within arms' reach of their mother, who was yawning and appeared on the verge of sleep herself. The king then pulled his tunic over his head before blowing out the candle on the table nearby, clambering into bed. His queen was propped up on an elbow – lying on her side took some of the ache from her belly – and gazing into the crib; utterly fascinated with the two little creatures nestled there. Taron was flat on his back with two fists flung above his head, while his dark-haired sister was curled like a dormouse against his side.

Alistair then positioned himself around his wife, tucking her head protectively beneath his chin before wrapping an arm around her hips. Flora pressed herself back against him, grateful for the solid, reassuring definition of his muscled chest against her back. Together, they stared at their children; still astonished by how neat and perfect their small bodies were.

 _Taron has the look of Alistair,_ Flora thought to herself, feeling a flare of fierce pride within her belly. _He's going to be so handsome._

 _They're both so new._

"Flo?" Alistair said after a moment, his voice sounding oddly constricted in her ear.

"Mm?"

"I'm – I'm so sorry that I didn't tell you about the Darkspawn left in Ferelden," he continued, the words coming out in a tangled, regretful rush. "I was just trying to protect you, but… but you ended up in danger anyway."

"It doesn't matter," Flora breathed, admiring the plumpness of Theodora's tiny toes. "It honestly doesn't, not anymore. Look at her fat little feet!"

As she spoke, the queen found that this was true; that, compared with the infants slumbering before them, it did _not_ matter in the slightest. Alistair took an unsteady breath, inhaling the clean, soapy smell of Flora's hair, then reached out to take her hand in his. Flora wound their fingers tightly together, impatient to sleep in her husband's arms for the first time in five days. From the moment that their commander had first taken her from the Circle, the two had never spent more than three days apart. Both Flora and Alistair had already decided inwardly that they would never be parted for longer than a single night again.

"How much sleep do you think we'll get before they wake up?" Flora whispered, feeling tender lips brush against her ear.

"Let's be optimistic and say three hours!"

"Ooh, that _is_ optimistic!"

Alistair smiled, canting his head over her shoulder to angle his gaze into the crib.

"Goodnight, Taron Angus Pelegrín and Theodora Amity Seashell," he murmured; pride infusing each word. "And my sweet, precious wife."

Three hours indeed turned out to be optimistic. Ninety minutes after both new parents had fallen asleep, Taron began to grizzle; his thin wail echoing to the rafters of the chamber. While Alistair single-handedly changed the damp blankets – _literally,_ since he had Theodora nestled in the crook of his arm – a yawning Flora fed their greedy son. Once Taron had been soothed, his sister demanded her own midnight snack. This whole process was repeated once again, just after the second bell had been rung.

"This reminds me of sleeping in a dormitory at the Circle," Flora whispered on this second occasion, ducking to kiss Theodora's dark wisps of hair. "We used to get woken up by Templar patrols all the time. I don't know why they needed to check us so frequently?"

"I remember doing those night patrols," replied Alistair, who had served a year as a junior Templar in the Jainen Circle just prior to his recruitment by Duncan. "We never got a reason for them. I assume to make sure nobody was practising blood magic under cover of darkness?"

Alistair snorted as he patted Taron between the shoulder-blades, aware of how ridiculous this sounded. The baby hiccuped and gurgled; one small fist grabbing a handful of the king's hair.

"He's very strong," Flora mumbled, watching her husband delicately try to pry his hair loose. "You wouldn't think such tiny fingers could be so… _grippy."_

The baby then let go of his own accord, yawning and blinking blearily. While a weary Flora slumped back in the pillows, Alistair took both infants and settled them back down in their crib. By the time that he had clambered back into bed, the queen was on the verge of sleep; face-down in the cushions with her hair spreading like spilled wine. The king drew his wife into his arms – carefully, since she was still tender – and kissed the top of her head, gentle as a babe.

"I'm the luckiest man in Thedas," he murmured, lifting an arm to allow her to nestle against his side. "This all feels like… like some reward from the Maker that I don't quite feel like I deserve."

Flora smiled up at him, just as dazed as her children, unable to gather the coherency required to reply. Instead, she let out a Herring-style grunt of fervent agreement, then pressed her lips against his forearm; the closest part of him she could reach.

The night meandered slowly on, while those still awake within Castle Cousland took pains to avoid all extraneous noise. Those servants whose duties took them to the family tower crept around, keeping their voices lowered to an unnecessary level. Fergus, determined that nothing else should happen to his sister beneath his roof, dozed in a chair at the end of the passage.

Alistair had also not allowed himself to fall into too deep a slumber, calling on old Templar habits. The first clue he received that somebody else was in the chamber was a slight shifting in the air; a draught skittering across the flagstones and disturbing the carefully strewn rushes. The second – far more blatant - sign was the sound of somebody colliding with a piece of furniture.

The king surged out of bed like a tigress leaping to the defence of her cubs, snatching up a carefully-placed blade and lunging into the shadows with a snarl. A moment later he let the sword drop from his hand, as though the hilt had become red-hot. The weapon fell to the flagstones with a clatter, and a wail of alarm immediately rose from the crib. A strangled breath escaped Alistair's throat; he closed his eyes and took a deep gulp of air.

" _Zev!_ Maker's Breath, I almost – I almost just _went_ for you. I thought you were Carta."

The king passed a trembling hand over his face, exhaling unsteadily. The cluster of guards beside the doorway – they had hurled themselves into the room with a clatter of boots – melted back into the corridor.

Flora, pushing herself up against the cushions with a grimace of discomfort, reached into the crib to retrieve her frightened son.

"Zevran," she breathed, not taking her eyes from the elf as she held Taron to her chest. "Zevran, where have you _been?"_

"Where _haven't_ I been, _querida?"_ retorted their Antivan companion, and there was a slurring edge to the familiar teasing tone. The elf's words collided together, the distinctions between them blurring in a manner that neither she nor Alistair had heard before.

" _Sí,_ I have been many places," continued the elf, taking an unsteady step towards the hearth and colliding with the table. A bottle of ale toppled onto its side and began disgorging its contents across the wood; an apple went rolling across the flagstones. "I have familiarised myself with each tavern in Highever. And quite a few bedchambers too – I hope your brother is not too cross with me. I cannot _help_ it; it is in my nature."

Taron, soothed by the warmth of his mother's skin, was looking distinctly sleepy and unbothered about the whole situation. Alistair and Flora glanced at one another; sharing a swift, wordless exchange.

 _Is he – is he drunk?_

 _He must be. I've never seen him bump into anything in his life._

The elf paused in a shaft of moonlight; the thinnest sliver of silver creeping between a gap in the shutters. The cool illumination aged him starkly, adding cavernous hollows to the cheekbones and bleaching all colour from the hair. He looked ascetic and oddly fragile, as though there was nothing of substance beneath the wan olive skin; like some filmy cover stretched taut over bone and air.

"Are you… alright, Zev?" asked the king warily, hearing the soft clink of a bottle within the elf's tunic. "Where were you earlier?"

"Everywhere except where I ought to have been," replied the elf, the bitterness raw and exposed as though some surface layer of restraint had been peeled away. "I was not there when your wife was dragged off by the Carta. I was not there to assist in her escape. So much for having a former Crow at your service, _eh?"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOOHHHH poor Zev! I feel so sorry for him. He's had a rough few days as well! Anyway, I enjoyed writing about the puppies meeting the babies. And I thought it was nice for Alistair to get some forgiveness about not telling Flora about the Darkspawn still left within Ferelden. In the face of all that's happened, she's just like 'it doesn't matter, not compared to this', haha. And poor FERGUS!

OMG EUROVISION TONIGHT! I actually am so excited, I LOVE Eurovision!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	183. An Absolution Of Guilt

Chapter 183: An Absolution Of Guilt

Alistair knew too well the emotions that the elf was feeling - the guilt, the horror and the rage. He himself had been ravaged by the wolves of trauma over the past week; the only difference was, his sanity had been saved by the birth of his children and the euphoria that had followed. Zevran had no such relief, he was still lingering in the depths of self-recrimination. The king glanced once more across at Flora, and knew that she too understood the cause of the elf's misery.

Flora pressed her lips to Taron's wispy, golden head – the baby was now fast asleep – then leaned over to replace him beside his sister in the crib. This movement was accompanied by a grimace; her abdomen still felt as though a herd of wild Ferelden Forders had stampeded across it.

"Zevran," the queen whispered as she returned upright, her pale eyes searching his face anxiously. "Zevran, come and sit with me."

In response, the elf withdrew a bottle from his coat and took a long gulp; flinching even as he swallowed.

"This fare is not the best I have ever had," he announced into the air; almost tripping over the bearskin before the window. "It tastes like the swill left in the remnants of the barrel. Still: I am… _hic! …_ sure it will suffice."

Zevran's movements – usually as precise and measured as a cat's – were equally blurred; he moved like one still mired in sleep. Alistair, who had just checked the water carafe and found it empty, headed towards the door. A steward immediately responded to the king's gentle knock, bowing at the request for something _non-alcoholic_ to drink.

Zevran paid no attention to the king's movements, each step a clumsy lurch forward. In usual circumstances, the elf was perfectly capable of keeping an eye on everything going on within his vicinity. Now, he appeared mired in fog; unfocused and erratic as a rudderless ship.

"Have you nothing else for me, _mi sirenita_?" he enquired, hiccuping midway through the question. "I desire obliteration tonight, and this is one way to achieve it."

Flora had no idea what _obliteration_ meant, but was certain that she did not want it for her friend. She pushed the blanket down over her thighs, wincing as her sore midriff gave a throb of protest. In addition to her aching belly, her weak knee was howling at the rough treatment it had received over the past few days. She was still weak from the exertions of labour and the stresses of the week; weariness rolling through her limbs like the incoming tide.

Still, her friend was in a state of distress, and the queen was determined to reach him. Flora dropped her bare feet awkwardly from the bed, pushed down against the floor and rose to a teetering stand. Her legs felt like eels, thin and jelly-like; her belly was constricted with a cramp that felt like tightening iron bars. Gritting her teeth, she managed three steps across the room before crumpling to her hands and knees on the flagstones with a grunt.

"Aah- "

Alistair, standing at the doorway, turned in alarm. Before he could move, the elf had darted forwards and crouched beside the grimacing queen, reaching out to grip her shoulders.

" _Carina."_

"I'm fine," croaked Flora, more embarrassed at her body's reluctance to obey basic instruction. "I'm fine, I'm just – still a bit stiff. And sore."

By that time Alistair had reached them, alarm writ across his handsome face. Together, both men helped Flora back onto the bed, where she sat with a grimace and took stock of her aching body. Without needing to be asked, Alistair lowered himself to the flagstones and lifted her nightgown up her thighs, working at the leather strap to attend to the neglected knee.

Zevran also felt slender fingers wrap themselves around his wrist as he stood beside the bed. Flora had taken advantage of the elf's proximity to anchor him to her, turning grave, pale eyes up to his face.

"Sit with me," she whispered, imploring. "Here, here- "

She patted the blanket with her hand, hopefully. Zevran hesitated, nervous as a cat in new territory; eyes flickering towards the door.

" _Querida,_ I am not in a fit state to be around you," he murmured, made morose by both alcohol and guilt. "Allow me to drown my sorrows in a manner accepted by society."

In response Flora put her arm around his waist; adding another layer of dissuasion.

"But you've never left me," she replied, earnest and anxious. "Don't do it now."

Zevran let out a low exhalation, the temporary numbing of the alcohol fading away to reveal the raw emotion below. He was not looking at her; gazing instead sightlessly into the shadow. The fingers of his left hand curled and opened compulsively, as though attempting to grasp the hilt of some invisible weapon.

Noticing this nervous movement Flora reached out her free hand and captured his palm in his, winding their fingers together in her strong, fisherman's-daughter grip.

"Yet I was not there when it mattered. Was I, _carina?"_

The admittance was low and bitter, directed to the flagstones rather than to her face. Flora blinked at her companion, then gave his palm a firm squeeze of reassurance.

"Yes, you were," she breathed, feeling the deft, coffee-toned fingers twitch in confusion. "You _were_ there, Zevran."

" _Carina,_ I am sure I would remember coming to your defence on an isle of Carta dwarves!"

In response, Flora unwound their fingers and reached out to the cabinet beside the bed. Like most items of furniture within Castle Cousland, it was old and well-crafted; hewn from a single block of solid Marcher oak. She pried open the door – the wood had warped slightly with age – and retrieved something from within.

Zevran's dark gaze settled on the object now grasped expertly within the queen's fist. It was a descaling blade, several inches in length; covered from blade-tip to hilt in crimson, coagulated matter. She held it like the hand of an old friend, flakes of scarlet dislodged with each idle caress. The elf eyed it as a crease worked its way across his brow; joining lines so fine and fragile that they were only discernible on the closest of inspections.

"What is that, _Florencia?"_

Flora turned the blade over in her palm, tracing the bland and unremarkable contour of the handle with an affectionate fingertip.

"I'm surprised you don't recognise it," she whispered, watching a flake of Beraht's blood drift slowly to the flagstones. "You and I spent hours with a blade just like this one. Remember?"

 _You see, carina? You must learn to think of these tools as having a dual purpose. The hook can snag a man's eye, as well as snare a fish. The descaling blade can slice through flesh just as easily as it can strip the scales._

 _I know you are tired, amor. Just a little longer; this may save your life one day. Come at me once more with the blade._

 _Don't block with your face!_

Zevran gave a slow nod, his expression carefully blank, and yet there was a distinct flicker of emotion lodged deep within the dark gaze. They had spent at least two dozen evenings over the past few months re-purposing the tools of the Herring trade as weapons; elf had shown exquisite and unusual patience in teaching Flora how to wield each basic implement as a weapon.

"I… I remember, _carina."_

"Well, I killed the leader of the Carta with this blade," Flora continued, wondering if the dwarf's head had been successfully pickled yet. "I killed him in a single blow, just as you taught me."

He glanced sideways at her and she seized the opportunity; relying on the soft, throaty and utterly distinct cadence of her lowborn voice to capture his attention.

"I didn't hesitate, Zevran; I struck swift and true. You would have been proud of your student."

The elf lowered his head to her shoulder and let out a great, long breath, the absolution of her words washing over him like a cooling wave. Flora reached up to cradle the back of his head, holding it against the bare skin of her shoulder. She felt his breathing slow, the tension in his fingers melt away; he murmured something soft and indistinguishable in Antivan. She let her head drop against his, peaceful as two children sitting together in some elder's tale.

A servant arrived with a tray in the entrance, head bowed decorously. Alistair finished tightening the strap around Flora's knee, then rose to his feet and went to collect the tray. He came back with a wry smile, holding the silver platter before him. It contained not only three carafes of water, but several bowls of possible augments: rose petals, slices of lemon, honey in a ceramic bowl. One carafe contained water that was hot to the touch, while its partners held water of middling and cool temperatures.

"I only asked for water," the king said, somewhat self-consciously. "Maker's Breath! We aren't _Orlesian."_

He, who knew Zevran almost as well as Flora, poured a beaker of the cold water and added a few slices of lemon.

"I'm afraid this isn't plucked from the branches of some tree in sunny Antiva City," Alistair continued; offering the beaker to the elf. "I've no idea where they grow lemons in Ferelden. Probably in some mage Circle, honestly!"

Zevran raised his head and received the beaker with a murmur of gratitude, taking small and measured sips. Flora darted a shy, grateful smile up at her husband; lifting her foot to brush her bare toes affectionately against his knee. Alistair knelt swift as a knight before his lady; gripping her foot in his hand and pressing his lips to her toes. He inhaled the scent of skin and soap, feeling the even throb of her pulse in the arch of the sole.

"Zevran, meet the babies properly," Flora whispered, trying not to cackle as her husband's breath whispered over the sensitive skin. "They have _names_ now."

Alistair dutifully rose to his feet and went to the crib. With fortunate timing Taron had just woken up, grimacing and blinking blearily into the warm, cedar-scented air. His sister was still asleep beneath the blanket beside him, her tiny fists flung up beside her head.

"Hello, little chap," the king murmured, reaching down to lift the baby gently against his chest. "Come and meet your other uncle."

Zevran had been about to speak, but was struck into silence by Alistair's comment; the words arrested in his throat as though tangled in fishing line. The elf reached up to receive the little boy with extraordinary delicacy, suddenly as sober as a Chantry Mother, cradling the baby in an arm. Taron anchored himself to the elf by winding tiny fingers around a strand of silver-blond hair, gazing bemusedly up at the tan, tattooed face above him.

Zevran had not held a baby since his childhood in the Antivan brothel, before the killings and before the Crows. He gazed down at the little boy - taking in the olive skin, the golden wisps of hair, the thoughtful grey eyes - and drew in an unsteady gulp of air. The baby continued to grip the strand of hair in a strong, chubby fist; letting out a contemplative gurgle.

" _Hermoso niño,"_ the elf murmured, smiling down at the infant with a sudden sheen to his dark eyes. "Look how big and handsome you are. He'll have your height, _papi."_

"That's what Wynne said," replied the proud father, reaching out to brush a thumb over the tiny brown toes. "His name is Taron Angus Pelegrín."

" _Taron Angus Pelegrín_ ," replied Zevran, the name sounding far more exotic on his far-shored tongue. "A fine name. Ah, _hola, bebé."_

The little boy was gazing up at the elf, wide-eyed and curious; the grey irises as round as silver coins. He hiccuped and then grimaced, not particularly enamoured with the peculiar sound that had just emerged from his own throat. Zevran smiled – it was hard to resist the unique charm of a newborn infant – and stroked the plump arm with a thumb.

"How are you feeling, _carina?"_ the elf asked then, his gaze sliding sideways to the new mother. He caught Flora mid-yawn, new dark circles beneath her eyes to match the bruising around the brow.

"Fi-ine," she replied, the word distorted by the motion of her mouth. "Tired. But I'm happy."

The little boy began to gum wetly at the front of Zevran's tunic, brow furrowing as he received no succour. Zevran hastily passed him over to his mother, who let the nightgown slither off her shoulder as she drew her knees upwards.

"I am glad that you are happy, _mi sirenita,"_ the elf murmured, half- watching Alistair heading towards the crib in response to a petulant squeak. "After all that you have been through, and all that you have _done._ You deserve to be happy."

Keeping Taron in place with an arm, Flora leaned forward and let her fingers settle on the side of her friend's face; stroking the faded tattooed stripe with a familiar thumb.

"So do you," she whispered, quiet and earnest. "My dear friend."

Zevran gazed at her for a long, painful moment, then let out a soft exhalation as another warm bundle was placed in his arms. Theodora was yawning, her little fingertips brushing over her own face; wide, pale eyes in stark contrast to the downy, coal-black wisps of hair curling about her ears.

"Ah," said the elf, pleased. "Isn't she a little beauty? She's a big one, too."

"Mab – the midwife – said that she'd be as tall as her brother," Alistair chipped in, proudly. "I've no idea how she can tell, mind you, but I suppose if they've inherited my height…"

"I'll be the odd one out," muttered Flora darkly, cupping the back of Taron's head. "Like a shrimp amidst a gang of majestic lobsters."

Zevran smiled down at the baby, who peered back up at him with huge, grave-eyed solemnity. Her eyelashes were remarkably long and dark, in contrast to the fairness of her pink-cheeked skin.

"She's got your unamused stare, _querida;_ I feel as though I need to make my confession. What is she called?"

"Theodora Amity Seashell," said Alistair, watching his daughter kick her fat little feet.

" _Téadora,"_ repeated Zevran, waving elegant fingers above the baby's face to make her look. _"Mi conchita."_

For several minutes the five of them sat together in contented silence; the prince suckling from his mother, his sister drifting off within the elf's arms; the king sitting cross-legged on the flagstones and fit-to-burst with happiness. Once the fourth bell rang in the distance – its sound muffled, by order of the teyrn – Zevran roused himself with great reluctance.

"I ought to go," he murmured, passing Theodora carefully to her father. "You should claim as much precious sleep as you can. I am sorry for disturbing you."

"Where are you going to go?" demanded the sleepy Flora, suddenly frightened that her elven friend might melt away like a shadow at dawn. "You aren't _leaving?"_

"Just down the hall, _mi florita,"_ the elf assured her, softly so not to wake the infants. "Trust me, I will not be going anywhere. I have unfinished business with your abductors."

Flora gave a little twist of the mouth, her eyes huge and imploring. Zevran leaned in close – over the dozing babe at her breast – and she pressed her lips firmly to his cheek.

"See you in the morning," she whispered, stifling a yawn. "Come and break your fast with us. Fergus has promised me a prawn platter!"

Zevran flashed her a quick smile, before sliding from the bed lithe and graceful as a cat, with no hint of imbalance. He ruffled Alistair's head with deft, amused fingers before sauntering towards the door. Flora watched her friend as he left; pleased that he no longer walked as though struggling with some great and unwieldy burden.

"I wish I could sober up that quickly," Alistair observed, rising to his feet with Theodora nestled in the crook of an arm. "Think we could get a quick nap in before the others arrive to break their fast?"

His queen nodded, yawning in synchronous motion with Taron.

"Yee-eees!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aaahhh I've been in such a Eurovision mood all week! The final last night was amazing, my husband and I watched it for 4 hours straight (including the cringy interval and the scoring). The UK didn't come last, hahaha! Hurray! Though we never do well in Eurovision :P I think the last time we won was in the 1990s?

Anyway, I needed to bring Zev back and reconcile him because I felt so sorry for him awwghhhhh he's such a sympathetic character. At least Flora was able to persuade him that he did help her by training her with the fishing tools. Apologies for any dodgy Spanish, I am relying purely on Google translate, lol!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	184. The Queen Recalls Her Abduction

Chapter 184: The Queen Recalls Her Abduction

The teyrn of Highever, once the initial euphoria of the twins' arrival had dimmed, was once more consumed by the need to take vengeance against his sister's abductors. Fergus had woken before dawn, drenched in sweat and bellowing incoherent rage at shadowy, dwarf-shaped figures. Two of his knights had rushed in with swords drawn, only to be met with a terse dismissal.

One of the men lingered on the doorstep, fingers running compulsively over the hilt of his blade.

"My lord, when will we be setting sail? We are eager to lay siege to this smuggler's isle and avenge the lady Cousland's honour!"

"Aye," replied Fergus, still half-seeing dwarven silhouettes behind the curtains. "We need to find out where it is, first. I'll speak with my sister this morning."

By the time that the teyrn had bathed, shaved and dressed, the eighth bell had rung and Castle Cousland was starting to come alive around him. The bakers had worked through the night to prepare an abundance of fresh bread for the breaking of the fast, and now exchanged their places with the yawning kitchen servants. Many were a little worse for wear that morning; unable to resist a second night of celebrating a new generation of Couslands. Fergus had already inwardly decided to name his little niece as his heir – Theodora would not be queen, but she would grow up to become the teyrna of Ferelden's largest province.

Fergus could barely concentrate on the fare brought up for his breakfast; though the bread was still warm from the oven and the jam full of plump blackcurrants from Highever's own bushes. His mind was full of dwarves and secret islands, and tunnels snaking into the shadows. The teyrn ate without enjoying a single bite, fingers clenching around the handle of his butter-knife. He had no idea what time newborns woke in the morning – Oren had been cared for by a wetnurse – and so did not know when it would be appropriate to visit the new parents. Eventually, just before the ninth bell, Fergus stopped pacing the confines of his room and began the short journey to the king's quarters.

The dozen Royal Guard greeted him with a slight inclination of the head; several Cousland retainers also milled in the corridors. The door to the chamber was open, and voices echoed from within.

"Pull it tighter, tighter, tighter!"

"It's not going to work, Flossie!"

" _Yes it is,"_ came the returning growl. "I seen – _I've seen_ women doing this in Herring before."

"With _two babies?"_

"With one baby and a bag of lobsters!"

"It's not going to work, my lamb!"

" _YES IT IS!"_

Fergus entered the chamber with some trepidation. The curtains were drawn back, dust dancing in the beams of light spilling through the leaded windows. The bed was a tangle of blankets and sheets, there were linens strewn over the floor; a large bowl was toppled with most of its watery contents spilled over the flagstones. Cod and Lobster immediately scampered across the flagstones to take up a position before the crib, one lying before the other. Despite their youth, the clever pups were already aware of their eventual responsibilities.

Their mistress was standing at the foot of the bed in her nightgown, with the mustard dressing robe worn over the top. Alistair had his hands on her to keep her steady – Flora did not look entirely used to being upright – and Finian was tugging at the end of a long swathe of navy linen. The linen was wrapped around Flora's waist and her shoulders, intricately wound so that the two babies were nestled against her chest, facing one another. Zevran was perched on a nearby cabinet, looking a little worn around the edges after his own night of distractions. He was in the middle of downing a flagon of water; his third of the morning.

As Fergus watched – in slight bemusement – a sweating Finian successfully managed to knot the ends of the linen cloth together behind his sister's back. The arl let out a crow of triumph, stepping back to survey his work. Both he and Flora were red faced and panting with effort, but between them they had managed to successfully secure the dozing twins to her breast.

"Well, would you look at that!" Finian observed, breathlessly. "You were right. They look like peas in a pod."

Flora beamed, taking an unsteady step forwards as Alistair held her elbow in a vicelike grip.

"Ladies in Herring don't lie around all day after they give birth," she replied firmly, pressing her lips to each gilded and dusky head in turn. "And they don't leave their children to cry alone in the huts. They take them out with them."

"There are no _ladies_ in Herring," Finian murmured under his breath to Zevran, who gave a low cackle.

"Floss, are you sure you should be up yet?" Fergus asked, his blue-grey eyes anxious. "You only gave birth a few days ago. Nobody would begrudge you staying in bed a while longer."

"That's what _I_ said," interjected Alistair, sliding his arm around his wife's waist to provide greater support. "I told Flo that I'd have anything she wanted brought up to her. I even offered to _carry_ you around the castle, my love!"

"I know," replied Flora, letting idle fingers trace her husband's strong knuckles. "But I feel like I can get up and walk around. I'll let you know if I get too tired. I just really want to break my fast somewhere else!"

She twisted her face up to Alistair, eyes quietly imploring. Alistair, who knew Flora's subtle nuances better than anyone save for perhaps her Herring-dad, understood that his wife did not like the thought of being confined. He assumed perhaps it was some leftover instinct from her years at the Circle; she had reacted with similar alarm at the prospect of being entrapped within Revanloch monastery.

"Alright, sweetheart," he said, ducking to kiss the top of her tousled, crimson head. "But we're going to go slow and steady."

Flora nodded, took a single step and then gave a little grimace. Clutching Alistair's elbow, she made another valiant attempt at a step. This time, the queen flinched as though struck; inhaling a small, sharp breath.

"Oh- ouch."

"I think another day spent resting would be best, Florence."

This new voice came from Wynne, who looked fresh-faced and bright-eyed from a full night of uninterrupted sleep. The senior enchanter was standing in the doorway, arms folded and a gentle reprimand in her gaze.

"But… but – you _healed_ me!"

"Your body needs to compensate for the blood lost during the birth," the elderly mage continued, letting the door shut behind her as she entered. "And it needs to replenish its own natural vitality."

"Oh," repeated Flora, half-petulant and half-plaintive. "I wish – I wish I could still- "

 _I wish I could still rejuvenate with a single exhalation. I was never tired during the Blight because I could infuse myself with energy by taking a simple breath._

She trailed off, and although she had not spoken the words out loud; they echoed in the minds of all those present as clear as if they had emerged from her lips. Alistair, mouth twisting in sympathy, guided his wife carefully back to the edge of the bed. As Flora sat down, shoulders hunched and head bowed, he began to unwrap the length of linen from her upper body. As they felt themselves separate from their mother's warm chest, both infants began to let out squawks of distress. Alistair hastily handed off each twin to an uncle; focusing his attention instead on his despondent queen.

Shifting position on the mattress, he drew Flora's legs over his thighs and leaned forward to murmur comfort into her ear. The exact words spoken by the king were unintelligible to the others – they were probably simple, earnest assurances that she was going to be _absolutely fine,_ that she would feel _much better_ tomorrow. Flora listened as avidly as a Chantry priestess receiving some lost verse of the Chant, her focus entirely on her best friend's low, articulate reassurance. Every so often she would sniffle and give a little nod, her fingers pleating folds in the blanket.

Eventually, Alistair kissed the top of his wife's crimson head and patted her thigh; giving her a smile of encouragement. Flora curled the corner of her mouth gratefully at him in response – then wiped her nose on her mustard wool sleeve and looked towards her eldest brother.

"I'll answer any question you have after we break our fast," she whispered, watching Fergus try to extract a strand of auburn hair from Taron's plump fingers. "And then if you bring a map, I'll show you where the island is."

In an effort to cheer the queen up, the curtains were tied back and the shutters opened; the windows in their wooden frames flung open to their greatest extension. It was a fine and clear autumnal day, and the sky was the strange muddy grey of a painter's water-pot. The salt-laced breeze whispered through the open windows, carrying the scent of sea into the furthest reaches of the chamber.

The light and fresh air did cheer Flora up – it had been the room's shadowed stuffiness that she had disliked as much as anything. It had reminded her of summer days trapped within the Circle, where dripping icicles were conjured in the corners to compensate for the lack of openable windows and fresh air. Her companions each found a place to perch within the chamber– on the bed, within the armchairs, leaning against the dresser – and the servants hastily relocated the food prepared for the royal guests' breakfast.

As though aware that the following hours would be traumatic – nobody was looking forward to hearing what the queen had endured in captivity – Zevran manfully volunteered to be the meal's entertainment. With bardic skill, he amused them with a story about one of his conquests from the previous night; a man with a clip-on extension to his beard that had come off unexpectedly in the middle of the act. Finian had almost wet himself laughing; Wynne smiled benevolently; Teagan and Fergus looked entirely bemused.

"The best thing was – it was an _entirely different shade_ of brown to his normal hair!" the elf crowed, swallowing an incredulous handful of grapes. "And yet he was trying to pretend as though it were his own beard. He accused _me_ of ripping it from his skin, and demanded compensation!"

Alistair, with his son nestled in the crook of his elbow, leaned back against the pillows and took a bite of a bread roll. He had given up on trying to cut the cold ham one-handedly; instead choosing foods that required no preparation. Taron watched his father eat with a mixture of fascination and confusion; grey eyes following the movement of hand to mouth.

Flora, meanwhile, was inhaling deep gulps of northern air while cuddling her daughter, who was sleepy after her own breakfast. The little girl's fingers explored her mother's collarbone, while the queen half-listened to Zevran's story. She was preoccupied with arranging the events of the past week into logical order – much of her abduction had blurred into a tangle of happenings – and she was aware how important it was to relate the experience accurately. Flora could also feel the tenseness in her husband's body as he leaned against the cushions beside her.

 _I hope he doesn't want to go charging off the moment that he hears what happened,_ she thought gloomily to herself. _I don't want him to go. I want him to stay here._

Finally, the last bread roll had been taken and the final piece of fruit swallowed; nerves had been steeled in preparation to hear the details of the queen's abduction. To Alistair's relief, the twins had both fallen asleep and been placed in their crib – despite their lack of comprehension, he did not want them to hear what their mother had endured in the days before their birth.

As the servants cleared away the breakfast trays and empty bowls, other retainers made a quiet entrance. Despite the broad dimensions of the chamber, it now seemed oddly crowded. Several Cousland knights – who would be taking part in the retribution effort – bowed to the royal couple before positioning themselves beside the walls. A gaggle of secretaries and a scribe followed them in, clutching parchment, quills and ink-pots. One man held a rolled-up map the height of a man's arm.

Flora was used to such officious crowds; servants, retainers and knights had become part of the background to her daily life. She crossed her legs and leaned back against the cushions, fiddling absentmindedly with a fraying thread from her mustard-coloured sleeve. Alistair sat beside her with his fingers wrapped around her arm. gripping his wife as though she might be torn away from him once again. There was no youthful lightness to his expression; only a coarse, clench-jawed stoicism. The king was clearly not looking forward to hearing the details of his wife's incarceration; simultaneously, he wanted to learn every indignity that she had been subjected to so that his avenging blade would carry more weight.

The door was closed against the castle noise, the secretaries and scribes positioned themselves unobtrusively at surfaces that they could use as makeshift desks. Flora's companions stood around the room, and more than one person had their fingers running compulsively along the hilt of their blade.

"Floss," said Fergus at last, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. "Whenever… whenever you're ready."

"Where should I begin?" asked Flora, hastily letting go of the loose thread as it began to unravel the end of her sleeve. "When I woke up?"

"Aye, pup."

With customary northern bluntness, Flora methodically went through the two days of her capture that she was able to recall. The three days that she had spent in drug-induced slumber were naturally still a blur; she suggested helpfully that Nathaniel Howe might be able to provide some more details. The queen then narrowed her eyes and asked if Howe was still alive, exhaling in relief when her brother replied in the affirmative.

"Then Beraht brought me out onto the deck of the ship and said that he was going to hold an auction for me," Flora continued, feeling strangely detached from the experiences that she was describing.

 _It's as though those days happened to someone else._

 _Is it because I've had the babies now? Has my life been divided into two phases: Before Twins and After Twins?_

Preoccupied with her own thoughts Flora had not realised that the chamber had gone very silent. She continued onwards naively, without registering the reaction that her words had made.

"Beraht said that the auction bidders would be arriving at the end of the week. And that he would make a good profit off me, and an even better one for the twins- "

There was a sudden, cacophonous crash as a platter of tableware went flying across the chamber; glass shattering, silverware clattering across the flagstones, a beaker rolling beneath the dresser. Everybody froze, their eyes swivelling in synchronous motion towards Alistair. The king had risen to his feet and hurled the tray in a single fluid motion; his usually kind face transformed into a pulse of pure, white-hot rage. Cod let out a low whine of distress; the fur on the back of Lobster's neck rose.

Flora eyed her quivering husband and decided that she would _not_ mention Beraht's threat to cut the unborn children from her belly. She did not put it past Alistair – in his current state - to retrieve the dwarf's pickled head and bludgeon it into splinters of flesh and bone.

Teagan was the first to react, stepping forward and putting a hand on Alistair's arm.

"Calm down, son," he murmured, softly. "The dwarf is dead. He can do no harm to her."

By some miracle, the twins had not been woken by their father's fit of temper. The others in the chamber eyed the king, horrified themselves but acknowledging that his anger took precedence. Fergus' fingers were clenching into fists with purposeful repetition; as though desperate to drive them into the face of some invisible oppressor. Finian, whose lone eye was perceptive enough to see his brother's temporary incapacity, cleared his throat.

"Who could hope to put a price on your head, pet? There's not enough coins in the world."

"Do you remember who else held authority in this plot?" Zevran interjected, the query emerging low and deliberate. The elf's anger manifested in a colder variant than Alistair's heated fury; it showed itself as a deadly promise that all whom she named would not live to see the week's end.

Flora nodded, still watching her pacing husband as he trod the flagstones like a caged Mabari.

"There was one named Leske," she said, recalling the squat, dark-haired dwarf with faded brandings on his face. "He was Beraht's second-in-command, he had patterns on his face. I suppose he'd be their leader, now."

"How did you escape?"

This question came from Wynne, who had moved beside the crib to check that the babies had not been woken by their father's outburst.

Flora cast her mind back several days prior – it seemed like a lifetime ago – and summoned the memory of the squalid cell. Unlike the rest of her captivity, this particular recollection stood out as bright and sharp as a new-forged blade.

"They made the mistake of binding my wrists with _rope,"_ she said, needing to offer no further explanation. All present were more than aware of their Herring native's aptitude with knots; a proficiency that originated not from any birth-talent but from a decade of daily practice.

"I'd found a fisherman's pouch in the hold of the ship already," the queen continued, reflexively glancing towards the drawer in which the descaling blade lay. Finian – seeing the gory weapon in all its glory as he entered that morning – had squawked and demanded that it be hidden.

"And that was where you found your weapon. How did you get him in the right position to take the blow, _carina?"_ the elf asked, softly.

Alistair stopped in his pacing, tilting his head towards his wife. For a brief moment, he appeared every inch the agonised husband he had been the past week; whose wife and unborn children had been cruelly snatched from him.

"I pretended that the twins were coming," Flora said, parting her thighs to illustrate while grabbing a cushion. "I howled like a _furious beast of the seas._ To lure him in."

The others listened with a sort of appalled fascination writ across their faces; all eyes focused on their queen as she clutched the cushion meant to represent the dwarf.

"It was a performance worthy of the Highever players," she continued, earnestly. "Maybe I could have a role the next time that they perform their pageant."

 _Not the starring role,_ she thought to herself, remembering the six-foot-tall woman's glamorous and terrifying portrayal of _Florence Cousland._

 _No, I could be a bit part. Maybe a supporting extra? I could be… a soldier helping in the final battle._

Flora forced herself from such fantasy, retuning to the scene within the stone-walled cell.

"Then, when Beraht knelt to see… to see what was going on – to see how much in labour I was- "

The queen brought the cushion between her thighs but did not want to actually _damage_ it by using the situation's authentic weapon. Instead, she reached for a spoon that had been flung to the blankets by Alistair's fit of temper. Raising the spoon, she stabbed the cushion in its plump, embroidered back; recalling how her blade had slithered between the white, interlocked segments of Beraht's spine, severing the bundle of twisted, fibrous strands within and killing him in the span of a heartbeat.

 _I didn't hesitate, did I?_

 _Not for a second. The moment that he threatened to cut out my children and sell them to the highest bidder; he forfeited his right to live._

"I think that the Carta expected _me_ to be scared of _them,"_ she continued, absentmindedly bringing the spoon to her mouth and licking off a smear of porridge. "But that was their mistake. Why should _I_ be scared?"

The queen glanced towards the newborn twins; who had been nestled snug inside her belly for the duration of her captivity.

 _I protected my little creatures from Darkspawn, from assassins, from all the terrible fury of the Archdemon._

 _No dwarf was ever going to lay a finger on them._

" _I_ was the scariest thing on that island," Flora continued, measured and thoughtful. " _They_ should have been scared of _me."_

Alistair returned to his wife's side, ducking his head to press his lips to her hair. Flora could feel him quivering, the anger still running hot and vitriolic within his veins. She reached up to grip his fingers tightly; he brought them to his mouth to press a fevered kiss to her knuckles.

"My brave wife."

"I did what any mother would do," she whispered back, watching his lips brush intimately over her fingers as though they were alone in the chamber.

He nodded wordlessly, peering into her eyes as though they contained the lost books of the Chant. Flora stared back up at him, mouth part-open; returning a gaze known so intimately that she could accurately describe the size, shape and location of each piercing green fleck within his irises.

"And then Morrigan and Sten arrived, I presume?" Wynne prompted, aware from experience that the former brother- and sister-warden could stare gormlessly at each other for an indefinite amount of time.

"Mm, just after I cut off his head," Flora replied, reluctantly turning her face towards the senior enchanter. "You know, to display above the gatehouse. Because that's what nobles do… _isn't it?"_

The new queen's eyes widened, worried that she might have committed some grievous error of etiquette.

"It is indeed, Floss," Finian hastened to reassure her. "And now it's been pickled, the hideous features will be perfectly preserved in preparation for the spike. It'll be able to glare down at all the visitors to Denerim."

Flora nodded, satisfied.

"Then, together with Nath – Nathamule Howe, we took over the island. And locked up all the members of the Carta. Even if they've managed to escape their cells, there was no way for them to escape the island. The bidders weren't meant to be arriving until the end of the week."

Teagan stepped forwards, putting a placating hand on the king's arm as he – predictably – bridled once again.

"So, Howe offered his assistance after it became clear that you would be victorious?"

"No, no," clarified Flora, not wanting to do the prisoner a disservice. "Before. He offered to help before Beraht was dead. Before he even knew that I'd freed myself from the rope."

Teagan glanced at Fergus, Finian's eyebrows shot into his hairline and Wynne gave a slow, thoughtful nod. After a moment, the teyrn cleared his throat and made a quick gesture towards a hovering servant. The man brought forward a large scroll, pulling off the restraining ribbon as he did so. Between them, Teagan and Fergus spread the parchment out over the blanket; anchoring it with various pieces of silverware.

Flora leaned forwards, fascinated. She had never seen a map devoted wholly to the _Waking Sea_ before. She had only ever known the stretch of water as a brief notation near the northern coast; and often one that had to be pointed out to her, since she could not read it herself. _This_ map featured the Waking Sea in painstaking detail, every spur of land, island and islet depicted in delicate ink-pen. Flora could see the ragged contour of the Storm Coast on the bottom of the map, and a corresponding shoreline that she assumed must belong to the Marches. In golden ink – the map must have been costly to produce – the autumnal constellations were marked out above the terrestrial and marine features.

She recognised the etching of the word Highever – the shapes of the letters were now familiar to her – and her eyes slid expectantly westwards. A moment later, her nostrils flared with affront.

"Herring isn't on here!" the queen said, indignantly. "You ought to add- "

Flora then cut herself off, realising that perhaps that was not the _priority_ at this exact moment. Instead, she leaned forwards over the parchment; mentally transposing her memory of wave and water onto the yellowed surface. Even as she recalled their journey back from the smuggler's isle, her finger moved outwards from Highever in a slow, steady glide. It came to a halt on an island the size of her own gnawed little fingernail; unnamed and unremarkable.

"There," the queen said, confidently. "That one."

Fergus looked at his sister's confident face and did not ask whether she was sure. Instead, he gave a terse nod in response, marking the island's location in his mind.

"Right. By week's end, the bidders will be arriving? I'll have the ships readied and rally the knights."

Alistair was calming in slow, small increments, returning to sit on the edge of the bed beside his wife with only a twitching vein in his throat to mark his agitation. Flora reached out for his hand once again, rubbing her thumb in soothing circles over his knuckles.

As Fergus removed the map and turned to speak in low tones to a retainer, Zevran cleared his throat and stepped forwards; a deliberate expression writ across his handsome, faintly-lined countenance.

"And what role did the Rivaini alchemist play in all this, _carina?"_

Flora's pale eyes settled on him, grave and anxious. She hesitated, opened her mouth to reply and then closed it again; unsure how to best phrase her response.

The others in the chamber, who had begun to discuss the logistics of travelling to the isle and setting a trap for the arriving bidders, broke off their conversation. Zevran – for once, ignoring his companion's imploring gaze – pressed on determinedly.

"He must be culpable of _something_ , for you to have brought him back here as your prisoner. What is he guilty of, _querida?_ "

Flora could feel Alistair tensing once more beside her, the hackles on the back of his neck rising. The king's gaze swung from the elf to his wife; voice rising in pitch to reflect his alarm.

"Flo?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Uh oh! Of course, the Rivaini alchemist was the hideous creep who was obsessed with Flora's Archdemon markings, and who told her that he had forcibly assaulted mages in the past to try and gain their powers. Flora does not want to tell her companions what the Rivaini was planning to do!

Also, though Flo has been all healed up after the birth, she's still not quite in a position to be walking around weighed down with two fat babies, lol.

Sorry for the slightly longer gap between updates! May-June is always the busiest time at work, it's been craaaaazy!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	185. The Alchemist

Chapter 185: The Alchemist

Flora's companions gazed towards their queen, a half-dozen enquiring stares directed across the chamber. All waited expectantly to hear the role that the Rivaini alchemist had played during the abduction; something heinous enough that had warranted his physical removal and arrest.

 _Why didn't I predict this question?_ Flora thought wildly to herself, grateful that her face seemed to have retained some semblance of composure. _I should have planned this more carefully. Do I tell them the truth?_

"Was he complicit in the plot to sell you and the twins?" Zevran asked, and for a brief moment, Flora contemplated just nodding her head.

 _No,_ she realised miserably a moment later. _I can't hide the truth from my husband._

"No-oo. Or –he _was_ , but it wasn't- it wasn't his main motivation."

Her companions had fallen quiet; a taut, dangerous silence filling the chamber. Finian blinked rapidly, Fergus and Teagan shared a brief, dark glance between them. As for Alistair, there was now something volatile and dangerous in his handsome face; a curling of the lip and a dulling of the irises.

"So, what _did_ he want?" the elf asked, in a deceptively casual tone that did not mask the deadly intent beneath. "The sooner you answer me, _amor,_ the sooner I will stop interrogating you."

One of the infants gave a soft grumble in its sleep, and Flora reached across to spread her palm over its warm, firm little belly. She knew that everyone was looking at her; their eyes boring into the top of her head like some sort of amateurish attempt at trepanation. Her stomach had twisted itself into a tangle of knots; so tightly intertwined that even she – with her prodigious skill – doubted her ability to unravel them.

"Flora?" repeated Alistair, a rawness to the word. There was a distinct grey pallor beneath the olive tone of his skin; his pupils shrivelled with fright. "Flora, what did this man _do_ to you?"

"He didn't do anything to me," she replied hastily, reasoning that this was technically true. The Rivaini had promised her that he would be back on some subsequent night; that he could not stomach _doing the deed_ without some mental preparation. "But- "

"But? _But, Flora?_ "

"But," repeated Flora, a painful lump solidifying in her throat. "He – he said… he was going to- "

Her husband now looked distinctly nauseous, as though he were about to be sick over the flagstones.

 _Just say it! It was going to come out sooner or later._

Wynne interjected at this point, settling herself on the side of the bed and putting a hand on Flora's knee. The senior enchanter's kind, sharp blue gaze caught the queen's; gentle and yet insistent.

"Tell _me_ if it's easier, child. I can tell the others."

Flora nodded, hunching slightly to meet the old mage as she leaned forwards expectantly. Cupping Wynne's ear with her fingers, she then whispered in hesitant fragments what the alchemist had been intending to do.

To her credit, Wynne did not react with shock or horror; the only indication of how appalled she was came as a slight tightening of fingers on Flora's knee.

"I… I believe I understand, my dear," the mage breathed, softly. "I'll- I'll just- "

Flora felt as though she might be sick herself, part because of trepidation and part due to anger. She hunched back against the headboard, then put a cushion over her face in an unusual moment of cowardice; not wanting to see the reaction of her companions when they learnt the truth. Soon after Flora heard Wynne's explanation as a measured, muffled murmur, and then it was as though the Veil had ruptured and all the worst demons of the Fade had come screaming through. All hell broke loose, the outrage of her companies tangling together in an explosion of fury-fuelled indignation. She heard a familiar, swift unsheathing of metal as Zevran withdrew his blades uttering curses; her entirely contrasting brothers were made identical by their anger. Loudest of all was the bellow of the king, whom the alchemist's threat had cut deepest of all.

" _I'll kill him!"_

Wails of fright rose within the crib; both twins rudely awoken from their slumber. Flora opened her eyes to a scene of chaos; unsheathed swords and shouting; her companions spilling from the room in a crowd of fury. Alistair, his blade hastily retrieved from the dresser, led the charge from the chamber. He was a man fuelled by blind, fulsome rage; bile rising in his throat as his stomach curdled with the need to seek revenge. Zevran passed before him like a fleeting shadow, a deadly promise writ across his face. Even Teagan – who could usually be counted on to provide the voice of reason – was keeping pace with Flora's equally furious brothers. Wynne, a sole figure urging restraint, followed in their wake; hands lifting in a plea for calm.

Flora was left alone in the chamber, sitting amidst the tangled bedding with scratchy cries of fear rising from the crib. As the queen heaved her aching body across the blankets, she felt tears spilling down her cheeks. She did not know whether this was in reaction to the fury of her companions and the frightened howling of her children – or if it was a delayed response to the heinous nature of the alchemist's threat. Flora had not allowed herself to dwell on it before – she had needed to focus on making her escape, and then on the birth – but the horror of her companions had forced her to remember what the Rivaini had promised to _do_.

 _I know what he wanted to do._

 _Men have been looking at me in the same way since I was thirteen years old; though the alchemist was driven by lust of a different sort._

 _I always had a shield, before. And everyone knew it. After a while, I didn't even notice the desirous stares because they posed no threat._

 _I haven't got a shield anymore._

Hiccuping as the sadness swelled within her throat like an overlarge swallow, Flora leaned into the crib. Both Taron and Theodora were in a state of distress, flailing small arms as they grizzled; their faces red and angry.

For a moment, their mother felt a moment of sheer panic – it took two arms to pick a newborn up while cradling its neck: how could she properly lift two floppy-headed babies and support them properly at the same time? If Flora had been thinking rationally, she would have worked out some practical way of managing it, but she was exhausted from a night of interrupted sleep and her belly was tossing in a maelstrom of emotional turmoil.

 _And everyone's gone and left me!_

The queen bent over the crib and tried to soothe the howling infants, who flailed towards her with tiny, demanding fingers.

"Shh, shh," she whispered, feeling utterly useless. "It's alright. Calm down."

A tear ran off the end of Flora's nose and dripped onto the blanket. She scrubbed at her nostrils with the mustard sleeve of her dressing gown as a half-sob, half-hiccup escaped her throat. Her head dropped until it rested on the side of the crib, loose tendrils of hair trailing over the blankets.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry."

A low, familiar murmur punctuated the cloud of dejection surrounding the queen; simultaneously, a strong embrace wound itself about her from behind. Flora inhaled a damp gulp of air, her fingers reaching up to grip a broad, muscled forearm. She felt lips press against her hair, a chin resting on her shoulder; the outline of a chest that she knew as well as her own.

"I'm here," continued Alistair softly, keeping one arm around his wife as he reached into the crib. "Let me help, my love."

With far more fatherly confidence than he had possessed the previous day, the king deftly lifted Taron into his arm; letting the infant nestle against his shoulder. Meanwhile Flora, breathless with relief, retrieved their grizzling daughter. The family settled back against the bed-cushions, Alistair keeping a tight grip on his wife with one arm even as he comforted his son. It didn't take long to soothe the frightened newborns, who clung to their parents with plump, starfish hands. The deep, warm murmur of Alistair's voice was naturally reassuring – Flora herself could attest to that after a year spent in his company. Theodora nestled on her shoulder, the baby's tiny fingers whispering over her collarbone even as the king caressed her hairline. A tender thumb traced the contour of her ear, warm breath washed over her skin; Flora felt the tension drain from her like the ebbing tide.

"I'm sorry for storming out," Alistair said eventually, soft and apologetic. "I knew I'd scared the twins with my bellowing, but – but I was so _angry_ that all I cared about was ripping that whoreson limb from limb."

The king took a deep breath, smoothing the edge that had risen in his voice. He caressed the side of his wife's head with loving fingers, admiring the rich hue of the heavy, wine-red locks.

"How far did you get?" Flora asked, adjusting her nightgown as a determined Theodora successfully mouthed her way to the nipple.

"As far as the staircase," Alistair replied, referring to the winding steps that served as a central spine to Cousland Tower. "Then I saw that everyone else was with me, and I realised that you and the twins were on your own. I _ran_ back, sweetheart."

He gave an abashed half-smile, the corners of his mouth still taut.

"I'm sorry. The thought of that creature laying a finger on you… it made me _mad,_ Flo. I felt more animal than human."

Flora felt a sudden surge of love in her belly for her husband; who had overcome the most potent of primal urges to return to her side. She tilted her head up to brush her lips against his cheek; letting him know that he did not need to apologise, that it was a natural and understandable reaction.

They stayed in this way for some time, nestled together like Mabari pups. Castle Cousland seemed barely existent around them; any external sound first muffled by the impregnable stone walls and then absorbed by the solid wood furniture and thickly woven bed-hangings.

"The others still went down to the cells?" Flora asked eventually, wondering if Theodora had finished feeding. The little girl was dozing at the breast; moments later, she awoke and began suckling again with gusto.

"I imagine so, my love. There was no stopping your brothers. Or Zev, for that matter. He's fixated on revenge."

Flora let out a sigh; so much for her declaration that the alchemist would be given a trial.

"They had better keep their hands off Namanule Howe," she said, grimly. "He's not cut in the same mould as Beraht or the alchemist. I won't be happy if I find bits of him scattered everywhere!"

Taron began to grumble, eyeing his sister belligerently as she fed. Alistair let out a soothing rumble to pacify the infant as he waited, patting his back with a gentle palm.

"Shall – shall I send the guard to stop them?" the king offered, with some effort. "Would that make you feel better, darling? Or, I should say – _try_ and stop them. I think Fergus is approaching the point of no return, and I'm pretty surethat Zev is well beyond it."

Flora could see the truth in his words, and yet she gave a nod regardless.

"Please, husband."

Before crossing to the door, Alistair took Theodora from her mother and patted her until she hiccuped; replacing the sleepy little girl in her crib. Taron took his turn at the breast, clinging to his mother with demanding fingers.

At the doorway, the confused king peered out into a scene of turmoil. Fergus was gesticulating at the end of the corridor, retainers and servants hurried in the direction of his frantically jabbing finger. Mabari were barking, the echoes of shouted instruction reverberated within the cavernous stone passage. The Royal Guard – who had just been speaking with the teyrn – turned and began to hasten down the corridor, eyes like thunder behind their closed-face helms. They were overtaken by Teagan, whose lips were folded into a thin, strained line. Bann advanced towards king with a speed that stopped just short of a run; his mouth opening to call an urgent warning.

"The Rivaini has escaped!"

Alistair's jaw dropped, his brow creasing in sheer disbelief.

"Wha- _what?"_

Teagan came to a halt before him, breathless and grim-faced. The bann reached up to run a hand through his dishevelled hair, quite visibly agitated.

"Let's get inside. Lock the door."

The two men ducked inside the chamber, pulling the door shut in their wake. Alistair reached down to twist the brass key in a quarter-turn, only releasing it once he had heard the heavy clunk of metal falling into place.

"What do you mean – he's _escaped?"_ the king demanded, a vein throbbing visibly in his neck. "How is this even possible? He's got a dozen guards on him."

Flora, sitting on the edge of the bed, stared at the bann in confusion; stray strands of hair falling loose in stark contrast to the mustard wool.

Teagan passed a hand over his face, and it came away sweaty. The unsteadiness of the bann's gesture added to the king's alarm; he was more accustomed to his uncle displaying implacable calm-headedness in the face of danger.

"We arrived in the dungeons to find the cells in chaos and the Rivaini vanished," the younger Guerrin explained, striding across to the window and casting a tense look outside before drawing the shutters. The chamber was plunged into shadow, lit only by a few solitary candlesticks still burning from the previous night.

" _Vanished?"_ growled Alistair, red and white patches of anger mingling on his waxen cheeks. "How – how could he have _vanished?_ He's not a blasted _mage_."

Flora held Taron nestled against her chest, lowering her face to inhale his soft, clean scent as she listened to her husband's frantic interrogation. Leaning back, she reached down to retrieve Theodora from the crib with a deftness born of necessity, before settling all three of them down on the bed.

"Apparently – according to the Howe, who half-glimpsed him doing it – the Rivaini combined some mineral substance scraped from the wall with… "

Here the bann paused, the corner of his mouth curling in disgust at the _unnaturalness_ of it all.

"Well – in Howe's words – the man scratched out the markings on his head. Dug his nails right into the flesh. Mixed the gore with the mineral, ate it in a single swallow, then… _vanished."_

"Oh, I thought those markings were ink, like Zevran's tattoos," breathed Flora, rocking back and forth against the cushions to keep the infants soothed. "I remember there were alchemists in the Circle who ingrained reagents into their skin, like… like runes. The Templars banned it after a while because it was difficult for them to control."

 _The Rivaini isn't a mage, but he's learnt an abundance from them._

"Apparently, the guards didn't hear Howe's warnings," Teagan continued, heavily. "They'd all lost brethren to his father, and so they'd put him in the furthest, dampest cell. Anyway, once the Rivaini's absence was noticed, the cell was searched in case some tunnel been fashioned."

"And that was when he made his escape," breathed Alistair, fear curdling the disbelief on his blanched features. "Maker's Breath – he could be _anywhere."_

The king let out a string of curses even as he turned towards the bed; covering the flagstones in a handful of strides to reach his fledgling family. Flora gazed up at him, clutching their sleeping children to her breast with her brow furrowed. Alistair stared back at her for a single heartbeat – just long enough to register the delicacy of the bare shoulder emerging from the filmy nightgown, the weariness beneath the eyes, the plump, helpless creatures curled like mice on her chest. The king's thoughts were writ naked and raw across his face.

 _Vulnerable._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Uh oooooh! Flo knew that it wasn't going to go well when the truth about the Rivaini alchemist came out. And it hasn't! And we have more shenanigans to come because I love a bit of drama, and it was getting a bit too happy families, lol. Now he's on the loose!

Oh trepanation (also sometimes called trephination) was an old (prehistoric, originally!) 'surgical procedure' where a hole would be drilled - or chiselled - into the skull. This was done to relieve evil spirits thought to have entered the skull during sleep, causing headaches. Some people actually survived it!

Did anyone else watch the Royal Wedding? OOOHHH it was so beautiful! My husband was asleep lol but I thought it was fab, every bit of it from the ceremony itself to the procession afterwards. Apparently 18 million people watched it in the UK! More than the football cup final, which is saying something, haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	186. A Predator Stalks the Halls

Chapter 186: A Predator Stalks the Halls

The chamber reverberated with the implications: _the alchemist was roaming the halls of Castle Cousland._ Flora, sitting cross-legged on the bed with the twins in her arms, felt her stomach give a small twist of alarm. Alistair lifted his sword – a heavy, two-foot long blade that he was accustomed to wielding in a single hand – with grim determination settling like a mask over the fear. He positioned himself at the foot of the bed, lips folded tightly together and focus blazing in the depths of his irises.

"What's being done, uncle?"

"The castle has been sealed," Teagan replied, checking that the shutters had been fastened tight before lighting the last of the candles. "Fergus has ordered that every inch be scoured from dungeon to tower. He's emptied the garrisons and turned out the kennels."

There came footsteps and muffled voices from the corridor. Alistair's head swung towards the doorway with his nostrils flaring, tightening his grip on the hilt of the sword.

"That'll be the guard," Teagan murmured, recognising the terse tones of Ser Gilmore issuing instructions. "The teyrn has sent half the knights up to this passage. He wants them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, so that not even a mouse can pass by without someone knowing about it."

Flora ducked her head to kiss each infant in turn, her expression thoughtful. She was annoyed with herself for not realising that the Rivaini had ingrained potent reagents into his own skin – it truly seemed as though she had learnt _nothing_ from her tenure at the Circle! She was also thoroughly convinced that they would not catch the alchemist through sheer, stubborn manpower.

 _No one else here – apart from Nathaniel – has the measure of the man. They've only seen him exhausted and half-senseless from Morrigan's manhandling._

 _I've seen him at his full, energised potency. He's mad, and bold, and sly as a fox. There's no way he'll allow himself to be caught by a gang of knights._

 _The only thing that'll bring him out of hiding is –_

"I want everyone in here," Alistair said abruptly, running his fingers up and down the hilt of the blade in agitation. "All of us. I don't want them to leave Flo's side until the whoreson is found."

Teagan gave a terse nod, heading towards the chamber door. As soon as the bann reached for the iron ring Alistair tensed, his eyes focusing like a hawk's and the hairs on the back of his neck rising. The door opened and he braced himself, blade readied in both hands.

A few sentences of conversation were exchanged between the bann and the grim-faced guard outside; the royal Mabari whined as they paced back and forth across the flagstones. Two of them had been designated to the search party, but the fiercest pair remained behind to guard the young family. Meanwhile, Theodora had begun to grizzle softly; detecting the tension that prickled in the air like the unsettled heat before a storm. The little girl flung up a chubby arm towards her mother's face, a tiny hand groping Flora's chin in an uncoordinated demand.

"Shh, shh," whispered the queen, ducking to nuzzle the top of her daughter's head. "It's alright. Nothing is wrong, tadpole."

She felt an agonised stare fall on them and looked up to see Alistair gazing at the bed; a mixture of determination and despair writ across his features. The moment that the door was closed again, the king strode back towards the bed, covering the distance in a handful of strides. Sheathing the sword, he reached out to cup the back of Flora's head with clumsy affection; sliding his fingers through her hair until he could feel the warm skin of her neck. Tender lips brushed her forehead, then dropped further to kiss each of his nestled infants in turn.

"I won't let him come near you, my love," he murmured, low and certain. "Nobody will ever lay a hand on you again, I swear it."

 _Hm,_ mused Flora, lifting her face up to receive a kiss on her thoughtful mouth. _If he can't come near me, he won't come out at all._

 _Only I know the way that he looked at me; his eyes pinpricks of covetous greed. His stare felt strangely oily, like it covered me in some kind of horrible residue. At one point, I thought he might try and cut the Archdemon's silvered markings from my skin._

Flora let out a small, disgruntled sigh, letting her head rest against Alistair's chest and feeling his arm settle protectively around her shoulders.

 _My brother can try his way of searching for the rest of the day,_ she thought grimly to herself. _But if the alchemist isn't found by sunset…. Well._

 _Nobody can set a lure like a fisherman's daughter._

As the king paced the confines of the chamber, sword in hand and face furrowed in deep lines of concern; the teyrn of Highever swiftly coordinated the search efforts. The castle had been sealed with hasty efficiency – after all, within the lifespan of an elder, it had repulsed more than one Orlesian attempt to broach its walls. The drawbridge was raised, the portcullises lowered, grilles and grates swung into place over windows. Every tunnel and passageway was placed under heavy guard.

The search itself was undertaken by the knights, the garrison troops and the Mabari. Vast maps of the castle were spread over tables and each chamber, tower and cellar was allocated to a particular search party. Nobody was allowed to travel in less than a group of a half-dozen – the alchemist could have retrieved more dangerous reagents during these stolen moments of liberation. The threat posed by the Rivaini increased with every hour of his illicit freedom.

The problem was that Castle Cousland was a vast and sprawling structure. The outer ward stretched along the cliffs like a slumbering giant, surrounded by almost a mile's worth of walls. Each broad tower contained multiple levels, each level housed several chambers. Within the inner ward lay a maze of passageways; tangled in an intricate mess that was the product of several centuries' worth of uncoordinated architecture. Carrying out even a rudimentary search of the fortress would take several hours at best – let alone a hunt for an enemy veiled from the naked eye. The potency of the reagents used was so acute that even its lingering residue was enough to confuse the whining Mabari, who were trying valiantly to scent out the fugitive. The dogs were visibly distraught at their inability to track the missing prisoner; hackles rising and low growls rumbling in their throats as they snuffled at the flagstones.

They searched throughout the morning, pausing to take no rest or refreshment. Fergus, who irrationally blamed himself for the Rivaini's escape, led one of the larger parties. With naked blade in hand, he strode the hallways of the family seat with grim resolution adding a decade to his features. It was clear that if the teyrn was the first to discover the fugitive, there would be no arrest, no re-fastening of bonds and no trial before the Landsmeet. Instead, there would be only the metallic scything of a blade through the air, followed by the heavy thud of a severed head landing on the flagstones.

Meanwhile, high up in the royal bedchamber, Flora's companions gathered in defence of their queen; who had given birth only a handful of days prior. Every shifting of the breeze, each unexpected footfall caused a ripple of adrenaline through the chamber, eyes swivelling in all directions in search for some bloody-headed madman. The atmosphere was as taut as an over-screwed lute string, quivering in agitation at the slightest touch.

Finian, who fidgeted in corresponding increments to the level of danger faced, had already been snapped at by Zevran. The elf, who vacillated between a craving to hunt down the fugitive and the need to defend his _florita_ , was not in the most patient of moods. Likewise, the bann of Rainesfere jumped at every shifting shadow and scattered pattering of mice. Out of the company, Teagan was the least accustomed to _strange dealings;_ the thought of a man gouging out magic-imbued pigments from his own flesh disconcerted the stoic Fereldan more than he would like to admit.

In the midst of such fraught and brittle atmosphere, the king and queen tried their best to create a sense of normalcy for their newborns. Shortly after lunch, the babies received their first proper bathing – fresh, fire-warmed linens and heated water in a silver bowl had been brought up from the kitchens. Both infants were placed on a bearskin before the hearth, blinking and peering around with curious, identical grey gazes while their kneeling parents eyed the bowl of water with great trepidation. Unhelpfully Wynne had gone to seek out an update on the search from Fergus, and was thus unavailable for advice.

"What temperature ought the water be?" Alistair said at last, dipping a finger in the innocuous bowl. "It feels a bit _hot._ Is it meant to be hot?"

"They aren't lobsters," replied Flora, slightly uncertainly. "We don't want to _boil_ them."

Taron let out a squeak, fingers drifting through the bear-fur with fascination writ across his face. Alistair glanced up at Finian, who gave an unhelpful shrug.

"Maybe the water should be cool," the king continued, a bead of sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Wynne mentioned that babies overheat easily when she took off that second blanket last night."

"In Herring, babies get plunged into ice-cold rock-pools," Flora said, the doubt plain across her fine-boned features. "But I don't want that."

 _Not for our twins._

Finally, they decided on water that was as close to the natural warmth of the babies' skin as possible. Taron was the first to be gently wiped down with a damp cloth, arms flailing frantically. Still, the baby handled the new sensation with remarkable stoicism, hastily patted dry and wrapped in a fresh woollen blanket.

Theodora tolerated a few minutes of the damp washcloth before her face began to contort; she did not _like_ this new sensation! Although the young couple were still learning the fundamentals of parenthood, they had learnt quickly enough the warning signs of dismay. Flora reached down and picked up their daughter, letting the little dark-haired girl nuzzle into her chest.

"Sorry, Teddy," she whispered, feeling tiny fingers anchor themselves on her dressing-robe. "I know baths are annoying. I used to hate being made to wash when I was brought to the Circle. In Herring, _nobody_ used to bathe, _ever."_

" _Quelle surprise,"_ muttered Finian darkly from his position beside the window.

"But I got used to bathing after a while," continued Flora, ignoring her brother's unhelpful comment. "And so will you."

The little girl shot her mother a dubious look, and the queen beamed back down at her; fascinated by the infant's tiny, doll-like features. Absorbed with her child, Flora temporarily forgot about the predator currently prowling the halls of Highever; the Rivaini cloaked in a magical veil that hid him from the eyes of searchers and the noses of the Mabari. Theodora fell asleep shortly afterwards, soothed by the solid thud of her mother's heart. The princess was placed back in the crib alongside her brother, a blue knitted blanket drawn gently over them.

Once both infants were dozing, Flora returned her attention to the issue at hand. Alistair had allowed himself less of a respite – after bathing the twins, he had resumed his agitated pacing. Fergus had sent up a tersely worded missive stating simply that they had made no progress on tracking down the missing prisoner. The search would need to continue into the afternoon, with the chances of capture growing slimmer with each passing hour. Alistair had read the note three times before crumpling it into his fist and tossing it angrily to the flagstones.

Flora considered taking a bath herself – she had _lived_ in the mustard dressing gown for the past three days – but realised that the others present in the chamber might not be as nonchalant about nudity as she herself was. Instead, she wandered across to the corner-desk to retrieve a stray sheet of parchment and an ink-pen.

 _I've neglected my writing badly during the course of our journey,_ she thought to herself, guiltily. _When we first set out from Denerim I was determined to practice for a candle_ - _length every night._

 _Why didn't I do as I planned? What did I do instead? Eat?_

Passing her pacing husband – she could practically hear Alistair's teeth grinding in his head – she made her way past an equally rigid Teagan and headed towards the bed. Although her abdomen still ached, it was far easier to walk than it had been the previous day.

Meanwhile, Finian was grateful for the distraction. He had become irrationally and increasingly obsessed with the idea of the Rivaini somehow entering the chamber via the chimney – and needed to fixate his attention elsewhere before he felt the urge to ruin his silk tunic by investigating further. He watched his sister take the parchment across to the bed, her brow already furrowing in concentration.

Flora retrieved one of the baby-name books to lean the sheet of parchment on, focusing intently on retrieving the letters of the Kingstongue alphabet from the depths of her memory. Uncertain of the exact order of the letters, she decided to start with the ones that she remembered the best – _F, A,_ and _H._ Next came a string of half-recalled figures, many of them back to front and a fair few upside-down.

She was jolted from her laborious efforts by the arrival of her brother, who lowered his elegant frame to the edge of the bed and smiled at her.

"What have we got so far, Floss? Ah," said Finian, just about arresting an instinctive grimace of horror before it could reach his features. "Is… is that Kingstongue?"

Flora shot him a sideways glance, nostrils flaring. She jabbed a bitten-nailed finger at the row of strange and unintelligible characters.

"Obviously!"

"Of course, _obviously,"_ repeated Finian, hastily. "Shall I teach you how to spell the twins' names?"

"Oh," breathed Flora, enchanted. _"Yes,_ please."

While the arl – with surprising patience – showed his sister how to painstakingly copy out the names of her children, Alistair drew Zevran and Teagan to one side, distraught cracks running beneath the careful foundation of stoicism on his weary, handsome face.

"What is it?" Teagan asked while Zevran said nothing, but merely watched the king very closely. As usual, the elf somehow managed to keep a simultaneous observant eye on the bed, where the queen sat beside the cradle and puzzled over the spelling of her children's new names.

"What ought I- " Alistair began, then half-shook his head and lowered his voice. "What ought I do? Should I take them out of the castle? Return to Denerim? At least the creature will find it difficult to follow us there."

Both men shook their heads in an immediate, simultaneous dissuasion.

"You want to end this here," Zevran said softly, gesturing with elegant fingers in an effort to encompass their surroundings. "This Rivaini is a loose end that needs to be tied _now_ , not in weeks' time."

Teagan gave a nod to show his agreement, his jaw stiff with tension.

"Aye, I agree. Besides, this room is easy to- "

He broke off abruptly but the continuation of his point was an obvious one: _this room was easy to defend._

Alistair flinched as though struck, and - for a single moment - appeared as though he might lose his balance. The broad shoulders and iron-bound muscle beneath the leather clothing suddenly seemed a mere façade; a painted covering draped over a hollow tangle of fear and indecision.

"Steady," Teagan murmured, reaching forwards to grip his elbow. "Come on, lad. Keep it together."

"It's… it's as though the Maker is telling me that I don't deserve my wife," Alistair muttered, low and bleak. "Why else would He keep trying to take my sweet girl away from me? Rendon Howe, the Archdemon, the Carta- and now _this._ Is He taunting me because I can't protect her?"

They looked towards the bed, where Flora had abandoned her literacy and was playing with a newly-awake Taron. She was pretending to eat his feet as he squeaked, gazing up at his mother with huge-eyed fixation.

"Your name is spelt the same way as _Salmon!"_ she crowed, beaming back down at him. "I'm going to devour you like I would my third-favourite fish! Gobble gobble gobble!"

" _Taron_ is _not_ spelt the same way as _Salmon,"_ retorted Finian indignantly, waving the ink-pen in chastisement. "Stop eating your baby and come back to class. You've forgotten _all_ your letters!"

"I have not! I remembered _F!"_

"That was _not_ an F. That was a- a – a _monstrosity!"_

Alistair turned an agonised face on his uncle, not wanting his family to glimpse his fear. Zevran reached forward to brace the king by the elbow, infusing as much reassurance into his voice as was possible.

"The Maker would not steal her from you, _mi rey._ These are the machinations of men – believe me, I have seen enough plots and plans to know an earthly design when I see one. And they will not succeed, _te prometo."_

Alistair continued to gaze at his wife, who was still pretending to munch on the infant's toes like a gobbler-fish. Finian had abandoned the ink-pen and was laughing at his sister, his face bright and full of warmth.

"Do you want your baby to have no feet, little sister? How will he walk?"

"He can swim," replied Flora confidently, ducking to press her lips to the baby's belly as he flailed demanding arms towards her face. "If he's my son, he's definitely part-fish."

* * *

OOC Author Note: I wanted to achieve a contrast in this chapter – between the touching family moments and the stress over the alchemist and his roaming around the castle unchecked! Although I sense that Flora is coming up with a harebrained scheme of some sort… NO! BAD FLORA. Stay in bed and feed your children! Let someone else handle things for once! Hehehe. And her broken resolution (of practising her literacy for an hour every night while on progress) clearly fell by the wayside, lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	187. The Queen's Hare-Brained Scheme

Chapter 187: The Queen's Hare-brained Scheme

Alistair watched his wife coo at the baby, his face alight with incredulity-laced affection. After a moment, he lowered his voice and muttered from the corner of his mouth towards his uncle.

"How is she so calm? There's a _maniac_ on the loose!"

Teagan thought for a moment, watching the giggling queen extract a length of crimson hair from Taron's chubby fist.

"I'm not sure," he said at last, shrugging a leather-clad shoulder. "It can't just be that she's a northerner. Fergus is a northerner, and he's frothing like a rabid Mabari."

Zevran, who understood a little better, cleared his throat before interjecting gently.

"She was a mage for almost two decades. How long does it take one to grow accustomed to living under constant threat? I suppose she's used to danger."

Alistair let out a heavy sigh, loud enough that Flora could hear it from across the chamber. She looked up from the baby, her pale eyes drawn straight to her husband like some tidal current. The faintest line creased her brow as she noted his distress, the corners of her full mouth curving downwards. As Alistair's anxious hazel gaze met hers, she made some infinitesimal gesture; one so tiny that no one else save for her brother-warden would have noticed it.

The king strode across the chamber with his eyes fixed on his queen, who reached up her arms as he drew near to the bed. As though there was no one else in the chamber, he bent to embrace her; lifting his newly unburdened wife within his arms. Flora clamped her thighs around his to rest her weight there, their bodies moulding together for the first time in months without the barrier of her belly. Alistair held her against him, reassured by the heat of her body and the strong, constant throb of her heart.

With her arms wound around his neck, Flora admired the chiselled planes of her husband's face, her breath catching in her throat at the strong line of the stubbled jaw, the rich, green-flecked amber of the irises, the ascetic hollow of the throat. Alistair, for his part, stared at his year-younger wife as though she were some bewitching spirit that had crossed the Veil; the finely hewn beauty draped like a bridal veil over a core of northern granite. Though Alistair had initially gone to his former sister-warden to seek comfort, the beguiling curve of her mouth and lingering caress of her fingers against his neck soon turned his mind to other matters. He found that he could not take his eyes from her lips, full and ripe as fresh-fallen fruit; she parted them in wanton invitation.

As the king devoured his thoroughly delighted wife, the others in the chamber tactfully averted their gazes. The exception was Zevran, who could not decide whether the thrill of vicarious, voyeuristic pleasure was worth the sting of longing that inevitable accompanied it.

"Maker's Breath," complained Finian, whose sole remaining eye was focused firmly on his yawning niece and nephew. "I know that privacy is a concept thoroughly foreign to you both, but _still._ It's like we aren't even _here._ Hello?"

The couple ignored the arl, still entwined beside the window with their mouths working enthusiastically together. The only sound that could part them was a thin, unhappy grizzle, quickly joined by a second. The sleepy twins were clearly not willing to fall asleep unless they were cradled in a pair of reassuring arms.

Pecking Flora on the mouth as he stepped them both back towards the bed, Alistair lowered her to the mattress; face flushed with warmth and affection. Flora smiled shyly up at him, equally pink in the cheeks. She then reached down to lift their daughter while he took their son, each infant calming as they nestled against a familiar chest.

The hours crept by with excruciating slowness. The light began to drain from the sky; the weak grey-blue losing pigment until the heavens became a colourless wash. The search for the Rivaini alchemist continued, each nook and cranny and crevice of the castle was searched, and found wanting. The Mabari – their exceptional scenting confounded by the man's reagent-veil – howled out their frustration until shushed by the hound-masters.

Midway through the afternoon, Teagan had gone to join the search, taking Finian with him. The arl had joked humourlessly that even a single additional eye might be enough to make the difference; nobody had laughed. Shortly afterwards, the queen had expressed a desire to stretch out her legs and take in some fresh air. The prospect of leaving the safety of the chamber had caused Alistair to break out in such a panicked sweat that his wife hastily abandoned the idea.

 _I'll let them have a few more hours of searching,_ Flora thought to herself, leaning back against the cushions and twisting a rope of hair about two fingers.

 _Though they won't find him. You don't catch your fish by chasing it through the waters._

 _You lay out a lure._

Theodora gave a soft grumble in her sleep; tiny fists opening and closing. Flora reached into the crib and spread her palm over the infant's warm chest, her heart seizing painfully within her own rib cage.

 _But how can I leave them? I can't imagine even being a room apart from my children. My little Taron and Teddy._

Her attention was drawn then to Alistair, who was leaning against the window with his eyes fixed on the search parties in the courtyard below. A nerve flickered in his throat, the carved hilt of his blade was ingrained within his palm. Each footfall in the passage saw him stiffen; every muscle tensing in preparation to act.

 _My poor brother-warden,_ she thought, then. _I have to unburden him of these cares and worries._

 _He'll hate what I'm planning, but at least then it'll all be over._

Fergus arrived just before sunset, a man pale and wearied. Once again, he wore the mantle of fear around his shoulders, bowing him beneath the weight of it so that he moved like one far older. Dark circles of exhaustion carved out the caverns of his eyes, and the day's growth emphasised the hollows of his cheeks.

"There's no sign of the fiend," the teyrn said, as all those within the chamber looked expectantly towards him. "We've scoured every inch of the castle from top to bottom. Either he's slipped away, or he's somewhere deep in hiding."

Alistair muttered a curse underneath his breath, pacing yet another length of the chamber like a Mabari trapped in a cage. This time, the king was considerate of his sleeping twins, keeping his anger at relatively low volume.

"Perhaps you all ought return to Denerim," added Fergus, one shoulder lifting in a helpless shrug. "I'll stay here, and keep the search going until we find the bastard- ah, no offence intended."

Usually Alistair would answer affably _none taken_ whenever anyone thoughtlessly used this particular insult, but he was far too preoccupied with the current situation to speak up.

"Surely, we cannot leave with such a monster on the loose," Wynne protested from the armchair where she had been finishing off the last touches on a baby blanket. For years the senior enchanter had denied herself the pleasure of knitting for fear of conforming to expectations applied to old women – now, the birth of the twins had given her the excuse to abandon all reservations and pick up the needles.

"Alistair, I know that you want to remove your family from danger," the mage continued, letting the cream wool settle in her lap as she turned an imploring gaze on the agitated king. "But I beg you to reconsider. We can't leave such a loose thread trailing. The creature might find some way of smuggling themselves back to the city with us. The Royal Palace is so huge, there'd be no chance of tracking him down."

"Well, of _course_ I want to remove my family from danger," Alistair retorted, defensive. "Isn't that _normal?_ There's a madman stalking the halls who _gouged chunks from his own head_ in order to escape – and who… who _assaults_ mages in some insane attempt to leech their power. And now he wants my wife – _my Flora!"_

"Alistair, calm down- "

Meanwhile, as her companions exchanged an agitated discourse, Flora had been leaning back against the bed-cushions. The queen was deep in thought, though her face retained its usual ambiguity of expression. She looped a strand of crimson around her finger, watching the tip whiten as the flow of blood was restricted.

 _We aren't leaving my brother here. Fergus has to come back to Denerim for the winter and be an uncle to the twins._

 _Well, I've let them try things their way._

"You won't find him," Flora said with utter certainty, the chamber falling quiet as she spoke up. "He's no reason to come out of hiding. He doesn't want any of _you."_

Zevran, who had been watching her still contemplation, let out a low hiss of warning.

" _Querida."_

Flora reached a placating hand towards her friend but continued to speak with quiet resolution.

"He won't come out for anyone but me. I've got _these-_ " here, she gestured to her naked shoulder, where the curving arc of a silvered marking was just visible, "and this is what he wants."

Alistair turned towards her, his handsome brow creasing in confusion and dismay.

"Flora – _Flo?_ Darling?"

Flora pushed back the blankets and clambered to her feet, slightly unsteady but upright. The faces of her friends and family turned towards her in a spectrum of emotion.

"Picture me as a maggot," she said, impulsively. "Or as a… very large worm."

 _Bait._

Wynne's eyes narrowed in mingled trepidation and exasperation; though genuine alarm brewed deep within the pale blue of her irises.

"Florence, is this another of your madcap schemes?"

Flora considered her past 'madcap schemes' for a moment - the deceiving of Arl Howe, the secretive summoning of the armies, the baiting of the Archdemon to Fort Drakon – and decided that they had all turned out rather well, all things considered.

"Yes," she agreed, solemnly. "This is what we're going to do."

The eyebrows of Flora's husband and brother shot into their hairlines at such a bold declaration of intent. Flora ignored their incredulity, wandering across to the full-length mirror that stood near the hearth. Such an exquisite piece of glasswork could only have come from Orlais – despite its age, the reflective surface had only the faintest warping. The queen gazed at the remnants of the Archdemon's soul that had been inscribed on her body – faintly visible through the filmy gauze of the nightgown.

 _The silvered sun-bursts on my collarbone, my thigh, my hip, my shoulder-blades. The smaller marks on my palms. The gold fleck in my eye._

 _This is what he wants. He couldn't care less about the body beneath the markings. I'm only a means to an end._

 _I'll be the means to his end._

"I'll go down to the gardens," she said, letting go of the collar of her nightgown so that it settled back into place. "On my own. I'll wait there for as long as it takes – but he'll come, I know it. And then you can kill him."

In Flora's mind, the alchemist had yielded his right to a trial after his flight from the cell. She had offered him fair justice; he had spurned it and now his life was forfeit.

"How do you know he'll come out? Surely he must realise it's a trap," countered Wynne, breaking the stunned silence.

Flora thought of the madness in the alchemist's dark Rivaini eyes, the twisted obsession that was so different from Duncan's carefully restrained attentions. Her old mentor had been seized with fascination by Flora's relationship with the spirits, yet he had never overstepped the bounds of propriety. The Rivaini commander had treated her like some rare artefact retrieved from a dusty tomb; his prized find, uniquely gifted. She had not been present for the reading of his letters to the Marcher Warden-Commander, where Duncan had confessed how he would have invited his talented new mage into his tent if she had been some years older.

"He'll come," she said, confidently. "He won't be able to resist."

" _No,_ Flora."

The plea cut through Flora like a blade; it came from the one person whom she had never been able to deny. Bracing herself, the queen turned into the embrace of the king, who had crossed the chamber to wrap her in protective arms.

"Sweetheart, I can't let you do this," he mumbled into her hair, desperate and raw. "It's too dangerous. I _won't_ let you do this. You're my whole life – and you've the twins to think of now."

Flora realised, with a sudden twist of nausea, that the number of people that she could not deny had now tripled. She tilted her gaze towards the crib, where the twins clung to each other in sleep as though they were still in the womb.

"They need their mother," Alistair continued, seizing on the flicker of doubt in his young wife's pale eyes. "I need my queen at my side. We can't risk anything happening to you."

Flora stared at him, horribly torn. For once, she wished that somebody could tell her what to do – a parent, her old commander, perhaps even Archmage Irving back in the Circle Tower. On the one hand, she had an obligation to her new family – and the thought of even _momentarily_ leaving her twins was traumatic –

 _But, on the other, I know that my plan will work. I know it._

The relief was just beginning to wash over Alistair's face when the wind caught one of the window shutters, slamming it back against the stone. Everybody in the chamber sprung to attention: Wynne dropped her knitting and reached for her stave, the men for their blades, Alistair half-lunged forwards with a snarl. Fergus' secretary, who had been standing unobtrusively beside the hearth, dropped his quill and parchment with a clatter.

It was this, more than anything, that settled the matter for the queen. Flora took a deep breath, recalling that before she had been a mother, a wife and a sister, she had been the Warden-Commander (acting) of Ferelden.

 _Nobody instructed me. I told myself what to do._

"We can't leap at shadows indefinitely," she said, soft and resolute. "The twins are in danger simply by being _near_ me. I'm going to sort this out tonight."

The others knew well enough the tone in Flora's voice. Their queen was sweet and compliant for six days out of seven; and yet on occasion she dug in her heels and revealed the grim stubbornness that was so characteristic of a northerner. Now was one of those rare occasions. Fergus let out a low exhalation, his eyes meeting Teagan's with sober resignation. The elf, who believed in _action_ over _inaction,_ already had restless fingers creeping over the hilts of his blades.

Alistair had fumbled his way back over to the edge of the bed; a man struck senseless with despair. As he sunk his head into his hands, Flora scuttled across the chamber and dropped to the flagstones before him. She rested her forehead on his knees in entreaty, letting the rich abundance of her hair flood into his lap like spilt port-wine. He reached down as would a blind man, fumbling fingers anchoring themselves to her shoulders.

"This is like some cruel jest by the Maker," the king croaked, his voice little more than a rasp. "He grants me the best girl in Ferelden as a wife, then snatches her from me, over and over again! Why is He tormenting me by putting you in harm's way? What did I ever do to offend Him, except leave the service of the Chantry?"

"I'm sorry," Flora whispered, the guilt almost nauseating. "This is the last time I'll ever do anything like this, I promise. The very last time. From now on, I'll never volunteer for anything dangerous. I'll never leave your sight if you wish it!"

He looked down at her, and she captured his damp hazel gaze with her own pale entreaty.

"You'll – you'll never leave me?"

"Never," she promised, reaching for his fingers and clasping them together. "I swear!"

"No more night-time wandering? Or running off alone?"

"No more!"

" _Promise me,_ Flora."

"I promise!"

Alistair let out a long exhalation, wiped a hand roughly over his face and then raised his head. His gaze fell on Zevran, who hovered with watchful readiness beside the hearth. The only part of the elf that moved were the slender, tattooed fingers, still caressing the hilts of his blades with familiar delicacy.

"Zev," the king said, a new resolution mingling with the heaviness in each word. "You're the quickest here. Will you keep her safe?"

The elf inclined his head in a quiet promise, his ink-dark irises dropping to the queen as she knelt with her face turned upwards.

" _Siempre, mi rey."_

Alistair lifted his wife onto his broad thigh, noting in dismay how slight she seemed without the burden of their children. He tucked her head beneath his chin, cupping the back of her neck gently in a palm. Flora nestled against the firm muscle of his chest, and – for a moment – wished that she could stay enveloped in his arms.

 _Stop being such a jellyfish,_ she told herself, sternly. _You're_ _a grown woman of two-ty._

"Tell me your plan, my love," Alistair murmured into her hair, also wishing that he did not have to release her from his embrace. "I'll try to keep back my hysterics until you've finished."

Flora wove her fingers into his and brought their entwined hands to her mouth, pressing her lips to his knuckles in gratitude.

"He's obsessed with _these,"_ she said, making a gesture towards the markings on her torso. "He spoke about the Archdemon like… like he worshipped it, almost. He even knew it's name, uh – _Urquhart."_

"Urthemiel," chided Wynne, softly. "Honestly, child, you ought to remember the _name_ of the creature you slew."

Flora let out a grunt, tilting her head to the side as Alistair gazed at the silvered arc just visible at the neckline of her nightgown. A crease drew itself into his brow as he moved the thin linen aside, revealing more of the Archdemon's peculiar scarring.

"I'll wear something that displays them," the queen continued, recalling the covetous stare in the alchemist's dark eyes. "He won't be able to resist the opportunity to- "

Flora cut herself off hastily, sensing her husband bridle like a provoked Mabari.

" – _anyway,"_ she continued, clearing her throat. "As soon as he reveals himself, Zevran, and whoever else, can- "

"Skin the _cabron_ alive," murmured the elf, a rich, glinting vein of malice running through the words. "Take off each finger at a time, joint by joint. Put my blade to his- "

"Not in front of the babies!" chided Flora and the former Crow blew her a kiss of apology while simultaneously licking his lips in anticipation.

"Won't it be rather obvious that it's a trap?" interjected Teagan; as always, a voice of reason. "If you're sat, poppet, seemingly alone, out in the open. Anyone with any sense would see it for a lure."

"Bann Guerrin, this is a beast who rapes and murders mages in the hopes of leeching their power," Wynne murmured back, her hands folded neatly to disguise her trembling fingers. "He is neither rational, nor even a human. He acts on instinct alone. I doubt there is a _scrap_ of sense within him."

Another soft groan escaped Alistair's throat at the reminder of the man's crimes. He pressed his lips to Flora's neck, drawing her even more tightly against his chest.

" _I_ feel like the mad one here," he said, bleakly. "I'm about to let my sweet and beautiful wife – the _mother of my children_ – put herself into the path of a monster. She only gave birth three days ago, for the sake of the Maker!"

"He will not lay a finger on her, _mi rey,"_ promised Zevran, quietly. "I will have a blade between his eyes before he can touch her."

Fergus cleared his throat, gesturing abruptly for his secretary to follow him. The teyrn was clearly not happy with his sister's scheme; yet knew Flora well enough that he realised that she would not be dissuaded. He recalled a distant memory in which the four year old Florence had flatly refused to wear a plain white nightgown to bed. The little girl had screeched and bellowed her rage throughout Cousland Tower – defiant in the face of nannies and nursemaids alike – until she had been allowed to sleep in her favourite pink-frilled gown. On waking, the _teyrnina_ had discovered that the silk had been creased and crumpled beyond repair – and promptly thrown another blistering tantrum.

For a moment, Fergus considered sharing this anecdote with his sister; proving that she had been as stubborn as a mule from infancy. Seeing the young couple still fixed in a tight embrace, he decided not to disturb them, stating his intent to continue the search for at least a few more hours.

 _If I can find the alchemist the old-fashioned way,_ the teyrn thought feverishly as he strode from the chamber. _My little sister won't need to carry out this hare-brained scheme._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Poor Alistair, I think his hair must be entirely grey by now, lol! Although Flora has promised him that she won't do any more remotely dangerous things after this – not even any more night-time strolls! I can completely understand why he's freaked out, though. It is a bit of a hare-brained scheme!

My husband and I are going to Rome for just under a week, so no update until Friday! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	188. A Traumatic Parting

Chapter 188: A Traumatic Parting

For the next few hours, those in the chamber tried to replicate some sense of normalcy. Wynne continued to knit away at a cream sleep-suit, though she was so preoccupied that she added a third leg onto the woollen garment. Teagan penned a letter to Eamon, his quill scratching away at the parchment as he took periodic gulps of ale. The scraping of the feather was accompanied by the soft gliding of a whetstone over a blade. Zevran was perched in the window, methodically sharpening his blades and watching the searchers in the courtyard below.

The intensity of the search below had increased; the knights, retainers and household servants had detected the fresh note of panic in the teyrn's voice. Fergus was determined to avoid the need to put his sister's plan into motion – the very _thought_ of Flora setting herself out as bait made his blood run cold. Even as Zevran watched, the cellars were emptied of each barrel and cask; the kegs clustered on the dew-damp grass like some kind of peculiar audience. Mabari hounds scuttled back and forth, frustrated at their own inability to sniff out the intruder. The alchemist's scent was thoroughly disguised by the reagents used to facilitate his escape.

As evening drew in, the torches and braziers were lit with hurried urgency. Soon the castle blazed away as though it were under siege; every bastion and battlement illuminated in flickering firelight to prevent infiltration. Unusually for the time of year – and their location – the heavens had not yet discharged the nightly rainfall. The skies were clear and cold, the faintest ghosts of stars just beginning to manifest in the violet-tinged firmament.

The king and queen sat together on the bed, her leaning back against him; their children sleeping in her arms. Flora had fed both of them again – the greedy Taron had demanded a second suckle after his sister had finished – and now they slumbered in dozy contentment. Tears had spilled freely down Flora's cheeks once he had fallen asleep; tilting her head to avoid them dripping on her unsuspecting children. As she whispered to her husband, the notion of parting from them, even for a few hours, seemed utterly impossible.

Alistair had said nothing in response to this tearful confession; his heart seizing in the sudden, selfish hope that she would call the entire plan off. Instead of speaking, he held her more tightly and pressed his lips to her ear in tender comfort.

"I don't want to leave the twins," whispered Flora, wiping her running nose awkwardly on her shoulder to avoid disturbing the sleeping infants. _"How_ can I leave them? They're so tiny and… and new. What if they get hungry? Or frightened? I ought to stay with them, oughtn't I?"

Alistair kept quiet, hopeful lips brushing down the line of her neck. She inhaled his scent, sword-resin, leather and masculine heat, and drew comfort from the reassuring familiarity of it.

"But they're not safe with me, either," Flora continued, practical northerner countering worried mother. "Not as long as the alchemist is out there."

She remembered then the grotesque threat that the Rivaini had made while wielding the vial of abortifacient poison – that with a simple uncorking, he could prompt a bloody and painful expulsion of her children. The recollection made her veins boil with deeply uncharacteristic rage; and only hardened her resolve further.

 _I have to do this._

Two candle-lengths later and it became obvious that the teyrn's search would not be fruitful. Flora, with no small amount of reluctance, unwound herself from Alistair's arms and requested that a bath be brought up. Alistair's lips folded themselves into a tight and unhappy line, but he had nodded and added his own instruction that it be _hastily_ fetched.

Once the bath had been delivered with a variety of scented soaps, Flora pulled her nightgown over her head with no compunction whatsoever. Teagan, who had been halfway through downing a flagon of ale to calm his nerves, almost spat his mouthful across the room. The bann tactfully positioned himself facing the doorway, fingers quivering over the hilt of his blade as a flush prickled over his face.

Zevran, who had no such qualms, eyed the queen as she lowered herself into the bath with Alistair's assistance. The elf had finished sharpening his weapons; blades of various shapes and sizes lay neatly on a length of silk like some sadistic surgeon's toolkit.

"I forgot how little you are, _querida,"_ the Antivan murmured, watching Alistair settle himself on a small stool at the head of the bath. "You hid your body with baggy clothing for so long, and then you were- "

"The size of a whale," Flora replied, grateful for the chance to wash away the sweat and various newborn fluids she had been invariably doused in over the past few hours. "Why do so many soaps smell like they're meant to be _eaten?"_

"Wynne did a sound job of mending you," the elf continued, eyeing Flora's pale, silver-marked stomach. "One would not think that you had given birth so recently."

"I didn't do such to invite a _lusty male gaze,"_ chided the senior enchanter, shooting the elf a beady look over her knitting. "I know that Florence prefers her leather leggings to loose-fitting robes, and I wanted her to feel comfortable in them. It might have taken months for her belly to shrink otherwise."

Flora smiled at the old mage, tilting her head back as Alistair worked the unscented salt-soap through her mass of soaking hair.

"Thank you!"

The queen ran her hands over her belly, which was flat but still tender; the external skin had been shrunk, the womb within in the process of reverting to its original shape. She remembered how Beraht had threatened to cut the twins from her stomach and gave a little shiver of displeasure, the revulsion only strengthening her resolve.

 _My brother will arrest the surviving members of the Carta._

 _I'll capture this alchemist._

 _No loose ends._

Alistair cupped his hands together, pouring water over his wife's head to rinse away the soap. Flora smiled at him through a curtain of wet, dark crimson hair. The freckles on her nose that had been brought out by the summer sun and weeks spent outdoors were beginning to fade. He swallowed – hard - then leaned forwards and pressed his lips to her bare shoulder.

"You promise to me that you'll be safe, my love? Give me one of your northern oaths – swear on a crab, or something."

The corner of the king's mouth quirked without humour.

"I swear I'll be safe," Flora replied immediately, wiping wet strands of hair from her eyes and turning an earnest gaze on him. "May the Waking Sea swallow my bones and grind them to sand if I lie!"

"How macabre," murmured Wynne, brow furrowing as she accidentally dropped a stitch. "Ah, this must be Finian."

The knock on the door had everyone startling, heads swivelling in the direction of the chamber entrance. More than one hand had dropped to the hilt of a blade; relaxing as the arl of Amaranthine made a grim-faced entrance. Finian looked exhausted – he had searched every inch of the castle grounds with the hound-masters – and immediately fumbled his way to an armchair.

After he had been revived with a flagon of sweet Antivan brandy, Finian let out a long sigh; tilting his head back against the worn fabric.

"No sign of the fiend," he said bluntly, dangling the flagon from its handle with a discontented finger. "Are you sure he doesn't possess any magic, Flossie? Otherwise I'd suggest that he's turned into a gos-hawk and flown the battlements."

"He's not got any magic," Flora replied with certainty, bending her head closer to the hearth. Wrapped in a loose muslin sheet, the queen was sitting on a bearskin and drying her hair before the flames. "He's only got what he can conjure with his reagents."

Finian gave a slow nod; his own full Cousland mouth twisting in thought.

"And what's this I hear about some hare-brained scheme to place _yourself_ out in the open like a rabbit before a Mabari? I had to ask Fergus to explain it _three times_ beforeI could quite comprehend it."

The queen pointed a stern bitten-nailed finger at her brother, hastily clutching the muslin cloth with the other hand to stop it from slipping down.

"Don't try and degrade me from doing it!" she demanded, wide-eyed and indignant. "Everyone in here has already tried, _and failed._ "

" _Dissuade,"_ corrected Finian gently, his own pale irises shadowed. "You're quite set on the idea then, sweetpea?"

Flora nodded, and the arl let out a low, barely audible sigh.

"Well, then. Let's craft you into a lure that can catch a Rivaini flounder, eh?"

"No!" the queen protested, horrified. "The flounder is a majestic fish. It doesn't deserve the association!"

Dusk settled like a dove-grey mantle over Castle Cousland, draping itself in a muted veil atop the towers and battlements. Pinpricks of light blazed away at regular intervals where the braziers and torches had been lit; yet much of the fortress was now submerged in darkness. The teyrn of Highever, who had forsaken both lunch and dinner to scour every inch of the ancestral seat, finally had to admit defeat.

With a heavy heart, Fergus returned to the royal bedchamber with several Mabari trotting dejectedly in his wake. The guard outside the door – there were a half-dozen posted at the threshold – shifted their pikes and stood to one side to allow him entrance. As was now their habit, those within the chamber tensed and reached for their blades; relaxing only once they had confirmed who had made entrance.

The chamber was illuminated by light spilling from the hearth and a dozen candles; including a spiked iron ring that blazed away on the ceiling. The contents of the room were bathed in a mellow, burnt-umber glow; though the soft lighting did not ease the harsh edges of concern on the faces of those within. Wynne had put aside her knitting and was standing near the dresser, still and watchful as a Templar attending a Harrowing. Teagan was equally taut; a grim watchman positioned beside the window.

"I need another pin," Fergus heard his brother complain, drawing the teyrn's attention. "Floss, your hair has a life of its own. I've never dealt with such an _unruly mane_ before!"

Flora reached up to pull the roiling crimson mass over her shoulder, tilting her head to the side to allow Finian to insert another half-dozen hairpins.

"Ouch, you just poked me in the skull!"

Finian ignored his sister's complaints, gripping several pins between his teeth as he inserted each one with strategic concentration. In the soft luminescence of the chamber, the scar carved across his handsome face lost its lurid edge.

"There, Flossie. I think we're finished."

Flora eyed herself in the long mirror with slight trepidation, her pale gaze meandering from head to bare toe. The dressing-gown was crafted from exceptionally fine silk; gauzy and light as cobwebs as it clung to the supple contours of her body. It was tied with a sash at the waist, but slid artfully from her shoulder to reveal the silvered markings on her back and collarbone. Cut high on the leg, it also showed off the similar branding on her thigh. Her hair was pulled over one shoulder to keep her back on display; a thick fall of oxblood in stark contrast to the milky sheen of the fabric.

"Promise me, _carina,_ you'll wear this ensemble again once the circumstances aren't so dire," Zevran murmured, his eyes moving over her in open admiration. "You look like a creature from at least half of my night-time fantasies."

"Careful, sister," Finian warned, stepping back to survey his work. "This is Nevarran silk. One stiff breeze and you'll be unclothed."

Flora let out an unladylike northerner's grunt; not particularly concerned. She was more irritated at the fact that this garb was the most provocative outfit she had ever worn, and that it was _not_ for the benefit of her beloved husband. Instead, it was to lure the attentions of a fiend who probably would not have cared if she were wearing sackcloth and ashes, so long as he could feast his eyes upon the branding left by the Archdemon.

Her eyes then moved to Alistair himself, who was standing motionless nearby. The king was rigid and deeply unhappy, cradling a curious Theodora on his chest. Their daughter had woken at the sound of the preparations and refused to go back to sleep, fascinated by the movement and murmurs beyond her limited vision. Now, the little girl blinked up at her father with a handful of his tunic bunched in her chubby fist.

Flora turned away from the unfamiliar, sensual figure in the mirror – she could not _wait_ to put on her hideous mustard dressing-robe once again – and went to her cradled daughter. After pecking the baby, she then stood on her toes to kiss her husband. Alistair encircled her waist with his free arm, a soft groan escaping his throat.

"Maker's Breath, Flo," he said, hoarse and despairing. "If anything happens to you- "

"It won't," she whispered back, entreatingly. "I promise, brother-warden. Zevran will make sure of it."

"I swear, she will receive not even a _scratch,"_ the elf added, eyes bright and focused as a beast on the hunt. "Do not fret, dear Alistair."

"I've done nothing _but_ fret," retorted Alistair, looking down as his daughter gave a yawn. _"All day."_

Flora beamed down at Theodora, who gazed fixedly back up at her with eyes as huge and round as silver coins. The baby flailed a needful arm towards her mother; Flora reached out to take her when Finian murmured a warning.

"Don't let yourself be covered in…. _fluids!"_

"She'll behave," crooned Flora affectionately, nuzzling her face against the baby's dark head. "Won't you, Teddy?"

The baby gave a little gurgle, mouthing expectantly. Finian cringed as the tiny princess began to gum damply at the delicate material of the gauzy dressing robe. Flora took the baby over to the bed and let the fabric slither from her shoulder; baring her breast for the baby to feed.

"Don't be sick, your infant highness," advised Finian beadily across the chamber. "That silk dressing-gown is worth a small fortune."

Flora was barely listening, fascinated by the flexing of the baby's mouth as she suckled away greedily. The creamy skin of the newborn – only recently exposed to the world – was marked by two dimples, each one in the centre of a plump cheek. Flora was utterly convinced that her daughter was the most _beautiful and perfect creature_ in the entirety of Thedas; rivalled only by the sheer impeccable existence of her son.

"I love you," the queen whispered to the baby, who was still absorbed in her meal.

Alistair watched his fledgling family, lips folded in an effort to restrain his emotion. Despite this, the tension in the tall man's body was evident to those around him; it radiated from every inch of the king's broad-shouldered figure. His hazel eyes were fixed unblinking on his wife, who had sacrificed her greatest gifts in order to end the Blight. The faintest mottled patches on her fingertips indicated where she had once channelled energy that could repel the flame of an Archdemon. Now, stripped of her magic and empowered Warden blood, the Hero of Ferelden was – for all intents and purposes – an entirely normal twenty-year-old girl; slight in frame and a handful of inches over five foot.

"I swear, _mi rey,_ I'll return her safe."

This came from Zevran, low and earnest. The elf's gaze was also resting on Flora, his expression unreadable. Alistair gritted his teeth and gave a stiff nod in response; every fibre of his being straining to halt the entire plan in its tracks.

 _I'm the king,_ he thought wildly to himself as Flora replaced their sleeping daughter gently in the crib before lifting up a blinking Taron. _I could stop this whole mad idea._

Even as he thought it, Alistair knew that he would never actually do so; indeed, the thought of wielding royal authority over his best friend made him feel vaguely nauseous. Instead, he crossed to the bed and sat down beside his wife, smiling down at their suckling son. Taron clung to the breast with both plump, starfish hands; bleary eyes focused on his mother's chin.

"He's such a sweet little spratling," observed Flora, fondly. "I can't believe that fish _abandon_ their babies after they hatch. You'd think they would want to stay and look after them! But, then again, they do have _a lot_ of eggs. At least one… one hundred. That's a _big commitment."_

Flora had only the vaguest concept of what _one hundred_ was; numbers had never been her strong suit. When told that _ten thousand_ troops had arrived at Denerim in response to her summons, the (acting) Warden-Commander had asked _if that was a lot?_

"I'm not sure my nerves would cope with one hundred babies," Alistair replied, letting his lips brush over his wife's ear. "They're having a hard enough time with just the three of you, my darling."

Flora shot him a small grimace of apology, lifting the sleepy and satiated baby to her shoulder and patting him gently.

"I meant what I said earlier," she whispered, feeling a little fist clutch a handful of her hair. "This will be the last thing I do that causes you worry."

 _No more sneaking off in the middle of the night. No more unguarded visits to the alienage. I'm already used to being followed by guards and Mabari. I'll never try and escape them again._

 _I have to stop being so reckless. Not just because I'm the queen, but because I'm a mother now._

While the queen fed her children and spent a final hour with her husband, the teyrn, Finian and Teagan discussed the best possible location to set their trap. It had to be a spot isolated from the rest of the castle, to avoid some servant accidentally stumbling across the carefully laid preparations. There had to be a legitimate reason _why_ the queen would be positioned there, and there needed to be sufficient places of concealment for the others to hide.

Finally, they decided on a small courtyard in one corner of the outer ward, near the old stables and a boarded-up barn. The horses were now kept in newer facilities near the knights' quarters – constructed by Bryce Cousland – and few people ventured to their former residence. The courtyard was quiet and barely-used, and yet contained the perfect excuse for a visit from the queen. An old pond lay in the centre of the ill-kempt grass, a relic once belonging to William Cousland. The Blessed Age teyrn was placed under siege so frequently by the Orlesians that he had ordered the fishpond created to provide some form of pastime. There were no longer any fish resident within the pond; both it and the accompanying well had stood stagnant for decades.

When it came time for Flora to put their plan – _her_ plan – into motion, she genuinely did not think that she could go through with it. Alistair, grey with unhappiness, stood with a sleeping infant in each arm; she pressed her face to their warm bodies and cried. The thought of being apart from them, even for a few hours, was traumatic.

Alistair, who desperately wanted to seize on this moment of weakness, folded his lips together to stop himself from imploring her to abandon the whole scheme.

"Come on, Floss," Fergus said, in an ill-guided attempt to comfort her. "You'll be alright. Oriana hosted a feast for the local banns three days after she'd birthed Oren. She was away from the baby for an entire evening and she was absolutely fine!"

Flora did not know anything about Oriana's background – that, as a rich trader's daughter, she had been under an immense amount of pressure to conform to the expectations of a teyrn's family. Still, the queen assumed that Oriana had _not_ actually been 'absolutely fine', and had instead been an actress worthy of a starring role in the Highever Players.

 _I can't leave you,_ she thought wildly, pressing her lips first to Taron's golden head and then to his sister's dusky one. _You need me._

"What if they get hungry?" she whispered, horrified at the thought. "I won't be there to feed them."

"You've just fed them," countered Finian, gently. "They're asleep, now. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you'll be back with them."

 _And without the spectre of the alchemist looming in the background_.

 _No more loose ends,_ the queen thought to herself, taking a deep, steadying breath. _Come on, Flora. Pull yourself together._

As she lifted her head Taron yawned widely, flinging a small fist against his sister's face. Theodora did not wake but nestled closer to her brother within their father's arms, used to sharing the cramped space of Flora's womb.

The sight was enough to bring fresh tears to the queen's eyes; she blinked them back, hard. To distract herself, Flora raised her gaze to her husband's tortured face, feeling a pang of guilt as she saw the haggard shadow carved into the contour of the jaw.

"I'll be back soon," she promised, earnest and solemn. "And I'll have a new head for the spikes above the city gate."

Alistair gave a nod, too rigid with unhappiness to speak. Only when Fergus had cleared his throat in soft indication that they should depart, did the king speak up.

"Zev, take care of her."

It was both command and plea. The elf inclined his head, reaching out slender olive fingers towards the queen for her to take. The tattoos on his knuckles were so faded that they were little more than smudges; half-formed patterns and symbols blending into the rich ochre of the skin.

"As though she were my own _, mi rey."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: So they're going to go ahead with Flora's baiting scheme! I wanted to show the contrast between this and other madcap ideas that she's had - rather than hurling herself into it, we see real hesitation and uncertainty. The arrival of the twins has put limits on her recklessness, she realises that she has other obligations.

OMG Rome was so amazing! I highly recommend it to anyone with an interest in ancient history, or just beautiful architecture in general. STUNNING!

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	189. Setting Out The Bait

Chapter 189: Setting Out The Bait

Flora stood on her toes to kiss her miserable husband on the lips, then pecked each infant one a final time. With a lurch of nausea, she then turned her back on them, taking Zevran's offered hand. The queen's brothers and Teagan fell into step around her; forming an impromptu protective guard. As Flora took her first few steps in the teyrn's wake, she felt a stab of pain so brutal that she thought for a moment that the Rivaini had slid a sly blade between her ribs. A moment later, she realised that the pain had no corporeal basis, it was an emotional wound caused by the sudden absence of her children.

As Flora faltered, she felt Zevran's fingers tighten reassuringly around her own. She clung to the warm palm, grateful for his firm grip; using the elf's presence as an anchor to keep herself focused on what needed to be done.

" _Sé valiente, amor,"_ he crooned as they approached the stairwell that formed the twisted spine of Cousland Tower. "I know it must be hard."

Flora nodded miserably, shuffling along the flagstones with her head bowed. The rational part of her knew that this whole escapade had been her idea, but her heart was throbbing with a painful longing for her babies.

 _Pull yourself together,_ she told herself, taking a deep breath as they emerged onto the central landing. _You've a job to do, Flora._

As they descended the winding steps, Fergus glanced backwards to see if his sister needed any help. Flora was taking each step tentatively, one hand on the stone wall and the other still fixed in Zevran's tight grasp.

"Do you need to me to take her -?" the teyrn offered abruptly, canting his head towards their clasped hands. "In case?"

Although Fergus' spoke in fragments, his meaning was obvious.

 _In case the alchemist emerges from the shadows in a cloud of foul reagents._

Zevran restrained himself from retorting that he was twice as capable with one hand as the teyrn was with two.

"Should he come, I will prove effective enough," replied the elf instead, his usual effervescent lightness stripped away to reveal a grimly determined core. _"Carina,_ stay close to me."

The former Crow felt the full weight of the charge placed upon him by the king: not only was an anxious husband waiting for the safe return of his wife, but a pair of newborns were now missing their mother. Every muscle in his body was tensed in preparation to lunge, as though – impossibly - possessed by some spirit of vengeance. Despite the keenness of the situation, Flora felt a sudden surge of dizzying gratitude towards her elven companion. The queen squeezed his fingers tightly as they shuffled hand-in-hand down the stairwell; the eyes of various painted ancestors peering curiously at their progress.

"Ever since the day you decided not to kill me, you've done nothing but fight to defend me," she said, impulsively. "I _do_ love you, you know."

An almost imperceptible flicker passed across the elf's face as she spoke, his fingers clenched hers in an involuntary constriction. Zevran made no reply for several moments; lips pressed tightly together until they were approaching the final steps.

" _Mi florita,"_ he murmured, keeping his eyes carefully fixed on the doorway ahead. "I am undeserving of such an accolade."

"You deserve it," insisted the kind Flora, who had no idea what an _accolade_ was. "I'm so lucky to have met you."

Zevran let out a wry chuckle: despite her earnestness, their meeting had not been some happy accident of chance, but the result of contractual obligation.

" _Ah, querida,"_ he said, and seemed about to continue before flashing her an odd, wistful smile.

As they walked through the stone passageways towards the hidden courtyard, Flora felt as though they were immersed in some waking dream. The castle seemed taut around her; as though the ancient stone walls themselves were holding baited breath. The air was still – unusually, for the restless climes of the north – and no sound save for their own echoing footsteps disturbed the silence. She caught a fleeting glimpse of her own reflection in a dusty mirror as they passed by, and the sight was oddly disconcerting. The queen barely recognised this more provocative incarnation of herself; barefoot and clad in the filmy gauze of the dressing robe, with her hair tumbling loose over one bared shoulder.

 _I can't wait to put my woollen dressing-gown on again,_ Flora thought, grimly. _I miss it._

 _I miss my husband. I miss my BABIES!_

It had been less than a quarter-candle since she had parted from them, and yet the young mother felt the absence of her children like an ache in her gut. Guilt rose as a bitter sting in the back of her throat, and heat prickled in the corner of her eyes.

From the corner of his own dark gaze, Zevran noticed the corners of the queen's mouth turning dangerously south; the rapid blink that heralded the arrival of tears. He squeezed her palm with extra fierceness, correctly guessing the cause of her distress.

" _Pequena mama,"_ the elf crooned, his awareness of their surroundings in no way diluted despite his shifting focus. "Come now, with any luck all this will be over in a matter of hours. Then you can return to your tiny twins. Though I shall be sorry to see you change from such an outfit. You never fail to provide fuel for my fantasies, _carina."_

Both of Flora's brothers – who were a single pace ahead in the corridor – turned to shoot similar glowers of disapproval at Zevran. The only difference was that Finian had to concentrate his reproof within a single eye; fortunately, after five years in Orlais, he had perfected disdain to an art form.

"Flossie is a _mother_ now," he chided, prim as a Chantry priestess.

"And my desire is no less diminished for it," retorted the indefatigable Zevran. "I adore a lusty _mamacita."_

Flora was grateful for the back-and-forth sparring that continued between her brothers and her companion as they made their way through the passageways. It helped to take her mind off the task at hand; which suddenly seemed alarmingly near.

 _It was very well putting myself in harm's way when I had a shield._

 _But now, I have nothing. Nothing except my wits – and I don't have many of them._

 _Oh, but I do have –_

Fergus' interjection of surprise interrupted her thoughts. Just ahead in the passageway, the teyrn had paused while a servant unlocked a heavy wooden door.

"Pup, you're limping. Where's your strap?"

He was looking down at her weak knee, a frown deepening the crease of anxiety on his forehead. Usually, the sore joint was bound with a band of leather, and yet tonight it was pale and naked.

"Shall I have it brought down?" Fergus continued, as the servant withdrew the key from the second lock. Ironically, for a dwelling so recently betrayed, Castle Cousland was a verifiable fortress; each doorway could be fastened with at least two locks, a bolt or a bar.

"No," replied Flora, shaking her head. "It's fine. I'll be sitting down mostly anyway, won't I?"

Just then the servant swung the door open and Fergus spun back towards the entrance, all thoughts of the missing strap forgotten. The teyrn's hackles rose as the courtyard opened out before them; moonlight spilling over the flagstones like silvered foil.

The space seemed quiet and innocuous enough – a square-shaped hollow within a distant corner of the castle, lined with walls on three sides. An archway had once stood at its south face, though the entrance had long since been bricked up. A few stretches of unhealthy grass surrounded a fish-pond filled with stagnant water; near which a stone bench rested on the cobbles. A defunct well stood in the far corner, covered with a rusted iron lid that looked as though it had not been moved for several Ages. The whole area was overgrown – weeds ran rampart over the walls, a sickly apple tree was bent low by mosses. Neglect draped itself over the small courtyard like a mouldering blanket.

A curious moon hung low in the sky overhead, wreathed by a dazzling array of stars. Such was the night's natural luminescence that the additional light of torches was barely necessary. The air tasted damp and familiar on Flora's tongue as she followed her brothers out into the courtyard. Despite the coolness of the evening – and the delicate nature of her garb – the northerner barely registered the chill.

As Fergus, Teagan and Finian spread out with swords drawn, Flora headed straight towards the bench near the fish-pond. After a light caress of her hair and a murmur that he would respond in an instant, Zevran slithered off into the shadows. The sharp-eyed elf had already spotted a suitable vantage point; clambering up a discarded scaffold to position himself above the bricked-up archway. This afforded him both a view over the entire courtyard and the perfect angle from which to throw a blade.

Flora made her way across the flagstones - barely registering the cold against the soles of her feet and lowered herself to the bench beside the pond with a grimace. Her knee, which was indeed missing its strap, gave a distinct throb of protest in response. Fergus and Finian followed her to the bench, both physically disparate brothers made identical by concern for their sister. Fergus crouched before her, blue-grey eyes sweeping anxiously over her face.

"We'll be in the long gallery," he said, the strain audible in his voice. "Hidden, but close. I swear, Floss – the moment that the bastard shows himself, we'll be on him. He won't lay a finger on you."

"I'll be fine," Flora replied in an effort to reassure him, her paler gaze meeting his. "This was my idea, remember?"

"Well, I hope the fiend doesn't take too _long_ to emerge," Finian chimed in with a shiver, casting a baleful eye at the damp and unprepossessing surroundings. "I don't think I've ever been to this part of the castle before."

Flora had grown distracted by the fish-pond, which seemed to contain no life other than an array of overgrown weeds. A line creased itself into her brow as she leaned forwards, confirming her suspicions that there were indeed no fish present within its stagnant waters.

"There's no fish in here," she complained, indignant. "Where have they all gone?"

"Probably eaten during one of the Orlesian sieges," replied Finian, blasé to disguise his own nerves as he slid a hand over his hair. "You'll just have to imagine your haddock and tuna leaping merrily around in the water."

Flora shot him a look of genuine incredulity; much as he had done at her earlier attempts to spell the names of her children.

"Haddock and tuna are _salt water fish!_ They wouldn't live in a _pond."_

Finian cackled, then bent down to kiss the top of his sister's head with swift, impulsive affection.

"Be _safe,_ Flossie," he urged, suddenly solemn. "Don't take any risks. We'll be a heartbeat away."

"Aye," added Teagan, whose handsome, weary face increasingly clouded over with doubt.

The bann was aware that he was the oldest – save for Wynne – in a collection of relatively young men; and was uncertain whether he should have provided a voice of more seasoned reason in the face of Flora's reckless proposal. Teagan had a distinct feeling that if Eamon were present, the arl would _not_ have countenanced the endangerment of Ferelden's popular young queen.

Still, it was a plan already set in motion; the pieces in place and play almost begun. With great misgivings, the Cousland brothers and the bann left Flora sitting on the stone bench beside the stagnant pond, her slender, silk-clad figure incongruous against the dull backdrop.

It was very quiet within this small, isolated corner of Castle Cousland. Zevran, wherever he had secreted himself, was as still and silent as an effigy standing guard over a tomb. The elf was in predatory form; blending into the shadows with typical finesse. On the bench below Flora shifted on the cold stone, then stuck her feet out in front of her to inspect her bare toes.

The pond lay before her, overgrown and bedraggled with weed. The queen searched her memory to see if she could remember anything about this particular corner of the castle, but was able to recall nothing in particular. There had been a brief, familiar flicker in her mind when they had passed earlier beneath a stone archway engraved with laurel – though nothing solid enough for her to grasp and tug free from the fog of her subconscious.

For several minutes, Flora looked down at the water and tried to do as Finian had suggested. She summoned a mental image of a goldfish – something far more likely to reside in a residential pond – and tried to envision it swimming through the weeds. This, indeed, _did_ prove to be mildly entertaining. With some effort she pictured moonlight glinting off metallic fins, and small splashes of water disturbing the stagnant surface.

Unfortunately, Flora did not have a vigorous imagination, and soon ran out of creative energy. Her thoughts naturally went next to her babies. In the queen's opinion, Taron and Theodora were the _most perfect and beautiful creatures in the entirety of Ferelden's existence_ – but the thought of them brought tears to her eyes, since they were not currently in her arms; which was where they _ought_ to be.

 _What if they get hungry? What if they get scared?_

 _At least their father is with them. But he won't prove much use if they need feeding!_

This realisation only hardened Flora's resolve to have the alchemist caught and the whole nightmare ended. She reached up to pull her hair forwards, ensuring that the gauzy fabric of the dressing robe draped loose to show the markings between her shoulder-blades and across her thigh.

 _This is what you want,_ the queen thought, grim determination settling over her like an invisible mantle. _The chance to absorb some of Unglebeet's soul._

 _Come and get it._

 _Wait, what was the Archdemon called again? Unglebeet? Urbatron?_

Flora gave an inward shrug; four years of making _absolutely no_ academic progress in the Circle had firmly impressed upon her that she was no intellectual. She returned her eyes to the stagnant pond, her thoughts meandering off once more.

 _Poor Alistair. I hope he's not too worried._

She knew that this was a ridiculous thought, that her poor brother-warden was most likely going out of his mind. He had Wynne there to calm him and assist him with the infants if they did wake; but even the senior enchanter's assurances would prove little comfort.

 _My kind and handsome husband,_ Flora thought to herself, wistfully. _It must be killing you not to be here._

 _But you have to look after our babies, especially with a madman on the loose._

An hour passed with no movement other than the wind whistling along the ramparts overhead. The sky remained as lucently clear as a jewel plucked from the sea; the curious moon still focusing its attentions on the overgrown courtyard. Flora shifted position on the stone bench, stifled a yawn and wondered what she would have for breakfast the next morning. She was not particularly frightened – this was _her_ plan, this was home ground, and she was surrounded by her family and friends – but merely irritated and bored. She wanted the alchemist to show himself and be done with it.

After another quarter-candle had passed, the moon lost interest and directed its gaze elsewhere. The shadow bathing the courtyard deepened, growing richer and more secretive.

Flora, conscious of the hungry twins waiting for her in the chamber above, grew impatient. She sprawled back on the stone bench in an attempt to look vulnerable, letting her silver-marked hand trail to the flagstones.

"I am but a lowly worm," she announced out loud, imagining herself on the end of a fisherman's line. "A humble maggot."

A moment later, the queen realised that _literally naming herself as bait_ was probably not the smartest idea, and stopped. Instead, Flora ran her hands over her stomach with a touch of wistfulness. Although she had suffered throughout the nine months spent carrying her children, she felt oddly sad that they were no longer tucked safe within her.

 _Although that's a good thing at the moment. You're being hunted by a crazed alchemist._

She exhaled, slumping back on the bench in a far less ladylike manner than the calculated damsel in distress contortions she had just engaged in. Her eye was caught by the tangled foliage sprouting from the pond, where reeds and weeds had knotted themselves into tangled clumps. Algae covered the surface of the water like a soft, pale green tablecloth.

Slithering off the bench, Flora knelt beside the pond and reached out to grab a thick handful of weed. With a grunt of effort, she yanked it backwards, tearing the mass out by its aquatic roots. Along with the weed came a bundle of rotten reeds and detritus; splattering her with wet droplets and flecks of foliage.

Flora peeled a strand of something green and leafy from her cheek, reflecting with an inner cackle that it had not taken her long to mess up the most mature outfit that she had ever been placed in. Snorting to herself, she sat back on her haunches and ran her damp hands over her hair, blowing out her cheeks in resignation.

 _I'm clearly not intended to look sensual or – what was the word Zevran used?_

 _Hedonic._

 _No. I was meant for woollen dressing gowns and striped pyjamas._

 _Or nothing at all. What's the point of wearing clothes at night?_

As Flora mused over the purpose of various articles of clothing, a commotion broke out on the other side of a high wall. A horse, spooked by the unexpected flutter of a bat, had kicked out the back of its stall and was running amok. The excited shouts of the stable-lads, the various crashes and clatters drew the attention of those hiding around the isolated courtyard. Already resting on a knife-edge of tension, Flora's friends and companions turned towards the din with blades drawn and expectant vengeance on their faces.

In this split-second of distraction, the alchemist struck. There came a faint, almost animal hiss, then a wave of reddish smoke billowed outwards in a ring, expanding to fill the small courtyard with the startled queen at its epicentre.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol I think there are a lot of typical Flora moments in this chapter! Misnaming the Archdemon as Unglebeet, de-weeding the pond when there's a maniac on the loose, fantasising about fish…also, draping herself seductively over the bench and going I AM A WORM, A HUMBLE MAGGOT ahaha

Zevran, aaaaah my heart!

And UH OH! Here comes trouble, lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	190. The Bait and the Barb

Chapter 190: The Bait and the Barb

The startled Flora, still kneeling beside the pond with a fistful of weeds, felt a rush of prickling heat over her exposed skin. As the cloud expanded, it became simultaneously more dense; until it formed a physical barrier around the centre of the courtyard. All sound beyond its miasmic confines was oddly muffled, as though they were underwater. The queen looked up to see a figure emerging from the reddish haze, off-balance and yet utterly focused. They moved like something not quite human, reduced to a creature driven by a single all-consuming need. They were naked, their body covered in bloody gashes where the tattooed reagents had been gouged from the flesh. The skin over the skull had been similarly mutilated; dried blood was clotted in streaks down the alchemist's face and neck.

Flora's jaw dropped, both from the Rivaini's macabre appearance and from the realisation that the alchemical mist had effectively severed her from her companions. Instinctively, she pushed herself back across the flagstones, feeling the stone bench at her shoulders. The cold water from the pond dripped unpleasantly down the back of her neck; simultaneously, she broke into a sweat of sheer adrenaline.

"I see you've pushed out your brats," the man called out, his voice oscillating with the high waver of a madman. "The king must be happy with his whore."

"I'm his _wife,"_ replied Flora, continuing to edge back across the flagstones as the gap between herself and the deranged alchemist closed.

The man let out a laugh that sent a cold shiver down her spine, taking another unsteady step forward. His gaze was not focused on Flora's face, but on the silvered markings that emblazoned her thigh and her shoulder. The tip of his tongue extended beyond bloodied lips and flickered, scenting her in a disconcertingly reptilian manner.

Beyond the miasmic wall, Flora could hear muffled shouts and the frantic barking of dogs. Despite the cloud's flimsy appearance, it was clearly proving impenetrable to those trying desperately to gain access. She felt momentarily sorry for her brothers – and for Zevran – who must have been in the process of losing their minds.

The alchemist continued to advance on his prey like a snake gliding towards a rabbit; his breath coming hot and excited at the prospect of what was to come. His fingers scratched compulsively at his palms, long nails digging into the flesh to work free some sort of powdered ochre. Flora realised that this must be the source of the barrier's power; that the reagents embedded within the man's skin were capable of more than just loaned invisibility.

"Yes, it's worked out rather well, _strëx,"_ the Rivaini murmured, eyeing the half-clothed girl as she slithered away from him. The flimsy silk dressing robe rose up around Flora's knees and slipped from her shoulder as she inched backwards across the flagstones. The ring of mist surrounding them had risen to the height of the battlements; confounding those aiming to reach the courtyard by lowering themselves from the ramparts. From what she could glean from the fragments of shouts, the miasma itself possessed acidic qualities that repelled any attempt to penetrate it.

"Most fortunate for me that your hulking brute slew the idiot Beraht and ruined his schemes," he continued, licking his lips once more as he gazed at her. "For before I would have had to keep you alive after our _congress_ for his auction. Now… _now_ I can do as I please."

Flora was confused as to what he meant – not his latter comment, since she was aware that he had killed his previous mage-victims in the same brutal spirit that he had taken them with. The first remark he had uttered was more perplexing.

 _I wouldn't have called myself a hulking brute, even when I was fat with babe._

 _Oh, does he mean Sten? He does!_

 _He thinks that Sten killed Beraht. He doesn't think me capable of such an act._

 _Good. Let him think-_

Flora was so caught up in her own reveries that the alchemist's sudden change of pace caught her by surprise. The man lunged forwards, vaulting barefoot over the stone bench with dementia in his reddened gaze. Now he stood only a metre from where she sat on the flagstones, her hair falling in loose array about her shoulders. From this close distance, the queen could see the viciousness of the man's self-mutilation, some of the cuts on his flesh were deep enough to reveal a yellowish tinge of subcutaneous fat. The blood shone with a crimson sheen in the reddish mists; the man's eyes gleamed with almost demonic vigour.

"Don't worry," he lisped from his blade-damaged mouth, reaching down to grip himself in a hand. "I'll make the act itself quick. I have no desire for your body."

"Likewise," croaked the appalled Flora, tilting her head up to stare at him. The sharp-eyed queen had noticed the man's unsteadiness on his feet – a result, she assumed, of the blood loss inflicted by his own hand.

"But I cannot promise a painless death afterwards," the alchemist continued, the words slurring together as though drunk. "I need to bathe myself in your blood! Blood distilled by the holy magic of the Archdemon; pure and powerful!"

She had no idea what the Rivaini was talking about. Blooded and half-mad, he was far beyond the point of reason. His eyes had not left the silvered markings on Flora's skin – moving in an obsessive circuit between her shoulder, her thigh and her upturned palm.

With a throaty cry he fell upon her; hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Flora tumbled back onto the dead patch of grass, one hand rising to ineffectually push back at the man's chest. She felt his weight heavy atop her, the foul, rotted-meat stench of his breath washing over her face. His fingers pressed down on her shoulder, digging themselves possessively into the silver marking.

"I knew this was a trap," the alchemist snarled, flashing teeth stained with dried blood as he spoke. "You take me for a fool, you silly Fereldan bitch? I knew you for _bait_ the moment I saw you out here."

Their faces now only inches apart, Flora stared up at him, willing him to notice her final, glinting lure. She felt no fear; her blood surged cold and quick through her veins like an unforgiving Waking Sea current that dragged men to their deaths. The bleeding heft of him pressed against her sore abdomen, and yet she barely noticed, her mind focused as a shard of flint.

"And yet I still triumph," he gloated, tongue flickering over his shredded lips once again. "Your foolish countrymen flail at my barrier. My plan worked to _perfection- "_

The Rivaini cut himself off abruptly, a primal grunt of need emerging from his throat. He had just noticed the fleck of gold in Flora's gaze, Urthemiel's soul leaving a tiny imprint as it raged impotently through her body in an attempt to seek purchase. Fascinated, he stared deep into her pale gaze; lips parting with perverse desire.

"Well," Flora breathed back, sensing that his attention was diverted. "You forgot one thing."

The alchemist looked down at her, lip curling in disgust. From this close distance, his irises appeared the same oily red as his bloodied forearms; eerily akin to the maddened stare of a rabid Mabari.

" _Māfa?"_

"You forgot what _comes_ with bait."

The fisherman's daughter closed her grip on the handle of the fisherman's hook that had been strapped high on her thigh. With a fury that lashed out violent as a Waking Sea storm, she swung the hook upwards; driving the sharpened barb straight into the man's exposed scrotum. With the meaty sac impaled, she yanked the hook towards her in a brutal tug. There was a wet, slithering sound as the contents spilled out onto the flagstones.

The Rivaini alchemist's eyes rolled backwards in his head and he let out a howl of primal shock. Flora shoved her knee into his stomach, pushing the shrieking man away from her with a grunt. Now it was his turn to fall onto his back, contorting in paroxysms of agony. The hook protruded from his ruined manhood, the wicked metal prong red and glistening.

"That's for all the wrongs you've done," the daughter of Herring hissed, hair hanging loose around her face as she knelt beside him. "For the mages you've slain. For what you threatened to do to _me._ And for calling my babies _brats."_

The north cut through her words like a cold wind over the Waking Sea, her eyes flashed like a storm confined within pale cloud. The alchemist was retching bile now, gurgles of distress emerging from his throat. Flora clambered to her feet with a grimace – earlier, she had relocated the leather strap from her knee to her thigh in order to conceal the fish-hook – and swung her pale gaze around. As though connected to the focus of its master, the crimson miasma was beginning to dissipate; melting away into the cool night air as silhouettes and shapes formed behind it.

As the acidic mist cleared, Flora's frantic brothers and companions broke through with weapons in their hands and despair on their faces; in dread of what they might find. Most agonised of all was Zevran, who was as grey as a lost spirit beneath the natural olive of his skin. A collection of knights and retainers accompanied them, drawn to their impotent shouts.

They were greeted by the sight of the queen busily pulling up more clumps of weed from the stagnant pond; strands of green in her hair as she hummed tunelessly to herself. Flora had decided to pass the few minutes it had taken for the mist to melt away in a useful manner. The delicate silk robe was covered in sinister spatters and sprays of dark crimson, though she seemed utterly nonchalant.

Behind her, a pathetic and broken figure writhed on the cobblestones. The weak whimper of a wounded animal emerged from the Rivaini's throat; his entire genital region was a mass of ruined flesh with the barb of the fish hook rising triumphantly from its centre.

"Look," Flora announced solemnly to her brother and companions as they gaped in collective shock. "I've made a catch."

Fergus was so utterly transfixed by the sight that he did not move; jaw dropped and eyes round as saucers. The only sound in the courtyard was the gentle patter of autumnal drizzle, and the animalistic whimpering of the maimed alchemist. Teagan and Finian were both struck dumb, caught between joy and the urge to cup their own manhoods protectively.

In slow increments, the corners of Zevran's mouth turned up; his eyes lighting in rich and gleaming appreciation. The former Crow clapped his palms together in three slow beats, then dropped into a bow.

" _Las rosas más hermosas tienen las espinas más afilidas."_

Flora had no idea what the elf had said but assumed that he had compared her to a _particularly nasty_ fighting crab. She smiled at him, slightly pink in the cheeks, then turned imploring eyes on Fergus.

"Would you please fetch Alistair here? Tell him to bring the twins. Oh, and a sword."

Fergus, still struck dumb, made a slight gesture. One of his stewards, twisting his head behind him to take in the sight for longer, scuttled off in the direction of Cousland Tower. Teagan, who had reclaimed some semblance of movement, croaked out an instruction for a blanket. The bann then strode forwards, reaching out to assist Flora as she clambered stiffly to her feet. He kept his grip on her, green Guerrin eyes moving anxiously over her face.

"Are you alright, poppet? He didn't hurt you?"

Flora shook her head, casting a disparaging glance down at the writhing creature at their feet.

"I'm fine. A little bit sad."

"Sad?" Zevran murmured, appearing on Flora's other side. The elf cast an appreciative glance at the glinting barb emerging from the ravaged, ragged mass of flesh that had once been the alchemist's phallus and scrotum. "Why sad, _carina?_ This is a triumph."

"I'm sad because I don't think there's enough left of his manhood to put on a spike above the city gates," the queen said, mournfully. "I was going to have it displayed next to Beraht's head."

The elf reached out and curled an arm around her neck, drawing her head nearer so he could peck the top of it affectionately. He had recognised the fish-hook embedded in the alchemist's groin the moment that he had glimpsed it - it was the one that he himself had sharpened and trained Flora with. Instead of frustration at his own inaction, Zevran felt pride that his student had – once more – proven herself well.

"At least you can take his head as small recompense, _sirenita."_

Flora smiled vaguely up at him, stifling a yawn. The adrenaline was draining from her now like water from a spilled bucket, her heart settling into an even rhythm. The fury that had driven the scything plunge of the hook had melted away; she was filled instead with a hollow ache that she identified at once.

 _I want Alistair. I want my children._

She sat down on the stone bench, her eyes moving restlessly about the courtyard. All traces of the alchemical mist had disappeared, and the small, bedraggled space suddenly seemed very full: in addition to her family and companions, various servants and guards had gathered in awed, whispering clumps. Fergus and Finian were conversing in low, excitable tones still in mild shock at the feat that their little sister had pulled off.

 _They should come to Herring and eavesdrop on a few domestic arguments,_ Flora thought to herself, idly. _It isn't a proper row until someone threatens to drive a hook through someone's privates._

Zevran had relocated himself to crouch at the alchemist's head – delivering a contemptuous ball of saliva into the man's watering eye for good measure – with his blade nudging the man's throat. The elf, due to his old association with the pirate Isabela, had a passing knowledge of the Rivaini tongue. He took the opportunity to whisper gloating triumph into the man's ear, emphasising how _humiliating and utter_ his defeat was in these last few minutes of his existence.

A blanket of Mac Eanraig tartan was handed to Teagan, and the bann lowered himself to the bench beside Flora. The queen was biting impatiently at her thumbnail, awaiting the arrival of her family. The flimsy silk of the nightgown was sprayed with blood – though the alchemist had not produced such a deluge as had the dwarf, Beraht. With a healer's knowledge of anatomy, Flora had avoided angling the course of the hook through the main vessel at the top of the thigh.

"Here, petal."

The bann draped the blanket around Flora's shoulders and she curved the corner of her mouth at him gratefully. After a few moments of wriggling, she had slithered out of the bloodied silk robe; clutching the blanket over her chest in a loose fist.

"Are you cold?" he pressed, conscious of the drizzle and the hanging veil of cloud – and the fact that she was now _naked_ under the blanket. Teagan felt several beads of sweat break out on his brow, and resisted the urge to offer her his tunic. In the background, the alchemist was moaning; a guttural sound of agony that ran beneath Zevran's low taunts.

Flora darted the bann a surprised glance – she was a _northerner,_ of course she wasn't _cold! –_ and shook her head.

"Thank you, I'm fine. Where's Alistair?"

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOOHHHH I'm not going to lie, this chapter made me cringe and I don't even have a penis, lol! Anyway, I wanted to have Flora take revenge herself in this chapter, since she was the alchemist's intended victim – plus, despite portraying herself as the damsel in distress, Flo has rarely needed to be rescued ;P Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	191. A Summary Execution

Chapter 191: A Summary Execution

Flora clutched the blankets to her shoulders and peered anxiously up at the bann, eager to know the whereabouts of her husband.

"On his way," Teagan assured her, softly. "Are you alright? Maker's Breath, when that mist came up, we all – we all thought – _well._ We were mad as rabid Mabari, thinking of you defenceless against that monster."

The queen smiled gently at him; Herring girls were _never_ defenceless. The bann seemed to read this across her face because he laughed, casting another disbelieving glance down at the alchemist's ravaged manhood.

"Or, _not_ defenceless. Maker's Breath, poppet."

"Where did you hide it? I know I've only one eye, but I'm rather sure that I would have spotted a _massive fish-hook_ secreted about your person."

This second comment came from Finian, who was hovering at the rear of the bench. Flora duly stuck her leg out from the blanket, letting the folds of wool fall away to reveal the leather strap high around her bare thigh. There was a small nick in the pale flesh – near the silvered scar – where the tip of the hook had pressed into the skin.

"Tucked in here," she explained, absentmindedly wriggling her toes. "I'm surprised no one saw me hide it there when I was getting dressed."

"Well, _surprisingly_ , Floss," Finian replied, ruffling his sister's hair with a wry, affectionate palm. "We all gave you some _privacy_ to get changed. A concept foreign to you, I know."

But Flora had stopped listening, her pale gaze fixed on the far side of the courtyard. A figure, large and broad-shouldered enough to make the doorway seem small, stood there silhouetted in the shadow; clasping tightly wrapped bundles to his chest. Grizzles rose from his arms, the distinctive mewl of a hungry baby.

The queen rose to her feet, only just remembering to keep the blanket clutched to her body. The twinge in her knee and the pain in her abdomen suddenly were inconsequential; all other discomfort paling in comparison to the ache in her breast.

" _Alistair,"_ she breathed, biting back the instinct to name him _brother-warden._

Alistair strode forwards with relief crashing over his face like a rising tide; so absolute that it drowned out the accompanying spark of rage prompted by the sight of the alchemist. The king's gaze went from his wife, to the bloody and broken man cringing at her feet, then inextricably back to her.

"Take them," came muttered from the corner of his mouth; directed towards Flora's brothers, who hastily rose as the Theirin approached.

The _them_ in question were the babies, who were now puce in the face and grizzling with gusto. A startled Fergus and Finian reached forward to take one each; Alistair's attention was solely fixed on his queen. She reached out one arm to him as he approached – the second was still gripping the blanket in place – then let out a little gasp as he enveloped her in a crushing embrace.

" _Thank the Maker,"_ he croaked, ducking his head to press his face into her dishevelled hair. "I've passed the worst hour of my life up in the chamber - well, _one_ of the worst. You're unharmed, my darling? He didn't touch you?"

"I'm fine," she whispered, nuzzling against his broad and familiar shoulder. "I promise, I'm fine. I tried to cut off his manhood to give to you but I think I just sliced it in half."

This was enough to rouse Alistair from his wash of sentimentality. He blinked, angling his gaze over Flora's shoulder to where the alchemist now lay curled in foetal position. The king realised that the blood he had half-registered earlier was pooled around the man's crotch, which appeared little more than a mass of torn meat. What he had at first assumed to be the end of Zevran's embedded blade now revealed its true identity – the handle of a fish-hook.

"Maker's Breath," he repeated, in slightly strangulated tones. _"You_ did that, Flo?"

"Mm," she replied distractedly, her eyes moving to where their children were grizzling in the arms of their uncles. Theodora was mouthing gummily at the front of Fergus' shirt, growing increasingly distressed at the lack of nourishment. Finian was frantically trying to bob a caterwauling Taron up and down to placate him; the tiny prince outraged that his demands were not being met.

Flora drew back from Alistair, who released his queen with reluctance; his eyes still moving restlessly over her to ensure that she was unharmed.

"I need to feed them," she whispered, her breast aching in response to the hungry cries of their children. "And you need to- "

A dark and purposeful shadow had already settled across Alistair's face. Even as he stepped back, his hand was dropping to reach for the hilt of his sword; thrust hastily into his belt as he left the bedchamber. His eyes settled on the man groaning on the cobbles nearby, who was letting out a high-pitched keening akin to a trapped animal.

As the king stared down at the man who had possessed such evil intentions towards his queen, Flora herself had entirely different priorities in mind. She lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the damp grass, holding up her arms towards her brothers. Each twin was delivered into her arms and she nuzzled the head of each one in apology, guilt constricting her belly as they flailed demanding arms towards her.

"I'm sorry, tiny tadpoles," she crooned, letting the blanket slip from her chest to pool around her waist. "Are you hungry? Are you _starving?_ You've definitely both got your parents' appetite. Zevran, can you help?"

With Zevran's assistance and some careful manoeuvring, they managed to position the hungry twins so that they could feed simultaneously. Feeling a little like a Mabari bitch suckling pups, Flora leaned back against the stone bench and tilted her head across to where Alistair was staring down at the unfortunate alchemist.

Alistair, as befitting a Fereldan monarch, did not habitually cloak himself in a mantle of intimidating sovereignty. He was not, after all, some Orlesian emperor or Tevinter tyrant – he was a Theirin, who were renowned for their unpretentious candour and approachability. Yet now, as he stood above the man who had planned to commit atrocities against his wife – a newly made mother – the king radiated an aura of such terrible, mighty assurance that he might have been in possession of a crown for decades, rather than mere months.

"So," the king said, in a low and contemptuous tone that had only the faintest resemblance to Alistair's usual amiable drawl. _"You_."

It was not a question, but a flat declaration of fact. The alchemist looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, mouth open in a groan. The grass around him was slick and dark with his own bodily fluids; he looked a pitiable figure and yet there was defiance in him even now.

The rest of Flora's family and companions had gathered around now, their stares hard and equally censorious. Although this was no formal trial, they seemed to stand as unofficial jury with a guilty verdict writ naked across their faces.

"The creature who would have stolen a man's wife from him," continued Alistair, disgust pulsating from each word. "Who would have taken a queen from a nation that needs her. Who would have deprived my children of their _mother."_

The silence in the courtyard was absolute, save for the king's low, ominous condemnation. Everyone – including Flora – seemed to be waiting with baited breath. The alchemist had bitten back his groans, but now lay panting in ragged bursts; aware that these were the last gulps of air that he would take. Theodora let out a gurgle, casting bleary, bewildered eyes around at the occupants of the courtyard before returning her attention to her dinner.

"You would have stood trial in Denerim had you not broken your bonds," the king said, cold and pitiless. _"This_ is a punishment brought about by your own doing."

Alistair drew his sword with a singing thrum of metal, the sound echoing about the desolate walls. He held the blade aloft so that it caught the torchlight, glinting like some avenging spirit's weapon. He then tilted his head towards his wife, who was still sat with her back against the stone bench, their children at her breast.

"My love?"

Flora lifted her eyes from Taron's gilded head; she had been admiring the strength of his flexing throat as he pulled hungrily at the nipple. She peered at the alchemist, and – despite everything – there was the faintest glimmer of pity within her pale gaze.

"All your talent came from within," the queen said, quietly. "Not stolen from others. You had a rare gift and you chose to abuse it."

She then returned her attention to her children, shifting herself slightly so that there was no possibility that they would see. Alistair gave a brief nod, his jaw clenched and steely resolution in his eyes.

"Get him on his knees," he muttered; Teagan and Fergus hastened forward with grim purpose. Together, they manhandled the alchemist into position, taking no care to be gentle. The man coughed weakly, dropping his head with a low groan.

"Look at me," snapped the king, showing no sign of strain despite the weight of the aloft blade. "I would make this clean and not butchery, though that's more than you deserve."

The Rivaini looked up at him with contempt gleaming in an oily pupil. He opened his mouth as though to speak; the muscles in his throat contracted in the beginnings of vitriol. Although it had been over a season since the king had last slain another man, there was no hesitation in Alistair's swing. The blade scythed through the air in an arc of silverite, slicing clean through the man's neck. The head – eyes still bulging with spite – went rolling across the grass, only stopped from landing in the pond by Alistair's descending boot.

There was silence for a long moment, interrupted by Theodora giving a loud hiccup and then a startled squawk at the sound from her own throat. As the baby's face contorted in alarm, her brother's eyes similarly widened – he too looked on the verge of tears. Alistair lowered the blade – it had a clean stripe of blood across one section – and shoved it back into his belt. He then strode across to his wife without giving the headless corpse a second glance, crouching down to help soothe their frightened children.

While the king added his low, reassuring rumble to the queen's whispers, Fergus took charge of the situation.

"Wrap the body and the head," he ordered several hovering retainers, who were pink-faced with excitement. "They'll be going back to the city. And wash the filth from the flagstones."

With their newborns calmed and drowsy, Alistair turned his attention once more to his queen. Flora was yawning, the blanket pulled up loose around her shoulders; she looked dishevelled and suddenly very tired. The king leaned forward over the twins and cradled her face in his palm, letting his thumb follow the high outline of her cheekbone. She half-smiled at him, exhaustion dimming the silver in her eyes to a dull pewter.

"My love," he murmured, fondly registering the fading tan freckles scattered across her nose. "My sweet wife. In the morning, I want to hear _everything_ – but for now, you need to rest, baby."

Flora nodded, slumping inelegantly into his tunic.

"Mm. Yes, please."

The next half-candle passed in a blur. Flora was aware of Alistair taking the twins gently from her, then passing them up to their elder uncle. She then felt herself lifted against the familiar warmth of her husband's broad chest. Wrapping a grateful arm around his neck, Flora let her head drop to his shoulder. The journey up to the bedchamber passed in what seemed like a heartbeat – though she had been dozing for much of it – and soon the excited chatter, press and bustle was shut out with the exquisite sound of a door settling shut in its frame. The Royal Guard usually preferred that the door be left a few inches open; tonight, in the wake of the evening's events, they had agreed to Alistair's request and let the world be temporarily shut out.

Fergus had placed the babies in their crib but neither one wanted to settle amidst the artificial comfort of blankets, so Flora ended up with her arms full once again. Fortunately, nestling back against her husband with their children in their arms proved the best possible remedy for the evening's ordeal. Determined not to allow memories of the alchemist to taint this precious third day of the twins' existence, she inhaled the soapy, clean scent of the babies' hair and nuzzled her face against their impossibly soft skin. When this was combined with the tender caress of Alistair's thumb around her ear, and the steady reassurance of his heartbeat between her shoulders, Flora soon felt the nervous tension drain from her muscles, the adrenaline washed away like ridges of sand before an incoming tide.

"I love you, Lo," her best friend murmured in her ear, low and forceful. "I love you beyond count or measure. Thank the Maker that you're unharmed."

"I love you too," she whispered, smiling down at Taron as he explored his yawning sister's face with tiny, feather-light fingers. "I'm so sorry that I made you worry. I did put myself at risk, and I shouldn't have."

Alistair pressed his lips to her forehead, watching the firelight cast strange shapes against the soot-smeared plaster of the hearth. He thought for a moment before replying, not wanting to hurt her feelings with clumsy phrasing.

"You're an enigma , Flora," he said eventually, and the use of her proper name drew the queen's attention. "On the one hand, you're the _Hero of Ferelden._ The woman who led the nation's first united army, slew the Archdemon – don't cross your eyes at me, darling, you _did_ – and who exacts terrible vengeance on those who try to exploit her. That's how much of Ferelden sees you."

Flora grimaced, not entirely sure what an _enigma_ was. She had some idea of what Alistair meant though, recalling the six foot tall behemoth that was _Florence Cousland_ as interpreted by the Highever Players; kicking Darkspawn in the crotch and punching the Archdemon in its scaffolded wax-paper snout.

"And, don't get me wrong," he continued hastily, desperate not to offend her. "I see you as that. The hero of the nation. I _awarded_ the honours to you, remember?"

Flora nodded; she did.

"But…" and here Alistair faltered, his fingers clenching hard on his wife's mustard wool dressing-gown as though to compensate for the tremor in his words. "But, sweetheart- "

He lifted her hand in his to illustrate his point; letting her slender, bitten-nailed fingers curl against his calloused palm.

"You're my sweet wife," the king said, softly. "The queen of my nation. And the mother of my children. I _can't_ let you put yourself in such danger again. I know you're a northerner, and a _tough Herring lassie- "_ here, he tried his best to imitate the thick northern brogue – "- but you're too precious to me. You… you're everything that's good about the world, and I don't know what I would do if I – if I ever _lost- "_

At the crack in her brave and earnest husband's voice, Flora's heart gave a painful lurch. Her arms were full of their children and so she could not embrace him; but she twisted her head and nuzzled her face against his neck like a Mabari.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, earnest and heartfelt. "I promise I won't do anything reckless in the future."

The intensely relieved Alistair drew her more closely against him, encircling her and their infants within strong arms. His lips whispered over her neck and she craned herself towards him, exhaling in relief as their bodies moulded neatly together. They stayed wound together for the next quarter-candle in contented silence; listening to the soft, sleeping noises of the twins.

Eventually, Alistair leaned forwards and helped her to place Taron and Theodora in their crib alongside the bed, letting the blanket rest gently atop their curled-up bodies. Both parents held their breath for a few moments in case the shift in position roused one of the two from their slumber – but all seemed calm. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, they were alone.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Flora leaned forward to adjust the blanket with careful fingers; letting out a long, low exhalation. She felt Alistair's arm drape around her shoulders and twisted her head to gaze up at him through the shadows. He stared back hard at her, as intent as if the fingerprints of Andraste were pressed in the contours of her cheeks. A thumb came up to trace the outline of her jaw, rising to press against the full swell of her mouth. Flora willingly let her lips part, her dark-lashed gaze not leaving his face. Alistair continued to test the ripeness of the flesh, tracing the sulky curve with unbroken concentration.

"Flo," he breathed hoarsely after a moment. "You're so _Maker-damned_ gorgeous. I wanted you the moment I saw you."

Flora felt her body respond with a flutter of instinctual excitement at this raw edge in her husband's words. The sudden flame of desire was potent enough even to cut through the fog of weariness. She angled herself towards him in deliberate offering; letting the folds of the dressing robe fall open.

Alistair let out an indescribable sound deep in his throat, eyes moving covetously over her nakedness. He reached for her, sliding his hands inside the dressing robe to rest on her hips. Together they lay back on the tangled blankets, the king's exploratory fingers relearning the planes and contours of his wife's newly-slender body. His caresses were accompanied by needful kisses; their mouths tangled together with increasingly frenzied desire.

 _How is it that every part of me is desperate for him?_ Flora thought wildly to herself, her palms roving over the strong, naked muscle of his back as one leg hooked itself possessively over his broad thigh. _I think even my toes are full of lust. My eyeballs. My knees._

With a groan, Alistair reached up to tug free the restraining band from beside her ear. The young Theirin loved to see his queen's dark red hair spread decadent across the bed like spilled port-wine. As his mouth dropped to revere the hollow of her throat, Flora's fingers descended to explore the state of her husband's arousal. Letting out an inadvertent squeak of delight moments later, she wasted no time in unbuttoning the waistband of his breeches and freeing its straining contents.

Alistair's breathing took on a newly ragged edge as he leaned back on his elbows. For several minutes he allowed himself the indulgence of watching a beautiful mouth at work; his wife's tousled head moving up and down with an endearing mixture of enthusiasm and intense concentration.

"Flo – sweetheart- " he croaked eventually, sweat running in rivulets down the strong hollows of his throat. "Darling, I … I won't _last-_ if you- "

Pausing her attentions, Flora rolled onto her back and let her thighs part in preparation. She flailed a desperate hand towards her husband, turning needful eyes on him.

"Please. _Please. It's been weeks."_

Alistair was only too happy to oblige. With a grunt that sounded more animal than human, he positioned himself above her on strong arms; head hanging low and a vein in his neck pulsing. He reached down to take himself in hand, bending her sound knee up in preparation.

Moments later, the queen let out a squeal: _"Aieeee!"_

This was followed by: _"Ow, ow, ow!"_

Alistair, eyes bulging in dismay, hurled himself backwards as though spring-loaded. Tangled in the blankets, he sprawled on the bed in a daze, deflating rapidly. Flora sat up, pushing her sweaty hair back from her forehead. She then peered warily between her own thighs as her husband clawed back some composure.

"My sweet girl," he croaked, hastily stuffing himself back into his breeches. "I'm so sorry. Are you alright?"

"I think I'm still a bit _tender_ down there," Flora replied, somewhat grumpily. "Even though everything's been healed. Grrrr!"

She let out a northerner's grunt of dismay. Alistair reached out to draw her against his chest, pressing his lips affectionately to her rumpled hair.

"Wynne warned me not to try and bed you yet," he said ruefully, buttoning up the front of her dressing-robe. "I think she must think me a _sex fiend._ Are you sure you're alright, sweetheart?"

Flora nodded, tugging the gown over her thighs with a thoroughly perturbed expression. _She_ felt like a _sex fiend –_ she had broken out into a shameless sweat of excitement at the prospect of lying with her beloved husband. The perspiration was cooling on her breast as her anticipation drained slowly away, leaving disappointment in its wake. The king laughed at his wife's face – the pout was even more exaggerated than usual, her pale eyes huge with outrage. He leaned forwards to kiss the end of her freckled nose, then – unable to resist - delivered another to the wide, sulky mouth.

"Darling, it's fine – we can wait a little longer. Anyway, the ragwort potions haven't arrived from the Circle yet."

Months prior at South Reach, the young couple had decided that they would not do anything to impede future conceptions; wanting as large a family as the Maker might grant them. After the revelation of _twins_ – and Flora's twenty-four hours spent in labour – they had decided that perhaps they _would_ take the ragwort potion for a year or so.

"I know _lots_ of methods of preventing a baby catching," Flora replied, confidently. "You don't need ragwort."

"Such as what, my love?"

"If you do it _standing up,_ you won't get with child. Or, after you lie together, you spin around in a circle and say ' _no, thank you,'_ three times."

Unfortunately, Flora's knowledge was based on little more than old wives' tales and rumours she had overheard at the Circle.

" _Really?"_ breathed Alistair, who possessed even _less_ knowledge on the subject. "That's good to know! Maybe we won't need to wait for the ragwort potion."

"Or," continued Flora, warming to the subject. "If you lie together on the beach with the tide going out, you won't get with child. Or if you both close your eyes the entire time you're doing it. Then the essence of the baby won't know what direction to go in."

"Maker's Breath!"

"Or if you do it upside-down."

" _Upside-down!"_

* * *

OOC Author's Note: Hahahaaha oh nooooo, Flo, DON'T! Learn yourself some valid contraception methods, lol. Anyway, I liked that this chapter ended on a bit of a lighter note. Alistair's given her 'the talk' about putting herself in danger, the alchemist is dead… I thought I would just share about where I see this story going! I'm going to end it around Satinalia – so time to get them settled back in Denerim, wrap up all the loose ends… but they've got the twins now, neither of them have the tainted blood, she's promised not to put herself in any more danger and he's got a kingdom to run :P

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	192. The Twins' Public Debut

Chapter 192: The Twins' Public Debut

The next morning dawned bright and still, the cloud hanging motionless in the air like Orlesian spun sugar. Even the Waking Sea seemed more placid than usual, gnawing quietly away at the cliffs at the base of Highever. Far in the distance, a small group of ships waited patiently for some turbulent air that could be harnessed by their vast sails. These ships sported the flags of Theirin, Denerim and Ferelden, though the colours were too distant to make out from the shore.

In contrast to the external stillness, within Castle Cousland life was rapidly reclaiming its usual rhythm. Now that the excitement of the past fortnight had passed – the queen's abduction, her triumphal return, the birth of the royal babies and the capture of the alchemist – the inhabitants quickly turned their minds to upcoming events. The Landsmeet had been invited to Highever to witness the Carta's trial, and – despite attendance being optional – the entirety of Ferelden's peerage had elected to attend. Firstly, they wished to demonstrate their collective opposition to organised crime; which, according to them, would _not_ achieve a foothold within Ferelden. Secondly, they wished to demonstrate their support for the young Theirin and his wife, who had so recently saved their nation from the horrors of a fully-fledged Blight. They also wished to pay their respects to the new heirs – it had, after all, been _decades_ since the last royal birth.

Finally, it had been almost a year since Rendon Howe's treacherous attack on his hosts. The nobles of the Landsmeet wished to attend the memorial that Fergus had been planning over the past few months. Bryce Cousland had been universally respected amongst the great and good of Ferelden; more importantly, he had been _well-liked._ The chaos of Blight and civil war had prevented any formal funeral, but the young teyrn was determined that the anniversary of his family's death should not go unmarked. Chambers would need to be prepared for these new arrivals, quarters for their retainers found; their horses and dogs accommodated. Sufficient food to fill two hundred extra bellies would need to be sourced, and repairs applied to the more decrepit parts of the castle. There was much to do before Harvestmere, and scant time to do it in.

To match the bustle within the high castle walls, there was equal chaos within the royal bedchamber. The twins had woken up every two hours during the night wailing for food; after being fed, they had taken another half-candle to go back to sleep. By the time that the seventh bell had rung and the castle had awoken, both new parents sported dark circles beneath their eyes. Flora then decided that she wanted to go down to break her fast with the others – she was tired of the four walls of the bedchamber, finely decorated as they were – and so the twins had to be made ready for their public debut.

Unfortunately, venturing beyond the bedchamber with newborns proved to be a somewhat arduous task. Taron gleefully wet himself the moment that he had been dried off after his flannel-bath; whereas Theodora drank her own breakfast too greedily and proceeded to projectile vomit all over her startled mother. Flora – who, in her long lifetime as a healer, had been covered in multifarious bodily fluids – handled the situation with cheerful nonchalance. Handing their wide-eyed daughter to her father, the queen clambered back into the cooling bathtub for the second time that morning.

The king and queen had to dress themselves between attending to the needs of their children; which at first resulted in an inside-out tunic and back-to-front smalls. Flora forgot to brush the back of her head until accidentally glimpsing the knotted mass of dark red in the mirror. Alistair shaved half of his face and then had to soothe his grizzling son, who had woken up in distress.

Finally, he was clad in the customary fur-etched leathers of a Fereldan king, and she in a Cousland blue tunic and – joyfully – a pair of leggings. For the first time in months, Flora's feet fit into her boots without pinching and the leggings clung to her waist without digging in. Eyeing her reflection, she gathered her hair up in its high ponytail while humming a tuneless Herring shanty.

"My Waking Sea pearl," Alistair murmured, sliding an arm around her waist from behind. "You're incomparable. Can I claim a kiss from the fairest of ladies?"

"Meee?"

"Who else, my love?"

Flora twisted and stood on her toes to plant her lips against the underside of his chin; the only part of her tall husband's face she could reach without him bending. Quick as a Mabari scenting a rabbit, Alistair ducked to claim a kiss from her mouth. She beamed even as a flush spread across her cheeks; still made shy by his attentions.

The twins, who slept far deeper when cradled in an arm, were lifted one at a time by their parents. Alistair took Theodora, and Flora Taron; both new parents taking deep breaths before venturing out into the daytime bustle of the castle.

Fergus met them in the corridor, dark shadows also etched beneath his own eyes. His sleep had not been interrupted by demanding newborns, but by dreams of his own family; who had met their own tragic demise near-on a year prior. The teyrn had been plagued by visions of his wife and child's last terrified moments, while he had been preoccupied with chasing glory at Cailan's side. Having been raised on tales of Bryce Cousland's heroic escapades against the Orlesians, Fergus had not hesitated to answer the young king's summons for aid.

"Morning," the teyrn greeted the royal couple, smiling with genuine pleasure down at his little niece and nephew. "How many times were you woken last night? Finn and I had a wager."

"Three times," replied Alistair, rubbing his eyes. "No, four. Please tell me that there's a spread of food somewhere in the castle, _preferably_ with a selection of cheeses. I'm starving."

Besides him, Flora was yawning so widely that for a moment she appeared nothing but full Cousland mouth. Fergus chuckled, reaching out to brush his thumb gently over the top of Taron's gilded head.

"Aye, there's cheese there," he said, a vague note of distraction in his tone. "There's a veritable feast, from what I saw on the way up here."

Flora closed her mouth and eyed her brother, noticing both the bruised tiredness in the gaze and the way that his hand lingered on the baby's head. Although she did not know the exact date of Rendon Howe's treachery, she knew that it was soon approaching. The queen felt a fresh pang of sympathy for her brother, who had lost not only parents, but wife and child in the most grotesque manner.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself – even the _thought_ of such a tragedy made her nauseated – Flora caught Fergus' eye and ducked her chin towards the dozing Taron.

"Do you want to hold him?"

Fergus was reaching for his nephew even before she had finished speaking. The teyrn tucked the newborn within his arm, long-buried memory rising to the fore; smiling down at the yawning baby.

"Good morning, little man," he said, very softly. "Maker's Breath, you can tell he's a Theirin. Look at that Marician jawline."

Flora hid her dubiousness. The baby's face looked like a sweet, round blob to her, but she assumed that perhaps Fergus had the more experienced eye in the matter.

They headed down the spiral stair that served as a spine to Cousland Tower, then out, blinking, into the weak daylight of the inner ward. The servants and retainers they met ducked hastily aside, dropping into bows and curtsies.

"Your Majesties – Lord Fergus!"

Many of them also offered congratulations to the royal couple on the birth of the twins. After all, this was the first time that the royal family had been seen properly in public, not including the secretive sojourn the previous night. The maids all craned their necks to coo over the sleeping infants; the menservants bit back the urge to do the same.

Both parents were unable to restrain themselves from beaming with pride. Alistair, his chest puffed out like a hunting bird desiring to impress, raised his chin as he walked down the corridors with wife and babes. The young Theirin's family had grown four-fold in a mere year; a fact which made him almost dizzy with joy and gratitude.

They crossed the inner ward and entered the main bastion of the castle, where the great and lesser halls were located. Since the breaking of the fast was not an event open to the general residents of Highever, it was held in the smaller of the two halls. Even this lesser hall was larger than the great hall of Redcliffe Castle; a draughty space with a wooden-ribbed ceiling like the hull of a ship. Faded banners hung from the eaves, festooned with cobwebs.

"Everyone else should be here already," Fergus said, gently passing his sleepy nephew back across to his sister as they came to a halt outside the doors. "I think there's a few dozen knights and their retainers on the benches, but it should be a relatively subdued affair. Nice and quiet."

Flora bit back an incredulous snort at this casual dismissal of _a few dozen_ people and their followers. Still, she was growing used to this new public life that came with the job of _queen,_ the fact that servants and knights and retainers were now an integral part of her existence. Alistair wore a similarly amused expression; the couple shared a quick, mutual glance as they stood together before the vast wooden doors.

As the Cousland-liveried guards hastened to let them in, Flora adjusted the blanket more tightly around Taron, tucking in a plump little arm that had escaped the knitted wool. The baby yawned and she ducked her head to kiss the top of his head, unable to resist nuzzling her nose against the soft wisps of golden hair. Nearby, nestled in her father's arms, Theodora had just drifted off to sleep.

The doors swung open into the lesser hall, and those gathered on the benches immediately fell silent. At the far side of the space, their friends and companions sat on an elevated platform with food already spread out on platters before them. Both king and queen exhaled: the atmosphere did not appear to be raucous, and there was a chance that their sleeping twins would remain undisturbed.

Unfortunately, the herald – who had been lurking in the corner of the hall, waiting for this exact moment – now pounced gleefully. He lifted his trumpet and blasted out a shrieking salutation. The brassy statement of arrival rang out to the rafters, drawing the attention of all those seated at the tables.

" _KING ALISTAIR AND QUEEN FLORENCE OF FERELDEN!"_ the herald bellowed triumphantly as Fergus cursed under his breath. _"AND THEIR CHILDREN."_

The herald was so excited to make the first public announcement of the royal family that he entirely forgot to mention the teyrn. As the new parents' jaws dropped in simultaneous dismay, there was a deafening cacophony of scraping wood as everybody in the hall shoved back their chairs and leapt to their feet. At the same moment, cheers and calls burst forth from four dozen throats; cries of congratulations mingled with praise for the hook-wielding queen.

The eyes of both infants flew open in this rudest of awakenings. Mouths worked in unison, howls emerging from twin throats as they wriggled and squirmed in distress. Unfortunately, this only prompted more cheers and chuckles – albeit well-meaning ones – from the Cousland knights. With the exception of one older man, they were all young and entirely unfamiliar with babies.

"Listen to those lungs! They sound like you yelling for mead, Dougal."

"Poor little bairns! Wish the old teyrn was here to see 'em."

"Great Cousland bellow!"

"Look at that one – hair just like the lady Eleanor, see? Maker bless them!"

Flora clutched Taron to her breast as a bead of sweat broke out on her brow. She was grateful for the cool and unamused implacability of her features; behind the stoic curl of the mouth, the queen was grinding her teeth.

" _They're laughing at the twins,"_ she whispered indignantly up to Alistair, who had a vein pulsing visibly in his forehead. "The poor tadpoles are terrified!"

"I know," her husband muttered back, patting Theodora's back as she flailed an angry arm. "Let's just sit down."

They made their way up to the top table, where their companions and an amused Finian were already waiting. To Flora's somewhat distracted delight – the twins were still bellowing - Cod and Lobster had been allowed to accompany them to breakfast as a special treat. The pups waited with barely restrained joy beneath the table, scampering in excitable circles.

As Fergus had promised, a dozen silver platters had been spread out with various inviting contents; including Alistair's longed-for selection of cheeses. As the king and queen took their seats at the centre of the top table, the rest of the hall's occupants also sat down and resumed eating. Beneath the table, Cod and Lobster competed for the privilege of lying across the queen's feet.

"Oh, dear," observed Finian, eyeing the distressed twins beadily. "What's wrong with our little prince and princess? They look like angry tomatoes."

"They _were_ fine," Alistair replied grimly, cupping the back of a grizzling Theodora's head as he cradled her against his shoulder. "Until everybody in the room decided to yell loud enough to raise the roof. I'm sure that racket could've been heard in Val Royeaux. Hush, Teddy, everything is _fine._ There's no need to _cry,_ duckling _."_

"Spoken like a parent," replied Wynne, smiling fondly down at the unhappy baby as she gripped tiny fingers around a clump of fur on Alistair's tunic. "You know that they meant no harm."

"I know," the king admitted, leaning Theodora back with her head nestled in his palm. His daughter gazed up at him with huge, pale eyes; her rosebud mouth parted as though ready to emit another wail. Alistair smiled down at her, unsure how developed her vision was; in response, Theodora closed her mouth and stared curiously at her father.

Meanwhile, Flora had resorted to a tried-and-true method of soothing a baby. Ignoring the surreptitious glances of the knights, she unfastened the laces of her Cousland-navy tunic and let Taron nuzzle his way to her nipple. The queen was unsure whether it was _customary_ for noblewomen to breastfeed in public, but she reasoned that if the men of Herring had become used to such, so too could the men of the upper echelons. Most of those present within the chamber were conscious of the lady Cousland's husband and brothers; those who let covetous stares linger too long received pointed glares from the top table in response.

" _Carina,"_ Zevran murmured, brushing Flora's elbow with his fingers to get her attention. "Does this remind you of anything?"

Flora raised her eyes from her suckling son, focusing on the elf's gesture. On Zevran's plate was the mangled remains of what had been a small piece of sausage, impaled by his breakfast knife. Zevran quirked a wicked eyebrow at the queen, his delight rapidly turning to wry amusement as he saw her brow furrowing in confusion.

" _Oh!"_ she said, after several moments of thought. "Oh, it's meant to be _last night!_ What I did to the alchemist."

The elf grinned and nodded, lifting the speared meat to his mouth and swallowing it with a gulp.

"We'll need to add a new verse onto _Warden Flora,"_ he observed, playfully. "Several new verses, actually. To incorporate the head-chopping and manhood-mangling."

Flora beamed, absent-mindedly stroking the back of Taron's plump little hand as it clung to her breast.

"That should be what the bards call me in their songs," she said, wistfully. " _The Manhood Mangler._ Rather than – what is it? The Fungus of Ferelden."

Several places down at the table, Finian nearly spat out a mouthful of fruit pastry onto his plate.

"I believe it is the _Flower of Ferelden, carina,"_ replied Zevran solemnly, just about managing to keep a straight face.

Flora, who preferred fungus to flowers since many types of fungus were _edible,_ gave an ambivalent grunt. Either Cod or Lobster licked her knee from beneath the table; she retrieved several strips of pork from a nearby platter and fed them to her greedy pups.

Meanwhile, with a yawning Theodora cradled in his arms, Alistair turned to where Fergus was sat on his other side. The teyrn – whose mood had been lifted with the presence of his niece and nephew – was forking down mouthfuls of steaming eggs with one hand and signing papers with the other. The king waited for a tactful pause, then cleared his throat.

"Are you still planning on sailing for the smugglers' isle today?"

"Aye," replied Fergus, sliding the heavy Cousland seal back onto his finger. "With the afternoon tide. Bryland should be arriving any moment now – the royal fleet was sighted off Will's Point this morning."

Alistair nodded, trying and failing to apply butter to a slab of fresh-baked bread with one arm. Smiling, the teyrn reached forwards to assist; chucking a blinking Theodora under the chin as he did so.

"Who's going?" the young Theirin asked, a touch of wistfulness to his tone. Part of the king desired to travel to the isle and wreak bloody vengeance on the gang that had stolen his wife; a larger part of him knew that there was no way he was leaving his family's side.

"Guerrin, most of my knights, Bryland and his forces, possibly the elf too, if he can be trusted not to immediately slaughter everything in sight," replied Fergus, with a snort that suggested he also would not mind a spate of violence on his sister's abductors. "The Landsmeet are on their way here for a trial; there ought to be something more substantial than bloody remains for them to condemn."

Finian, who had wanted to go but had been instructed to remain and oversee Highever, let out a pointed grumble.

"Who's going to be left behind?" Alistair asked, darting a glance sideways at his new family. "I assume you're not leaving the castle undefended."

"The Wardens should be arriving tomorrow morning to discuss the resolution of the _Darkspawn situation,"_ Fergus said, lowering his voice out of habit before recalling that it was no longer a secret. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind staying for a night or two until we return."

Alistair nodded, setting his spoon down on his plate and resting a hand on Flora's knee beneath the table.

"Sounds good to me."

Flora half-smiled sideways at him, swallowing a mouthful of baked apple. The king smiled back at her, his fingers gripping her knee a fraction harder as he reflected yet again on what the Carta had tried to take from him.

His queen noticed the flicker of suppressed anger in her husband's eyes; like a shard of lightning in the midst of cloud. Flora put down her spoon and reached up to lay her fingers on his cheek, caressing the stubbled plane with open affection.

"I don't think I've ever felt more happy than I do right now," she whispered, letting her thumb run down the powerful angle of his jaw. "I feel complete."

Alistair leaned forward to press his lips against hers in a sudden surge of agreement; the couple shared a sleepy kiss over the heads of their sleeping children.

"Me too, Flo."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Awwww! This was cute to write. Although I felt sorry for the twins and their rude awakening, haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	193. The Family Mabari

Chapter 193: The Family Mabari

After the fast had been broken, the royal couple decided to return to the bedchamber. Alistair had a sheaf of correspondence from Eamon to read through, and both infants needed fresh linens. Fergus stood in preparation to take the whimpering Cod and Lobster back to the kennels – the pups were undergoing extensive training each day to ensure that they would be ready to accompany the company back to Denerim. Flora had passed the drowsy Taron to Zevran, who immediately began to purr endearments in Antivan down at the bleary-eyed baby. Flora then dropped to her knees, grateful for the return of the fortifying leather strap, and reached out her arms to her dogs.

"You'll be able to stay with us very soon," she told them solemnly, her pale eyes moving from one to the other. "You just have to learn a few more things first."

Soon after, the royal couple headed back through the high passages and along the ramparts of the castle. Finian accompanied them whilst grumbling vociferously about not being included in the expedition to the smugglers' isle.

"Did I not prove myself in the Battle of Denerim?" he complained, gesturing them down a passageway flanked by statues of carved Mabari. "Fergus didn't even _take part._ I should be the one going to arrest the dwarves!"

Alistair kindly did not correct the arl: that Finian had lasted about three minutes on the field of battle before being knocked unconscious and subsequently rescued by Flora's Herring-dad. Flora was also quietly determined that her gentle, academic brother, with his scholar's squint and ink-splattered fingers, should never be placed in harm's way again.

"I think I remember this passageway," she said in an effort to distract him, head swivelling to take in the carved, life-sized Mabari that lined the corridor on each side. "These were all family pets?"

Finian snorted at the notion of a Mabari as a mere _pet,_ but gave a nod of confirmation. He reached out to pat one snarling sculpture on the head as they passed; the shiny, weathered surface of the stone skull suggested that this was an old ritual.

"Aye. This is Badger, our grandfather's prized hound. Best known for sniffing out an Orlesian who had smuggled himself into Highever in a crate of apples."

The Royal Guard came to a dutiful halt several yards to the rear. It was clear that their journey was on a temporary pause; the king and queen were now wandering about inspecting the various statues that lined the corridor. Flora could not read the description plaques but liked to admire the craftsmanship; Alistair had inherited the Theirin fascination with Mabari.

"Who's this?" the king asked, coming to a halt before a fierce looking statue with one eye. Taron was yawning in his father's arms, his sight not yet developed enough to appreciate the fine Fereldan craftsmanship.

"Old Dee," Finian replied, then gave a cackle and gestured to his eye patch. "Myself in Mabari form, clearly. He was our father's favourite hound from childhood. Apparently, the stupidest creature to ever tread Fereldan soil – the poor sod chased a rabbit straight off the edge of a cliff."

Alistair grimaced, giving the stone dog a sympathetic pat on its meticulously carved neck.

"Ah. Sorry, boy."

Meanwhile, Flora had been drawn to a statue at the end of the passage, where a Mabari bitch stood with her head raised. The stone had been carved to depict various markings on the dog's flank; a distinctive mottled pattern that prompted a flicker of memory in the queen's mind. As she shifted Theodora across to the other arm – the baby was not especially _light –_ a whine echoed in the back of her skull.

 _A pained yelp, then a rattling breath._

 _Blood trickling between the cobblestones like spilt wine._

"I _know_ you," she whispered, gazing into the intelligent stone eyes. "Where do I know you from?"

 _Fur and flesh against little fingers. Then light, strange and beautiful; palms gleaming brighter than the huge candelabra in the great hall._

"Do you remember Florian, Floss?"

Finian was poised very still at the head of the corridor, gazing curiously at his sister. He was clearly trying hard to keep his voice neutral, yet was unable to disguise the flicker of curiosity within his remaining eye.

"This is the dog I healed," Flora replied, slowly. "Isn't it? The one who was trampled by the knights. Fergus saw me heal her… and told papa."

 _I remember how proud I was after I made the dog feel better. I thought papa would be happy._

Finian nodded, crossing the flagstones to stand beside her. He reached out to pat the dog's head as though it were fur and flesh rather than inanimate stone.

"She lived for another seven years after that," the arl said, the corner of his mouth curving wryly. "A specimen of health and longevity."

Flora felt the bitter taste of loss beneath her tongue once again; the remembrance that she had been cruelly severed from what had once defined her. This was a hurt that had never gone away, submerged just beneath the surface of her mind like a rip-tide waiting to drag her down into the depths of grief.

 _My spirits are gone. I can't heal any more._

 _I took everything I had for granted._

As tears welled in his mother's eyes, Taron flung up an arm and grabbed a loose strand of her hair. His fingers clamped around it in a tight fist; a scratchy grumble emerged from his throat.

Flora blinked, attention captured by the squeak of her son. She beamed down at him as he flailed his arm, still clutching the crimson strand.

"You aren't sleepy at _all,_ are you, tadpole? Ow, oww! My hair!"

The newborn's reflexive grip did not abate even as his mother yelped. He fixed her with a solemn stare, anchored to her with a clenched fist. Flora ducked her head and kissed the baby's chubby cheek; the grief receding in the face of a tidal swell of adoration.

"Well, you can hold onto that if you like," she told him, equally gravely. _"_ And _I'll_ hold _you_ forever if you want me to."

"Even when he's the height of a barn door like his father?" Finian chimed in, reaching out to wiggle the baby's plump foot. "You know he's going to be a behemoth."

"Even then!"

Just before they crossed the threshold of Cousland Tower, Flora requested a brief detour. Despite the chaos of the previous few weeks – the return to Highever, her abduction, the birth of the twins – she had not forgotten about the little Chasind babe. After the painful reminder about the loss of her spirits, Flora wanted to see a creature that she had nurtured back to health _without_ magical intervention.

Finian agreed readily enough, gesturing them down a side-passage that branched off just before the ancestral tower. This corridor led to the grassy outer ward, where much of the castle inhabitants were housed. A convenient chance encounter with the chamberlain – who ran the household with military precision – pointed them in the direction of the relevant quarters. Fortunately, it was the Chasind carpenter's day off; the man and his babe were to be found in his room nearby.

The servants' quarters were in stark contrast to the ancestral residence – plain, white-washed walls and built for function rather than form. Ironically, this meant that they were often in better condition than the venerable, crumbling quarters resided in by the Cousland family – every small fireplace functioned, the windows were small enough to keep in the heat; there were no mouldering tapestries or rusted suits of armour to add mustiness to the air. There were also no guards positioned in this section of the castle; servants drifted down the corridor, chattering amongst themselves. When they saw the noble trio approach, they immediately pressed back against the walls, ducking their heads in startled acknowledgement.

Finian, with the confidence of one who had spent the majority of his years within a castle, gave a single imperious knock at the door to the carpenter's quarters. There came a distracted call of greeting from within; the arl swept promptly inside.

The quarters were small and simply finished, yet warm and clean. Glass had been fitted into the window to keep out the cool autumnal air, and sweet-smelling cedar logs burned in the hearth. The Chasind, kneeling before a wooden chest that took up the majority of floor space, glanced up and then stammered an exclamation of surprise. He scrambled to his feet, scattering curls of wood shavings in his haste.

"Your – your majesties!"

"Good morning," Alistair replied amiably, snorting as Flora nudged her way past him, eyes scanning the room as she clutched Taron. "I see you've settled in well."

The man's scant possessions had been placed neatly on a shelf above the bed; his tunics hanging near the door.

"Aye, King Alistair," he replied, equal deference and earnestness in his tone. "I've got much to thank the teyrn for. Steady work, a roof over our heads, and enough coin to pay for a wet-nurse."

"Well, I don't think Fergus will ever run out of work for you," Finian replied, sauntering across to the window to eye the knights in the courtyard below. "This place is falling apart at the seams. Half the timbers in the great hall need replacing."

Meanwhile, Flora had deposited a dozing Taron in Alistair's arms – the king manfully balanced both twins – and headed to the crib in the corner of the room. Resting her hands on the wooden panel, she peered inside with her heart racing irrationally fast. The Chasind babe, which had once been so scrawny and malnourished, was now a plump and gurgling two-month-old. He lay on his back atop a blanket, kicking chubby feet in the air.

The queen felt hot tears of relief prickle in the corners of her eyes. She reached down to stroke the baby's cheek with her finger, admiring the rich colour of his skin.

"He's so beautiful," Flora breathed, smiling down at the baby as his glossy, coal-black eyes focused curiously on her. "Hello, little puffer-fish. Do you remember me?"

As though on cue, the baby opened his mouth and let out a demanding cry, flailing his arms towards her as he arched his back. Flora reached into the crib and picked the little boy up, delighted at his size and weight. He clung to her navy tunic, gazing at her face in fascination. She ducked to kiss the top of his ink-black hair with a sudden surge of affection. The baby waved a fist in excitement and awarded her a lop-sided smile. The queen let out a squeak and nuzzled her face against the baby's soft shoulder.

"Aaah! Sweet little lobster!"

Meanwhile, Alistair – his arms full of their own dozing children – had stepped forwards to admire the chest in the centre of the room. It was hewn from solid, honey-coloured oak, the lid decorated with a pattern of acorns and beech leaves. On each face, more carvings had been engraved into the wood: on one side, fish leapt from a restless ocean, on the other, a Ferelden Forder stood with its head raised and alert. The chest was almost complete, standing amidst a sea of wood shavings. Only a small corner of the lid was missing its acorn and leaf frieze.

"The craftsmanship on this is exquisite," Alistair breathed, his eyes moving from the individual strands in the horse's mane to the scales adorning the flank of the fish. "Maker's Breath. You've quite the gift."

The Chasind carpenter flushed, shifting from foot to foot self-consciously. His dark eyes darted quickly to Flora, who was still fussing over the baby, before returning to the king.

"It's… it's actually meant to be a present for you and the queen, your majesty," he confessed in low tones. "To congratulate you both on the _safe_ delivery of your little ones."

The Chasind's voice shifted for a moment; faltering partway through the sentence as the spectre of his own dead wife breathed down his neck. Both men looked once again to the queen; who – apart from the weariness of a new parent – was the picture of health.

Alistair cleared his throat, reaching out to grip the carpenter's shoulder with the easy magnanimity of a Theirin.

"What a beautiful gift. Thank you."

Just then the Chasind baby began a hungry grizzle, tilting imploring eyes up towards Flora as it clung to her with clenched fists. Flora was quick to oblige, clutching the little boy in one arm while tugging at the laces of her tunic. Sitting down on the edge of the neatly made bed, she let the navy lambswool slither from her shoulder; letting the baby mouth his way to the breast.

While the queen fed the little boy, Alistair circled the chest to admire the beauty of the carving. Each nation of Thedas possessed especial expertise in a particular field of craftsmanship. The glasswork constructions of Orlais were renowned for their fantastic delicacy; Antivan leatherworkers were the best at sculpting garments from hide; the smiths of the Marches were rivalled only by the dwarves; Tevinter enamel fetched the highest price at market. Ferelden, conversely, prided itself on its carpentry. Wood-workers across the country coaxed intricacies from organic matter; creating masterpieces from unyielding origins.

Alistair's attention was drawn to the symbol that had been engraved in pride of place in the centre of the lid. It was the coat of arms that had been created to commemorate the royal union of Theirin and Cousland; the Highever laurel draped around the Theirin lion's haunches. Three leaping fish flanked the lion on the right hand side, in a nod to the queen's unique background. Nearby, the entwined letters _T_ and _T_ paid tribute to the newborns themselves. These letters still had dustings of wood shavings about them; fresh-added when the twins' name had been publicly announced.

"It's beautiful," the king repeated, then glanced quickly across at his wife. Flora was preoccupied with the Chasind baby, delighted by its plumpness. When they had first encountered the widowed carpenter in the inn near Herring, the babe had been scrawny and malnourished; ribs pushing up against pallid skin. Now, only weeks later, the little boy seemed robust and healthy.

Seeing that Flora was distracted, Alistair lowered his voice; catching the carpenter' attention with a cough.

"I'd like to commission you to carve something for my wife," he said, softly. "A gift for her."

"What for?" interrupted the nosy Finian, unable to avoid interjecting himself into the conversation. "It's not her birth-day. Or Satinalia. Or your wedding anniversary."

"I know _that,"_ retorted an indignant Alistair, even as a reflexive beam spread across his face at the mention of their wedding _._ "I just want to get the mother of my children some presents. That's permitted, isn't it?"

"What about the _brother_ of the mother of your children?"

"Ha!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Short little chapter today because we've been away all weekend! Anyway, I wanted to get in a little bit of reminiscence with the Mabari corridor – a reminder of the family hound that Flora got busted healing when she was a baby, lol – and it was nice to check in with the Chasind baby again!

Oh and I got a couple of new commissions! One of Flo, one of Flora and Alistair :) they're both on my tumblr thelionandthelight with the tag #floraart

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	194. A Taste of Orlais

Chapter 194: A Taste of Orlais

Back in the bedchamber assigned to the royal couple, Alistair was greeted by the piles of administration and official business that had built up whilst he had been preoccupied with his family. Eamon had dealt with much of it in his position as Chancellor, but the king's official seal was frequently required as final authorisation. It had taken three secretaries to carry up the sacks of letters, scrolls and documents; Alistair had quailed when first viewing the plethora of paperwork, then set about his task with grim stoicism. He located himself at the wide oak desk near the window, positioned a flagon of ale and a hunk of bread within reach, took a deep breath, then plunged manfully into the ocean of parchment. Fortunately, the inexperienced king was assisted by Teagan, who leaned on the desk and murmured helpful commentary.

"I don't want to call for a tax this autumn," Alistair mused, a crease cutting the handsome olive brow in two as he gazed down at a sheet of figures. "The people are still recovering after the Blight. Is there any other way to recoup expenses?"

"You could update the book of rates," the bann suggested, squinting down at the rows of numbers. "The customs fees haven't been updated since partway through Maric's reign. The merchants can't protest too strongly; they've benefited from unusually low rates for decades."

Flora was grimly aware that she could contribute in no way to this discussion. She could not even read through the correspondence to categorise or prioritise it for her husband; a fact which made her feel both ashamed and guilty. As Alistair and Teagan conferred in low tones at the desk, the queen nursed the babies while watching her husband anxiously. Theodora settled down to sleep and was placed gently in the crib; Taron was determined to stay nestled in his mother's arms.

 _You can't read either,_ Flora thought, giving the baby's tiny nose a gentle tap with her finger. _When do you learn your letters?_

The baby peered up at her with solemn grey eyes, and then stuck out his tongue. Flora stuck out her own tongue in return, then felt immediately guilty as the baby's face crumpled. She didn't know if he had seen her expression – she wasn't sure how developed his eyes were – but felt responsible regardless.

"How do you spell your name, Taron?" the queen whispered, letting him grab clumsily at her finger.

The little prince let out an unhelpful gurgle.

"T," she began, then hesitated. "Um- T, E- "

" _T, A, R, O, N."_

Finian had descended like some guiding spirit of literacy, wielding parchment, books and quills. Fergus had set out after breakfast on a mission to inspect the various mines and quarries around Highever; the teyrn was diligent in his duties despite the cloud and drizzle that had beset the cliff top town. He had suggested that Finian might want to accompany him, Finian had taken one look at the unfriendly skies and come up with the excuse that he was going to tutor their sister in her letters instead.

After greeting his sleeping niece and blinking nephew, Finian settled himself beside Flora on the bed and spread out the contents of his satchel. Flora eyed the books and quills with some trepidation, her gaze drawn to the neatly embroidered letters on the leather bookbag.

"What does this say?"

"Finian Cousland, _rue Jeanne Pilar, Rhône-Bas."_

The arl laughed at the alarmed expression on Flora's face, reaching to fan out an array of leather-bound tomes across the fur.

"The address of my quarters in Val Royeaux, while I attended the University there. These are some of the texts I studied."

Flora selected a book of rich crimson hue and opened it, no small feat when one was holding a baby. She peered down at the title in an effort to decipher the elegantly scribed letters.

"Bees," she said after a moment, hopefully. "Is it about bees?"

Finian coughed: the title read _Bipartisan Politics in Theocracies of the Storm Age._

"Something like that, sweetpea. Go on, write what you remember of the alphabet on that sheet of parchment."

Flora was confident with her first six letters: _A_ for Alistair, _B_ for Bryland, _C_ for Cousland, _D_ for Duncan, _E_ for Eamon, _F_ for her own name. Unfortunately, the next set of figures were not rising to the forefront of her mind as she had hoped. She bit the end of the quill, droplets of ink splattering on the blanket, then produced a series of ambiguous squiggles that she hoped would suffice. From Finian's appalled expression, it was clear that they would _not._

"What do you do at _u- uniburchity?"_ she asked, in an effort to distract him.

"University? It's a place where lords send second sons unsuitable for service in the Templars," Finian replied, mouth twisting wryly. "It became obvious rather quickly that Fergus and I weren't cut from the same cloth – he liked swords, I liked studying – and so Pa suggested I travel to Val Royeaux and take classes there."

Teagan lifted an amused gaze from a six-page missive from Eamon about the rebuilding of the city walls.

"Aye, I remember when Bryce announced that he was sending you to Orlais. Everyone thought he was half-mad."

The bann did not mention that one knight – a man old enough to know better - had made a thoughtless joke about how the teyrn had a _habit_ of sending away disappointing children to Orlais. This was a clumsy allusion to the mysterious disappearance of the little _teyrnina,_ who had vanished from Highever over a decade prior.

The chamber had fallen silent; the knight had received an elbow in the ribs. Bryce Cousland had glanced across at the man with eyes as cold and steely as chips of northern flint, and said – very softly – that he was proud of _all_ his children.

"But what do you _do_ there?" persisted Flora, who still did not understand the _point_ of a _university._ "You just read? Read books?"

"You read, take classes, study," replied her brother, deciding not to share the less academic activities that he had engaged in with his young and wealthy counterparts. "A bit like what goes on in a Circle, but with less _magic."_

"I didn't read _nothing_ at the Circle," Flora replied with typical northern bluntness, wincing as Taron tugged at a strand of her hair. "Or stay much in class. I kept being thrown out for snacking. Or failing to do anything except fall asleep."

"Your qualities lie in places other than your brain, Floss," Finian said, kindly. "Anyway, you can study lots of things at university. I read a lot of history, studied the genealogies of Thedas' great dynasties. I learnt to speak Orlesian and some passable Nevarran."

Flora listened with her mouth open, astonished.

"Do you have to be _intelligent_ to go to university? Probably," she continued, answering her own question. "I don't think they'd welcome someone who can't read or write."

Finian laughed and didn't answer, petting Taron's plump cheek with a thumb as the baby eyed him.

"Anyway, Floss, I'd like to create a similar institution in Ferelden someday, perhaps in Amaranthine. Why should Orlais get the monopoly on academia?"

Flora understood only about half of her brother's last sentence but smiled and nodded regardless. Finian grinned back at her, shifting position to tuck his hands behind his head.

"I once attended a lecture on the nature of _green._ The professor – a half-mad Marcher named Groeke - spent an entire candle-length droning on about some sonnet he had written in tribute to _chartreuse_."

"Green? The _colour?"_

"Aye, Floss. We ended up going back after class and pelting the old sod with tomatoes."

Flora sat nonplussed on the blankets, tilting her head as Taron flailed the fist containing her hair. The baby was adept at _grabbing_ things, but far from proficient in releasing them.

"And your father _paid_ for this 'educational' experience," Teagan chimed in with a snort, reaching down to retrieve some discarded parchment. "Maker's Breath. Shall we take a break, lad?"

This was directed towards Alistair, who looked as though he were about to fall asleep amidst the pile of paperwork. The king nodded, rising to his feet and accidentally colliding with the table; the bann had to grab at the candlestick to stop it from tumbling.

"Sorry," Alistair apologised distractedly, heading across to the side-table to cut himself a slice of cheese. "Does anyone else want something to eat? Darling, you ought to have a snack."

"A pear, please!"

Carefully, Flora leaned over to replace Taron in the crib beside his sleeping sister. Driven by some innate instinct, Theodora reached out to grab her brother's arm. He returned the clutch; the twins clinging to each other as they must have once done in the womb. Flora hastily put her hands to her mouth to stop herself from exclaiming – _it was too adorable!_ – and instead frantically gestured for her husband. Alistair came over and made the same silent contortions, forcing himself to lower his voice.

"They're so beautiful," he observed, hoarsely. "Just perfect. Maker's Breath, Flo."

She sniffled, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve.

"I know. Fat little prawns! I could EAT THEM UP."

Just then, there was a minor commotion from the corridor outside. A high, melodic Orlesian voice rose indignantly above the protest of the Highever guard.

"I don't need to be _formally announced!_ I spent almost a year _sleeping in the next tent_ to them both!"

The door swung open, and a familiar figure stood silhouetted in the doorway; the ruffles and ornamentation on her travel leathers setting her apart from her companions. Despite the flush and dishevelled auburn hair, there was no mistaking the distinctive Val Royeaux poise.

Flora, whose heart had leapt into her mouth on hearing the noise, let out a squeal of excitement, pushing herself up on her elbows.

" _Leliana!"_

The bard flew across the room, launching herself towards her companions with all grace and composure temporarily abandoned. Both Flora and an astonished Alistair received a plethora of kisses; their excitable companion moving to embrace one and then the other.

" _Mon chers! Ah, chérie,_ you will have me weeping also!"

Leliana cradled Flora's face in her hands; the queen was hiccupping as tears of relief coursed down her cheeks. Flora had missed their Orlesian companion hugely over the past few months, after all, Leliana had been at their side since Lothering.

"What have you been _doing_ for the past few weeks _, mon coeur?"_ the bard continued with a mixture of affection and sternness, wiping Flora's cheeks with her thumbs. "Gallivanting with the Carta? Decapitating dwarves? Giving birth on a _beach_? I thought I told you to _relax_ on this progress."

Alistair, still mildly traumatised by the entire Carta ordeal, grimaced. Fortunately, the kind Leliana did not dwell on the incident; inhaling unsteadily as she turned her attention to the crib. The bard clasped her hands to her breast as she swooped upon the twins, a squeal of joy escaping her throat.

" _Jumeaux exquis! Ces beaux bébés! Aaaah- "_

Theodora had woken and was gazing up at the strangely-accented voice with bleary eyed suspicion. Crooning, Leliana scooped the little girl up and cradled her to her chest.

" _Théodora Amitié Coquillage,_ it's so good to finally meet you," she whispered, caressing the baby's cheek with her finger. "I've known you for a _very long_ time. _Oh_ , _ma petites,_ you have created some exquisite little creatures!"

"Was that ever in doubt?" came a new voice from the doorway, dry and amused.

While the bard had been fussing over the babies, Leonas Bryland had entered the bedchamber; sword hanging heavily beside his travel leathers. The arl of South Reach – or what remained of it – appeared in hale and hearty condition; he had put on weight since the stresses of the Blight and the wounds on his maimed hand had healed over.

"Arl Leonas!" Flora croaked, hoarse with excitement at the arrival of so many familiar faces. "You're here, too!"

"Aye," Bryland replied, coming to a halt before the young couple. The general gripped Alistair's arm in greeting, then kissed his old friend's daughter on the cheek; smiling across at the grey-eyed little girl dandled in Leliana's arms. "Congratulations, both of you. Eamon sends his best wishes, and hopes to see you both back in the city soon."

Leonas – a father himself – reached into the crib to lift a whimpering Taron, who had just woken and found himself alone. The arl held the baby expertly, chucking him under the chin. Fereldan patriarchs tended to be more _hands-on_ with their offspring than other Theodesian nobility.

"This is only a flying visit," the general continued, bobbing the infant up and down to settle him. "I've three cohorts of the Royal Army in the courtyard. The ships are being restocked as we speak, preparing to set sail for this smugglers' isle."

Leliana made a soft noise of confirmation, handing a hungry Theodora back to Flora as the little girl began to mouth hungrily at the front of the bard's travel leathers.

"We'll bring back the Carta, and lie in wait for those beasts wicked enough to enter a flesh-auction," the bard murmured, a sudden note of Orlesian venom shot through the words. "Put them on trial before the Landsmeet; make an example of them."

Alistair gave a tight nod, taking a deep breath to calm his anger.

"Good," he replied, softly. "We've never countenanced slavery within our borders. I'm _very_ interested to see who shows up to place a bid on _my wife_."

Flora placed a placating hand on his elbow, her movement restricted by the suckling child at her breast. Alistair drew in an even deeper gulp of air, then ducked to press a kiss against the top of her head; calmed by the familiar sea-salt scent of her hair.

"Eamon seems to think that the situation can be moulded to our advantage," Leonas spoke up, shifting Taron from one arm to the other. "Maker's Breath, this is a hefty babe. You must have been weighed down by the end, pup."

Leliana shot Flora a sympathetic glance; Flora replied with a solemn nod of confirmation.

"Unusual for _both_ twins to be so large, there's usually a runt in the pair," continued Leonas, his eye sweeping over Theodora. "Anyway, as I was saying – any foreign dynasty would be quick to condemn any of their natives involved in such treachery against the Queen – and _Hero_ – of Ferelden. Eamon thinks they'll offer some diplomatic benefits to win back favour."

Alistair gave a distracted nod, he was more looking forward to seeing the heads of those involved wedged on pikes on the city wall. Theodora had finished feeding, she was passed to her father for winding as Flora reached out to take Taron. There was quiet for several minutes as the young prince fed; Leliana clasped her hands together delightedly as she observed the little family.

"Who would have thought, this time last year?" she whispered, eyes bright with unshed tears. "That _this_ would be the way that everything turned out? I am so proud of you both."

Alistair flashed her a half-smile, his arm fixed firmly around his wife's shoulders. He appeared about to speak and then cut himself off, as though not able to find suitable words in response.

Once both twins had been fed Leonas cleared his throat, catching their attention.

"If it's not too much of an inconvenience," he said, quietly. "My men would love to see you two. They fought in the battle against the Darkspawn under a Theirin banner, and regard you both in high esteem."

Alistair glanced at his queen; seeking confirmation that his family was ready to move. Flora replied with a little nod, curving the corner of her mouth towards Leonas.

"Of course!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Apologies to any French speakers - please correct my awful Google translate language skills, haha. Also, you have to use your imagination a bit - I know there isn't an alphabet (at least not A, B, C ) in Thedas, it's more like runic figures... but still, whatever the language, Flora would have issues with it! She doesn't really understand the concept of a university at all. I thought that was a nice ambition for Finian to work towards though - opening a rival institution in Ferelden to compete with the campus in Val Royeaux.

So nice to reunite with Leonas, and especially Leliana!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	195. Planning and Preparation

Chapter 195: Parting and Preparation

Leonas Bryland settled himself in an armchair, taking measured sips from an ale-jug while the royal couple prepared to appear before the army. Leliana's arrival had been most fortuitously timed. The bard helped the queen to tame her dishevelled hair while Alistair hastily shaved the half of his face that he had neglected earlier that morning. Taron had dribbled copiously over Flora's Highever-navy tunic, which necessitated a quick change in garb. Once a similar tunic of Theirin-scarlet had been found, there was only a final step to complete before leaving the bedchamber.

No longer needing a mirror to place and angle the slender gold band of authority, the king set it on his own head before reaching out to assist his queen. It had been weeks since Flora had last worn this less formal incarnation of a crown; she lifted her chin to assist in its placing. At first, it had felt odd to wear something heavy on one's head – after all, she had never needed a helm – but the young queen was startled at how quickly she had grown accustomed to it. The slender band of burnished gold rested neatly enough on her hair that, after a while, she forgot that she was wearing it.

The babies were bundled up against the cool autumnal air, cloaks of suitable length were found; soon the king and queen of Ferelden were making their way through the labyrinthine cobwebbed passageways and halls of Castle Cousland. They were surrounded by their usual companions, save for Zevran and Fergus who were finalising preparations to travel to the smugglers' isle. The servants hastened to the sides of the corridors as the royal party approached, ducking their heads or bobbing deferentially.

The cohorts of the army were gathered on the sweeping crag of rock that led to the castle atop the cliffs. There were nearly two thousand soldiers present – far more than would be required to lay siege to the Carta stronghold – and all were eagerly awaiting a glimpse of their king and queen. Many had fought under the Theirin banner at Denerim, and had lingering memories of the prince riding about the army camp; handsome and confident, with the lovely, grave-faced Lady Cousland seated before him on the saddle. Funnily enough, those men with wives had guessed that the prince's mistress was with child long before the final battle. There was something telling in the way that the temporary Warden-Commander had moved, the way she stood to accommodate the growing weight in her stomach. They were thus especially restless to see the fruits of the lady's burden.

News of the twins' birth had indeed spread far beyond Ferelden's borders. The infants were barely a week old and their existence had been extensively discussed from the mirrored halls of _Halamshiral_ to the marble vaulted chambers of Minrathous. The names _Taron Angus Pelegrín_ and _Theodora_ _Amity Seashell_ were mused over in the beer halls of the Marcher lands and gossiped about in the brothels of Antiva. Far to the north, in the frozen reaches of the Anderfels, those resident within the fortress of Weisshaupt received the news that Florence Cousland – ender of the Fifth Blight – had birthed two healthy babes with great interest.

Neither parent was fully aware of this widespread interest in their children, though Alistair had been warned that such might happen.

The king and queen were making final preparations to venture out onto the roof of the squat bastion tower, where they could be seen by the troops gathered on the bluff. Flora, struck by a sudden last-minute revelation, thrust a blinking and alert Theodora into Leliana's arms. Using the polished steel of Leonas's breastplate as a makeshift mirror, she hastily tied up her hair in the manner the troops were expecting to see: the high, crimson-hued ponytail streaming from her head like an Alamarri war banner.

Taking Theodora back and kissing the baby's plump cheek, the queen caught the king's eye; she was ready. Beside them Finian gave a nod, gesturing towards the small wooden door that led out into the balcony. The guard stationed there hastened to open the door and those within blinked at the sudden deluge of autumnal sunlight. Alistair led the way, ducking beneath the low eaves with Taron dozing in his elbow. Pausing, he glanced quickly to either side to check that the balcony was empty – he was taking no chances with his family's safety. On establishing that the stretch of stone was deserted, he turned back to usher his wife and daughter forwards.

Over the past few months, Flora had been greeted by cheering crowds more often than she could _literally_ count. It was a far cry from the derision that she had received in the Circle as the peculiar, illiterate girl who whispered to herself in an unintelligible northern accent. Still, the queen was unsure whether she would ever get _used_ to it – the wall of sound that was almost physical, the energy of a mass of people thrumming in the air, the heat of two thousand pairs of eyes converging on a single point. At heart, she was a Herring girl, and Herring natives rarely desired to be the focus of attention.

Still, even if she was not wholly comfortable, the queen knew how to react. She lifted her chin, knowing that Alistair was also standing straight-backed and proud beside her. The volume of cheers from the soldiers increased when they glimpsed the linen bundles in the arms of the new parents – less than a week in age, the 'Twins of Ferelden' already had a reputation to equal any grizzled warrior. After all, they – by proxy of their mother – had survived a confrontation with no less than an Archdemon.

Many of the cries formed the words, _Theirin, Theirin!_ interspersed with a fair few bellows of _Cousland!_ On seeing their popular young queen – who had rescued _herself_ from the clutches of the Carta - the cheers escalated. Several hundred pikes and blades rose into the air, each one sporting the trailing crimson ribbon that had become the unofficial talisman of the city defenders.

Flora was touched by this show of regard, feeling a lump of emotion rise hard and lumpen within her throat. Still, she knew what the gathered soldiers wanted from her – and it was neither tears, nor effusive displays of gratitude. She duly let her cold, Waking Sea stare sweep over them, her full and haughty mouth curving down at the edges. It was this grim and unruffled stoicism that had prevented so many from despairing during the Blight; even during the worst moments of peril, their Warden's demeanour had remained utterly dispassionate. It was even rumoured that she had appeared little more than _vaguely bored_ in the face of the Archdemon itself. In reality, Flora's cool and unruffled exterior had been merely a mask for the storm of emotion below – of _course_ she had been terrified before the Darkspawn general! but her face's stony ambiguity had hidden it well.

Taron, nestled against his father's chest, flailed an impetuous arm free of the linen wrappings. Alistair smiled down at his son –amused at the resultant cheer from the gathered soldiery – and let the baby's feather-light fingers whisper over his chin.

"The army seem contented," he said out of the corner of his mouth, having also spotted the sea of crimson ribbons.

"They're relieved that they aren't needed for a search mission," Finian offered, who was happy to bask in the attention received from being in the proximity of the king and queen. "They'd much rather spend their time bringing the Carta to justice. You'd better warn Bryland - and Ferg too, actually – not to let them have free rein over the dwarves, or else you'll have no prisoners left alive for the Landsmeet to judge."

Alistair gave a short nod, feeling the baby's tiny, plump palm spread over the underside of his chin.

"I want to have a trial. It needs to be made obvious and public that I won't tolerate cartels and illegal gangs within my kingdom. _Especially_ not ones that traffic living flesh."

"When is everyone leaving for the isle?" piped up Flora, keen not to miss their departure. "Today?"

"Aye, Floss. With the afternoon tide."

Sure enough, those who would be travelling to the smugglers' isle gathered in the main forecourt of Castle Cousland just as the sun reached its midday point. The coarse edges of ancient granite were softened by the mellow light; it was an unseasonably mild and cloudless afternoon. Flora had eyed the skies and gauged – to her relief – that there was no storm approaching.

They parted from Fergus and their companions within the forecourt, a quiet moment stolen amidst the bustle of retainers, baggage and weaponry. Alistair once more _firmly reiterated_ to Zevran that he wanted as many of the dwarves kept alive for the trial as possible. The elf smiled in a _not entirely reassuring_ manner in response, fingers caressing the hilts of his blades.

Meanwhile, Flora had parted from her eldest brother with an embrace, during which she once again recited the early warning signs of a storm brewing. Flora was sure that the Waking Sea would not betray its most faithful daughter by ruthlessly claiming her brother, but she was taking no chances.

"Be safe," she instructed him finally, wide-eyed and solemn. "And remember, don't sail- "

"- if the sky is pink," replied Fergus, caressing the top of Theodora's dusky head with a thumb. "Aye, pup. I'll be cautious."

The teyrn kindly did not add that his captains were all northern coast veterans with decades of sailing the Waking Sea under their belt; men cut in the cloth of Pelegrín, Flora's father.

Once she had finished parting from her brother, Flora flailed a hand towards Zevran, who sauntered towards her in an especially insouciant manner to disguise his anticipation of the upcoming events.

"Zevran," she said, sternly. "Don't skin anyone alive. Don't…. cut off all their fingers one at a time. Don't boil their feet in oil. Don't cut off their nose and poke things in the holes."

As she spoke, the grinning elf lifted her hand and caressed it; the presence of the wedding rings not dissuading him in the slightest.

" _Carina, carina,"_ he crooned, stroking her white-marked palm with a thumb. "Would I do such awful things?"

"Yes!" retorted Flora, who had heard him use every single one as a threat over the previous year. "Yes, you would!"

The elf giggled and kissed her fingers before letting them go, ducking to peck the top of Theodora's head.

"Ha!"

Leliana, who had originally planned to accompany Fergus, Leonas and the soldiers to the smugglers' isle, decided instead to remain at Castle Cousland. Zevran could fulfil the role that she would have played perfectly adequately; the party would not be lacking for her absence. The bard claimed that she wanted to spend more time with Flora and Alistair – having not seen them for months – and their children. In reality, Leliana intended to keep an eye on the contingent of Grey Wardens who would be arriving later that evening. Although she did not _suspect_ Loghain Mac Tir of any particular deviance, he had been their enemy for too long to go unsupervised.

The rest of the afternoon meandered gently on, drizzle misting over the castle in soft waves as the preparations for the Landsmeet's arrival continued. In addition to the Carta trial, there was also the Cousland memorial service to prepare for. Masons had been hard at work for the past six months – ever since Highever had been reclaimed from Howe's forces – to sculpt a fitting monument to the murdered Couslands for the ancestral chapel. There were no remains to place within the sepulchre; the ashes of the teyrn and his family had been flung unceremoniously into a communal pit with the other victims of the massacre. The memorial service was to take place several days before the Landsmeet trial, with a period of mourning to follow.

As the sun followed its gentle arc across the sky, the royal couple and their remaining companions returned to the bedchamber. Teagan had departed to accompany the ships to the isle, but Alistair continued to trawl determinedly through the letters and paperwork. He sorted the queries and requests out into those that he understood, and those that he did not, with Finian and Leliana chiming in to offer advice as needed.

While the king consulted in quiet murmurs with these unofficial advisors, Flora and Wynne gave the infants another sponge bath and put them down for a nap. The queen then fell asleep face-down on the bearskin before the fire, exhausted. Thanks to the demands of their children, the previous night had been interrupted four times between midnight and dawn. Flora had not expected that this would make her so tired – after all, night-time in the Circle dormitories was full of small disturbances – and yet she felt utterly worn out.

As soon as Alistair noticed his wife sprawled face-down on the floor, snores emitting from a cloud of dark red hair, he cut himself off midway through a sentence. Folding the letter that he had been reading in half, he tucked it into his leather tunic before rising to his feet. Crossing the bedchamber, the king crouched beside his queen and lifted her gently to his chest. Flora put a dozy arm around his neck, wilting against his shoulder as he carried her over to the bed.

"My gorgeous wife doesn't sleep on the _floor_ ," he murmured in her ear as she flashed him a drowsy smile.

Having relocated them both onto the mattress, Alistair put an arm around his best friend as she sunk back into the depths of slumber. He leaned back against the cushions, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then extracted the letter from his tunic with his free hand.

"So, Finn, how do you think we should respond to the Marcher grain tariff?"

Flora awoke several hours later, somewhat rested and yet with a nagging thought chewing at the corner of her mind. It was an urge that she could not articulate; something that her dreamless mind had occupied itself with during her slumbers.

She puzzled over it for the next hour, her brow furrowed in thought while feeding the babies. Even Alistair's idle caresses of her neck as he read through the last few pieces of correspondence were not able to distract her from her musings.

It happened to be a servant's innocent question that prompted a breakthrough, just as the sun was beginning to nestle itself within the western hills. Alistair requested that a few platters be brought up for dinner; including some servings of raw vegetables. The queen had developed a taste for root foods during her childbearing – especially turnips – and this habit had persisted even after the birth.

"How would you like your vegetables prepared?" the servant asked the queen, then gaped as she sat bolt upright, cushions tumbling to the flagstones.

"Howe!" Flora exclaimed, triumphantly. _"Howe!"_

The servant quailed in bemusement. Alistair, similarly confused, peered down at his excitable wife.

"Sweetheart, he wants to know how you'd like your vegetables prepared."

"No, no," replied Flora, impatiently. "I mean _Namanule_ Howe. I wanted to visit him in the dungeon; make sure that he's being treated decently."

Alistair and Finian both shared a swift, identical grimace. Despite the revelation that Nathaniel Howe had not known the _true_ circumstances when he had requested the assistance of the Carta, both men found it hard to feel sympathy for their former enemy. Flora could sense their reluctance – and understood it – yet could not forget how Nathaniel had thrown himself before her without hesitation to take the alchemist's flung blade. Although the knife had only penetrated his upper arm, it could have quite easily stuck him in the throat, neck, or some other vital organ.

"You don't need to come with me," she continued, determinedly. "I'm happy to go with the guard, if you want to stay here with the twins."

The queen clambered gracelessly from the bed and passed both palms over the top of her head in an attempt to flatten her hair. As she did so, her husband let out an incredulous snort; swinging himself out of bed far more easily.

"As though I'd let you go wandering about the castle after what happened last time," he said, trying and failing to keep his tone relatively light. "Darling, I doubt I'm going to be happy with you going to the _privy_ by yourself for the immediate future!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Poor Alistair, he's probably got PTSD from all the times that Flo has got into trouble after wandering off on her own, lol. Anyway, time to get the plot moving again while Fergus and co go off gallivanting with the Carta! Flora has been a little preoccupied with NEWBORN TWINS for the past few days, but she hasn't forgotten about Nathaniel Howe in the dungeons of Castle Cousland. She also hasn't learnt how to pronounce his name yet haha

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	196. Visiting Namanatule Howe

Chapter 196: Visiting Namanatule Howe

The royal couple's departure from the bedchamber was delayed by each of the twins demanding an especially long feed. Alistair was secretly grateful to their children for the inadvertent distraction, hoping that their mother would forget about her earlier desire to visit Nathaniel Howe in the castle dungeon.

Unfortunately, the moment that Theodora had fallen asleep after her feeding, Flora clasped her daughter to her breast and rose to her feet.

"I'm going now to the forbidden chambers," she announced, then looked mildly taken aback by such an incongruous name. "Wait, _forbidden_ _chambers?_ Why did I call it that?"

"I haven't heard that phrase in a _long_ time."

This comment came from Finian, who was trying to drip water onto his ale-splattered shirt sleeve.

" _Forbidden chambers_ is the name our father gave to the dungeons to try and stop you from wandering down there as a baby," he explained, abandoning the attempt and rolling up the sleeve to his elbow. "Not that it stopped you, sweetpea. You were a disobedient little minx. The name must have been stored in some tucked-away part of your mind!"

Flora scratched thoughtfully behind her ear, as though attempting to coax out more memories from beneath the surface.

"Oh!"

Once Alistair had retrieved the dozing Taron from the crib, the royal couple and Finian made their way towards the Cousland dungeons. The journey took them on a lengthy and laborious route – the gaol was located beneath the crumbling East Turret in the outer ward; kept in shade most of the time by its venerable behemoth cousin, Fereldan Tower.

To entertain them on the way, Finian recanted stories of some of the more _notorious_ prisoners housed within the castle dungeons over past generations.

"During some Orlesian siege, our grandfather captured one of their most infamous _chevaliers –_ that is, knights," he explained as they headed down yet another identical stone passageway. "His name was _Isidore de Barthémy,_ and he was known as _the fox for_ the number of times that he had escaped from prison."

They emerged onto a high rampart overlooking the outer ward. As Flora had hoped, the weather had stayed kind for those coursing the waters of the Waking Sea – a light drizzle was falling, but it was accompanied by only the slightest breath of air. Alistair hastily cupped his hand over Taron's face to protect him from the rain, which made no difference due to the misting nature of the precipitation. Fortunately, these infants were born amidst far heavier rainfall on a grit-strewn northern beach; they did not mind the gentle caress of the cloud.

"The _chevalier_ was renowned for having previously escaped through the solid granite wall of a Tevinter estate," Finian continued, once they had returned inside. "And, on another occasion when he was kidnapped by pirates, he managed to pass between the inch-apart bars of a silverite cage. So, our grandfather was _determined_ that the _chevalier_ should not escape from his own castle dungeons. The Orlesian knight had a dozen chains welded fast about his body; then the walls of his cell were boarded up. Mabari and men guarded it day and night – William Cousland even moved his own pallet to sleep in front of the cell."

Alistair grimaced; the notion of prisoners escaping from the castle dungeons was still too fresh a memory after the alchemist's bid for freedom. The royal pair followed Finian as he strode confidently towards a door guarded by several grim-faced soldiers.

"Anyway, one particular morning, William Cousland awoke to find his prisoner gone," the arl called over his shoulder as he began the descent into the bowels of the castle. "The chains lay in pieces on the floor, the panels had been peeled back; the _chevalier_ was nowhere to be seen. A fortnight later, he appeared at a masked ball hosted in Val Royeaux, to the delight and disbelief of all."

"Maker's Breath!"

Alistair blinked, a crease of confusion folding itself across his handsome brow.

"Did no-one realise that he was a mage?"

This matter-of-fact suggestion came from Flora, who had once also been able to break herself free from any binding. Finian turned to her with the instinctive denial – of _course_ not! the man was a _chevalier!_ – and then abruptly fell silent, wide eyed.

Nathaniel Howe had recently been transferred between cells within the Cousland dungeons; a sprawling complex that was far larger than one would expect a family seat to possess. The extensive tunnels filled with cells were a legacy of war – during the Orlo-Fereldan conflict, the castle at Highever had been used as a regional garrison, and prisoners of battle housed within its dungeons. Now, half of the tunnels had collapsed into stone rubble, their cells broken and inaccessible. Finian left them at the entrance; wary of the effect of damp and mildew on his fine silken shirt.

Originally, Howe had been placed in a damp and shadowed cell in the mouldiest part of the complex. After his shouts to alert the guards of the escaping alchemist had gone unheeded, he had been moved to a drier and larger cell in the upper quadrant of the prison. They found him sitting on a low, three-legged stool in the centre of the alcove, gazing at the spiderweb of cracks on the wall.

"Stand, prisoner! Acknowledge the presence of your king and queen."

This harsh admonition came snapped from the escorting guard, who still felt guilty over the escape of the alchemist. Nathaniel glanced up, his eyes widening imperceptibly as he took in the king, the queen, and the bundles in their arms. He rose to his feet and gave a bow, a rueful and humourless smile curving the corner of his mouth.

"Well, this is an unexpected sight."

The Howe's eyes fell on the infants clutched in the arms of their parents. Flora saw the curiosity beneath the carefully arranged neutrality, and shifted her arms to show the sleeping Theodora. Nathaniel gazed down at the dark-haired baby's peaceful face, guilt passing swiftly across his own gamine features.

Alistair prickled at the proximity of his former enemy to his wife and infant daughter; the fingers of his free hand creeping reflexively onto his blade. Flora inched closer, putting one hand against the bars so that she could peer into the cell. The Mabari hounds also took a pace forward to flank her; taking no chances with the Theirin's mate and little she-pup.

Nathaniel, who had noticed the king's wary bridling, took a step backwards with his hands lifting in the air.

"Relax, I've nothing that could hurt them," he murmured, directing his words to Alistair. "It's the furthest thing from my mind. I've already put the lady Cousland in untold dangers through my actions."

"Yes," retorted Alistair, bluntly. "You have. _And_ you endangered the lives of my children."

On cue, Taron flung an arm up from the blankets, tiny fingers grazing the underside of his father's chin. The king tilted his face to kiss the top of the newborn's wispy golden head, letting the baby's fist clench around the furred texture of his collar.

"Are they feeding you regularly, Namanatule?" Flora asked, peering down at an assortment of bowls and plates. "And how is your shoulder?"

"Aye, still stitched up. And I've been given a surfeit of porridge."

The queen assumed that a _surfeit_ was some sort of bowl. She made a mental note to request a greater variety of dishes for the prisoner, her eyes moving to the pile of blankets at the foot of the bed. Theodora began to grumble, a scratchy whimper of tiredness. Flora stroked her daughter's back, bringing the infant more closely to her chest and bobbing lightly up and down on her toes.

"Is it – _shh, shh –_ warm enough in here – _shh, Teddy_ – at night? It's alright, little lobster."

Nathaniel gave a grunt of assent, watching Flora soothe the baby. His gaze meandered over the queen from head to toe, the corner of his mouth curved upwards. For the briefest moment he appeared the light-hearted, charming young man he had been in the Marches; free from his father's oppressive disapproval. Then, month by month, certain insidious rumours from Ferelden caught his attention – first, that there was something terrible brewing in the depths of the southern wilds, then that the Darkspawn were beginning to swarm with alarming purpose. Finally, came the most damning rumour of all – that a red-headed witch had slain the Arl of Amaranthine in cold blood. This revelation – incorrect as it was – was enough to strike down the natural wit residing in the young Howe; to age him ten years and put pale streaks into his hair.

Now the faintest glimmer of this long-buried charm shone through the man's weary demeanour.

"For someone who gave birth to twins a week ago, you look good," he observed, lightly.

Flora, with her usual obliviousness, continued to look around the cell. Alistair, in contrast, was more perturbed by the Howe's sly compliment than by any of Zevran's lewd and lascivious remarks. Jaw tightening, he moved imperceptibly forward to claim his wife, his free arm sliding about her waist.

"The teyrn has sailed to the smugglers' isle," the king said, his amber eyes flinty as shards of pyrite as they bored into his former enemy. "Soon, all those involved in this devious plot will be on trial before the Landsmeet. I intend to resolve this matter as quickly as possible – the queen and I need to return to the capital."

"Ah, I look forward to facing the men and women who had to endure decades of listening to my father complain about me," Nathaniel replied, wryly. "Maker knows, my involvement in this plot will only confirm their suspicions of my degeneracy. I wouldn't be surprised if one of their servants makes their way down here bearing a dagger with my name on it."

Flora peered at the prisoner, a trifle anxiously, then turned solemn grey eyes on her husband. Alistair let out a sigh, his fingers wandering instinctively over his wife's hip as he held her at his side.

"Florence promised you a trial," he said, softly. "I'll see that you survive until then."

It was clearly a great effort for him to utter these words; in other circumstances, Alistair would have been the first to direct the dagger-wielding servants to Nathaniel's cell.

 _In fact,_ the king thought to himself, _I would have happily stood at the entrance to the dungeons and handed out personalised maps._

Nathaniel inclined his head in a slight gesture of thanks, his eyes moving from a curious Taron to the yawning Theodora.

"Congratulations on the babes. They're beautiful."

Alistair mirrored the man's gesture, the suspicion still raw in his gaze. As the nonchalant mask settled back over Nathaniel's features, the king ducked his head to murmur in Flora's ear.

"Ready to go, my darling? I don't want you or the twins to catch a chill down here."

Flora nodded, still bouncing Theodora gently in her arms.

"Mm, yes. I'm ready."

They headed back through the labyrinth of crumbling dungeons, escorted by Mabari and guards. Just before the narrow stair that led up to the entrance – flanked by pairs of iron-bracketed torches – Alistair drew his wife to a halt and gazed down at her. The guards were fumbling with the keys for the iron gate; made nervous by the presence of the royal couple.

Flora smiled up at her husband, pink in the cheeks from bobbling Theodora for the past quarter-candle. Whenever she stopped rocking their daughter, the little girl's mouth would open in a squeak of protest.

"You called me Florence," she observed, tilting her head as the baby grabbed a strand of hair. "Back there."

Alistair nodded, shifting Taron to the other arm with the focus on his wife's face unbroken.

"Wynne suggested that I call you _Florence_ in public," he explained, eyes meeting hers. "Or in an official capacity. That way, only those who know you _well_ can call you Flora."

This was a skilful way to phrase it; another of Wynne's tactful suggestions. Flora thought for a long moment, and then nodded.

"Mm," she agreed, placidly. " I like that. It makes sense."

She flashed him one of her indolent smiles, the corner of the full mouth curving lazily upwards. The torchlight ignited vibrant strands of scarlet amidst the loosely tied mass of dark red hair; like volcanic embers caught in a net of crimson. Although the gate now stood open and ready, the king paused to kiss his wife, pecking her lips swiftly three times in a row.

"You're so _pretty,_ Lo," he complained hoarsely in her ear, his own lips brushing against the skin. "How can I concentrate on running a country with such a distracting wife? Sometimes I forget to _breathe_ when I look at you."

Flora beamed up at him, the pink in her cheeks deepening with shy pleasure. Just then, Theodora – who had been rocked too much after too large of a meal – opened her mouth and threw up the contents of her plump little belly over her mother.

"Waaah!"

"Aaaah!"

"Oh, shit- "

* * *

That night, the king and queen of Ferelden were awoken at two hours past midnight by something _other_ than the greedy cries of their children. A knock came at the door, tentative at first and then quickly more strident; as though the knocker had abruptly grown in confidence. The royal Mabari lying at the foot of the bed lifted their heads, ears pricking in the direction of the unexpected sound.

"Your majesty?"

The voice belonged to the senior of the two royal guards, an apologetic note in the gruff enquiry. They had heard the infants squalling at midnight, and knew that the new parents had only just managed to get themselves back to sleep a short time prior. There was a brief pause, and then permission for entrance was granted.

The chamber was cast in mellow firelight from the hearth; shifting amber hues falling across the bed. The king was sitting upright against the cushions, alert but not unduly worried – the Mabari hounds had not scented danger. Alistair had clearly just pulled the blanket up over his wife, who had abandoned the habit of wearing nightclothes when it became obvious that frequent access to her breast would be demanded.

"What is it?" the king enquired, grateful that the unexpected arrival had not awaken the twins. "Try and keep your voice down, they've only just got back to sleep."

"I'm sorry for the interruption, your majesty – _majesties, "_ the castle steward murmured, noticing that the queen was also eyeing him sleepily from beneath her husband's arm. "The lady Leliana was unsure whether to wake you or not, but she decided that it would be best if you were told straightaways. The Grey Wardens have arrived at the castle."

This caught the attention of both Flora and Alistair. They looked at each other and then she pushed herself upright; remembering to clutch the blanket to her breast just before it slipped downwards.

"Who's with them?" she asked, hopefully. "Is there a dwarf, with a red moustache? He carries a giant axe."

"And smells like a brewery," added Alistair, wryly.

Flora could have referred to Oghren by name: the residents of Ferelden were well-versed in the identities of their Hero's companions. The steward gave a nod, careful to keep his voice down in consideration of the sleeping twins.

"Aye, your majesty. The disgraced teyrn Mac Tir is with them too."

There was a long pause. Flora nudged Alistair pointedly in the ribcage; the king coughed and then gently corrected the steward.

"You mean _Commander Mac Tir,_ Baric. Loghain has made penance for his errors."

"As you say, King Alistair. Do you wish us to accommodate the Wardens and let the commander know that you'll receive them on the morrow?"

Alistair glanced down at Flora, who was absent-mindedly swivelling her wedding rings around her finger. With unspoken concord, she raised her solemn eyes to his; agreement in the wide grey irises. He ducked to press a swift kiss to her forehead, then turned back to the steward.

"We'll see them now," he replied, reluctantly. "As soon as we're dressed."

"Would you like to receive them in here?"

Alistair cast his eyes around the royal bedchamber. It was filled with the necessary chaos that accompanied the parenting of newborns – wet linen towels strewn over the flagstones, stained blankets crumpled near the foot of the bed. Woollen garments were hanging before the fire on cleverly engineered lines strung up the previous day by Zevran. Such carnage had never been seen in a royal bedchamber before; yet no other royal parents had elected to raise their children without the aid of wet-nurses and nannies.

"No," the king said, hastily. "Show them to the hall while we get ready."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Oooh! What adventure these characters have been on since the original story - well, actually, Loghain, since Nate wasn't in the original story. But Loghain has been on a proper journey - from general at Ostagar, to their arch-enemy, to prisoner, to Warden - omg is that what you call a character arc? As in an actual plot thing!?

Anyway, full disclosure, I got swept up in the excitement of BIRTH and BABIES and forgot about poor old Nathaniel mouldering away in the prison cell! Oh well, that's a good excuse for Flo forgetting as well, haha. Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	197. An Audience With Loghain

Chapter 197: An Audience With Loghain

A yawning Flora shuffled around the bedchamber, retrieving various items of clothing that would make her decent for public viewing. Since there was no way she was manoeuvring herself into her customary leather garb, she instead pulled on an old woollen jumper over a silk nightgown; retrieving her boots from beneath the bed. After dragging a brush through her hair in a cursory manner, she helped an equally weary Alistair fasten the buttons of his tunic.

"Typical of Mac Tir to arrive in the middle of the bloody night," the king grumbled, running his fingers over his stubbled chin and deciding that he would not shave for Loghain. "Couldn't they have just stopped in a tavern for a few hours?"

Alistair then recalled that the Wardens had spent almost a week scouting the abandoned tunnels of the Deep Roads in search of the abducted queen. Forcing himself to bite back further complaints, he went instead to arrange the sleeping newborns inside a blanket-lined basket. To his relief, neither seemed particularly disturbed by their change in location – Theodora opened huge, bleary grey eyes for a moment, but quickly sunk back into sleep.

"What have you both done to warrant such exhaustion?" their father murmured, reaching down to adjust the blanket so that it covered both of their nestled bodies. "Have you been running around the castle when our backs have been turned? Scaling the walls? Swinging from the candelabras?"

"I don't think so," chimed in Flora solemnly, not detecting the humour in his voice. "They can't even _walk_ yet. I imagine they're tired because they've been getting used to the world _._ It's very overwhelming to be…. out here."

Alistair chuckled, passing a hand over the top of his head in an effort to smooth down the rumpled hair.

"Well, Mabari pups don't even open their eyes until the second week. Our twins are already _developmentally_ ahead!"

"Little tadpoles," Flora said fondly, gazing down at the curled-up pair. "Although, they aren't as quick to develop as tadpoles. It takes less than a week for frogspawn to turn into a tadpole _with gills."_

"I'd be concerned if our twins developed gills, my darling!"

"No! That would be _amazing! I hope they do!"_

The king hoisted the basket of babes with a strong elbow, his other palm resting on the small of the queen's back as they made their way to the upper hall. They paused outside Finian's chamber, only to be told that the young arl had already departed to greet the Wardens. In the absence of the teyrn, Finian had taken on Fergus' usual responsibilities.

The thought of her gentle, academic brother – with his Orlesian foibles and foreign-style dress – forced to socialise with Loghain made Flora break out in a mild sweat. The king, who was used to setting the pace with long-legged ease, suddenly found himself hastening to catch up with his scuttling wife. The Mabari's claws skittered on the flagstones as the dogs also hurried to match her pace.

"My love," Alistair breathed, hoisting the basket from one arm to another. "You're practically _jogging._ What's the hurry?"

Flora grunted, not quite sure how to articulate her apprehension.

"Leliana is with them," he added, guessing the cause of her anxiety. "She'll keep things relatively civil; you know how good she is at in these types of situations."

Smiling to himself, Alistair did not add that Finian was more than used to blunt northern suspicion; that the young Cousland had experienced it for several weeks after first joining their party at Redcliffe Castle. Flora had treated her so-called _brother –_ this spoiled and pampered princeling – with a mixture of disdain and naked mistrust.

"Mm," Flora replied vaguely, already planning on how she would berate Loghain if he dared to make fun of Finian's Orlesian silk nightgown.

The visitors had been shown to the upper hall, where jugs of ale and platters of food had been hastily brought up from the kitchens. The lofty ceiling, with the vaulted roof like an upturned hull of a boat, was filled with chatter; three dozen of Ferelden's newly minted Wardens were seated on the benches. The servants had not had time to light the great, multi-tiered candelabras that hung from the ceiling, so myriad candlesticks were scattered on every available surface.

Loghain sat at a table slightly apart from his men, a letter clutched in a hand still garbed in travel gloves. Unlike the other Wardens – who were gazing around at the starkly impressive surroundings and whispering to each other in awe – the former teyrn was familiar with the decaying splendour of Castle Cousland. After all, he and Bryce had been locked in a rivalry that meandered between friendly and not-so for decades; the teyrn of the north had always delighted in inviting his southern counterpart to visit his far wealthier province.

However, Loghain's attention had been stolen away from the letter clutched in his hand. The commander was being skilfully distracted by Finian – who wore an ostentatious silk dressing robe over equally glamorous pyjamas – while Leliana cast a surreptitious eye over the contents of the letter. Finian was gesticulating in true Orlesian style, his mannerisms exaggerated and expressions animated. Seated between these two most flamboyant of Flora's companions, the grim-faced northerner looked thoroughly miserable.

The steward did not officially announce the king and queen of Ferelden as they entered, for technically the Wardens owed allegiance to no regional power. However, the Warden who had ended the Fifth Blight _was_ deserving of acknowledgement. As soon as those gathered within registered Flora's entrance, they rose to their feet with a loud scraping of chairs. Both parents held their breath – but fortunately, the twins were sound enough asleep that the sudden noise did not disturb them.

Loghain alone did not rise; the reason obvious. His false limb was unstrapped and resting against a table leg with the accompanying greave, the blunt end of his knee visible within rolled-up breeches. Dark Mac Tir eyes settled on the king and queen as they approached; Finian and Leliana melted away into eavesdropping range.

"You'll forgive me for not standing," he offered wryly, the northern brogue running more strongly through his words than it had done when he was a teyrn. "The leg aches after a day in the saddle."

Alistair raised a hand as though to say _not a problem,_ watching the former teyrn closely as they took their seats. He lifted the basket onto the table, leaning down to adjust the basket around Theodora's plump, wriggling foot.

The greying northerner gazed for a long moment at the sleeping twins, his expression unreadable. The former teyrn's wife had died when Anora was merely a child; Loghain had raised his daughter alone, to the best of his ability.

"Congratulations," he said softly, ta rueful smile finally breaking through the stoicism. "A pair of fine and fat babes. You can't help but defy expectation, can you?"

This latter part was directed to Flora, whose body had rejected Warden convention so vehemently that it had produced not one, but _two_ healthy infants. As though on cue, Taron opened a sleepy eye and peered up at the faces gazing down at him. A moment of indecision passed – should he wail out a demand to be held? – but eventually the little prince decided that he was content enough nestled beside the warm body of his sister.

"I don't mean to," Flora replied gravely, lifting her pale eyes to the commander's face. "It just… seems to happen. Don't know why. Where's Oghren?"

Loghain let out a sudden snort of laughter, earning him an alarmed glance from Taron.

"Good to hear you still talk like a northern lass. Don't try and sand out the edges of your voice like I did."

"I ain't don't goin' to," replied Flora in classic Herring fashion, then added "eh," for good measure; delighting in Finian and Leliana's mutual flinches.

"And the dwarf is- "

"Sorry! Had to piss like a nug after a week o'bloat-belly," came a cheerful bellow from the far corner of the hall. "Hope you don't mind, Finny, couldn't find yer privy so I just used some old vase I found in the corridor."

Finian blanched as Flora beamed, swivelling towards their most raucous companion as he barged his way through his brethren to meet them. Alistair also rose to his feet, a grin spreading over his face as the dwarf came to a halt before them.

"By the Stone! You two are a sight for sore eyes," Oghren declared, sweeping his gaze over the king and queen. "Alistair, my boy, you're looking awful comfortable in that fancy get-up. Hope you haven't forgotten how to swing a sword!"

Alistair, still grinning, shook his head; gripping their stout companion by the elbow.

"Not on your life, dwarf."

Oghren turned then to Flora, leering at her with unrestrained candour.

"And you're looking delightfully _top-heavy,_ darlin'. Alistair's a lucky man… or, perhaps _not._ I bet you two new parents ain't had sex for _ages._ Are you absolutely gaggin' for it?"

"Right," said Alistair loud and hastily, just as Flora was about to reply with a mournful nod. "That's – uh – enough of that. You're looking well, Oghren."

This was true: the dwarf was still a solid wall of bulky flesh, but much of it was now muscle rather than ale-filled fat. In fact, the dwarf's customary miasma of alcohol was entirely absent – his eyes were unclouded and his words articulated without a slur. Flora had noticed this the moment she saw him, and felt a surge of dizzying relief that life in the Wardens seemed to be working out well for her friend.

"Been crackin' Darkspawn skulls for the past few months," the dwarf replied, taking a glug of something that did not smell alcoholic from his hip-flask. "Best exercise ever. I'll let the boss explain what we've been up to."

The dwarf took his leave after beaming down into the basket; the lines at the corners of his eyes creasing more deeply as he gazed at the babes. After Taron made a flailing and uncoordinated grab in the direction of a dangling moustache braid, Oghren made a hasty retreat.

An awestruck servant came round with an ale-jug, refilling cups and tankards as they were thrust towards him. After the Wardens had been refreshed, many began to drift in clumps towards their assigned quarters; escorted by wide-eyed Cousland retainers. Although these men and women were all new to the Wardens, the Order had experienced a much-needed boost in profile in the wake of the Fifth Blight.

Loghain watched his recruits as they departed with the shrewdness of an old general, running his callused thumb absent-mindedly along the table.

"They're still rough around the edges," he muttered, half to himself. "Need a _lot_ of discipline. But they've shown great valour, both in the Deep Roads and when dealing with the threat in the Blackmarsh."

"Tell me how you resolved that," instructed Alistair, who had already been briefed via letter but wanted to hear the events shaped by Loghain's own throat. "From when you first entered the marshes."

Loghain opened his mouth, then slid his eyes sideways to Flora. The perceptive Warden had noticed that, although his letters had always been addressed to both king and queen, only Alistair's signature had been on returning correspondence.

"I assume that you know what's been going on, then, lass?"

Naturally, Flora was not going to reply with the whole truth; that she had discovered the whole saga by accident, stormed off in indignant outrage, and then promptly been abducted.

"Of course," she replied with northern candour, her pale eyes meeting Mac Tir's dark and thoughtful ones. "I was _inflamed_ about the whole incident. It's very rude of the Darkspawn to continue to cause problems after I killed the Archdemon."

The former teyrn let out a short bark of laughter, taking a gulp of ale.

"Lass, Darkspawn will _always_ cause problems. There are untold numbers of them beneath Thedas – it's when they swarm the surface in organised groups that they become a threat, as it was last year."

Flora could tell that Alistair was desperate to make a comment about how the man before them had been so quick to deny the presence of a Blight. He managed to restrain himself; the hand that rested on her thigh tapped out a staccato with long fingers.

"Anyway, the recruits conducted themselves admirably both in the tunnels and the marshes," Loghain continued, shifting his amputated limb into a more comfortable position. "We've had a good retention rate on the whole – one deserter, and one poor sod eaten by a Genlock. Lost our healer, but we've an elven lad who's just as skilled."

As Loghain spoke, Alistair listened with avid concentration; utterly focused on the former teyrn's words. After a few minutes, he abandoned his guardedness and leaned forward on the table, hazel Marician eyes fixed on the weathered features of the older man's face.

Flora listened too, attempting to follow her husband's example. Yet, despite her best efforts, her gaze found itself inextricably drawn downwards. All throughout the conversation, the queen had been trying her hardest _not_ to look at the stump of Loghain's leg – much as one conscious of their waistline would avoid peering into the window of a confectioner. The injury lay just on the periphery of her vision, tantalisingly close. She could see the ragged, pink line where she had knitted the flesh with a single exhalation; it had not been her neatest work, since it had been done under the most dire of circumstances.

Yet, Flora found herself unable to keep her eyes away from this last wound that she had ever healed, a physical legacy of her severed connection to the Fade. She could feel beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead, her pulse throbbed hard and painful in her throat. The conversation between Loghain and Alistair faded in and out, as though she was pressing her fingers repeatedly inside her ears.

"Wardens…. south-eastern Blackmarsh…. the Architect."

"…. No negotiations, aye. It only took…. purged the nest… eradicated."

In slow and wary increments, Alistair was letting his guard lower, leaning forwards to listen intently to Loghain's measured explanation. A legacy of the decades spent as general was the ability to recant events with clear conciseness; bloody exchanges and tangled skirmishes distilled into neat dispatches.

Flora had still not taken her eyes off the faint pink line; the last healing exhalation that her mouth had ever made. She had always taken her ability to breathe life and mending for granted – after all, she had thought that she would always possess it – and once again, the enormity of her loss struck her like a metal-gloved fist. Beneath her jumper, she could feel the silk nightgown stuck to her collarbone with cold sweat, heat simultaneously creeping up her neck to flare in patches on her cheeks.

 _What's wrong with me?_ she thought, panicked. _I've never reacted like this before._

 _I'm surrounded by the Wardens. I can't let them see me like this._

Flora rose to her feet, focusing on making the movement as smooth and unhurried as possible. As Alistair swivelled to gaze up at her, she forced herself to smile at him; infusing her voice with as much steadiness as was possible.

"I need the privy," she announced, a fraction too loudly. "Excuse me."

If Alistair had not been so intent on learning how the Darkspawn threat had been resolved, he would have detected the over-brightness in his wife's voice. Instead, he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles; refusing to let go until she had promised to take the Mabari with her.

Flora nodded like a puppet, reaching down to adjust the blanket over the sleeping twins before taking her leave.

The queen's heart continued to race as she made her way between the benches towards the side-door; as though she were a rabbit and the Mabari trotting in her wake were on the hunt. Her fingers felt strangely numb, there was a sharp ache in the centre of her chest that made it difficult to draw in a full breath of air. It felt as though her lungs were folding in on themselves like parchment; shrinking with each attempted inhalation.

 _What's wrong with me?_ she thought, the fear sour at the back of her throat.

 _I'll never mend anything again! Loghain's ragged wound – sealing up where the Darkspawn chewed off his leg – was the last thing I'll ever heal!_

 _I can't even remember doing it! Everything that happened on the roof of Fort Drakon is gone from my memory!_

Each one of her thoughts felt wild and punctuated; as though her mind was shrieking them out into the empty vacuum of her skull, increasingly panicked as nothing responded.

 _Please, say something back._

At last, she escaped the candlelight and chatter of the Warden-filled hall, plunging into the musty shadow of a nearby passage. Unfortunately this did not put a stop to her misery: for now her mind decided to remind her of all the people she _could_ have healed during the course of her progress – if she had not lost her magic.

 _The merchant's wife, the one driven mad by Blight sickness._

 _The mad priestess in Lothering, her body wracked with poison._

 _The dying soldier in the inn near the Circle._

 _The boy with Frost-cough in Herring._

Flora almost stumbled, weighed down by the sheer enormity of what she had lost. The Mabari glanced at once another in alarm, shuffling to reposition themselves so close to the queen that they were almost treading on her heels. Flora reached down to grope at the collar of the one on the right, steadying herself as it braced against her thigh. A waft of cool night air washed against the side of her face and she turned instinctively towards it; desperate to calm the heat flaring in blotches on her throat.

One blind shove against a wooden door later and Flora had emerged onto a stretch of open ramparts; the moon hanging vast and low overhead. She took three steps and then a swell of dizziness overtook her, knees buckling as though some unexpected wave had hit her squarely between the shoulder-blades.

Fortunately, there were no guards patrolling this particular stretch of ramparts. Through the liquid blurring her vision, Flora could see the progress of their torches on a distant wall. At some point they would make their way over to where she was kneeling; but for a few precious minutes she had some semblance of privacy.

She bent over her knees and tried to catch her breath, but the air kept escaping her lungs in short gasps; like fishing line slithering from her fingers. Each inhalation was short and ragged, severed by the rapid closing of her throat. The lack of air made red spots flash in the centre of her vision, blurred further by the hot tears spilling over her lashes.

 _Breathe in, lass._

This was not the voice of her spirits – as such would be impossible – but the coarse-edged voice of her Herring-father.

 _Fill yer lungs. Like yer preparin' to go underwater._

Flora took a gulp of air and clutched it within her, fighting against her own spasming lungs to keep it from escaping.

 _Keep it in. Stop gaspin' like a fish plucked from the sea. You ain't no fish, girl._

She lowered her forehead to the ground and focused on the cold pressure of the stone; the grit beneath her fingertips; the mist of drizzle settling against the back of her neck.

 _I'm the queen. It's like being the Warden-Commander, but with a crown on my head instead of a griffin on my breast. I have to pull myself together._

Flora had once heard Wynne calm down a panicking apprentice at the Circle by getting him to count in increasing increments. She briefly considered attempting to count, but ultimately decided that such academic activity would not help to calm her – in fact, it would probably do the opposite.

Instead, she let her mind meander back along the northern shoreline; past the craggy outcrops and the stark granite headlines, past the strange hexagonal columns of rock rising higher than any Chantry spire. In her mind's eye, she saw the jagged sweep of the Hag's Teeth, the huddle of buildings on the shoreline; the village which had never failed to ease her restless mind during the worst months of the Blight.

To her shock, this usual method of self-soothing _did not work._ Her breath continued to escape from her throat in short and panicked gasps, her vision prickled dark at the corners of her eyes. One of the Mabari gave a low whine, nudging it's velvet nose against her elbow.

 _Herring didn't work._

 _Herring didn't work?!_

 _Right,_ piped up her inner northerner. _Think of something else to calm you._

 _What calms down Taron when he's upset? How do I stop Teddy from crying?_

 _Teddy likes to be rocked back and forth like a ship on rough seas. She likes to grab my hair like an anchor. Her fingers are so strong for such a new baby._

 _Taron just likes to be held next to your heart, and feel your breath on his face. He doesn't even blink when he looks up at you, though I don't know how much he can see yet._

Flora found herself smiling through her tears, bent over at the waist with her forehead pressed against the stone. The more that she thought on her children, the more she calmed down; her frantic heart slowed and her breath no longer clawed its way from her throat.

 _Taron Angus Pelegrín. Theodora Amity Seashell. Such big names for week-old babies._

 _They'll grow into them. They're going to be tall, both of them. I'll be the prawn in a family of majestic lobsters._

 _Oh, I can breathe again!_

Realising that whatever had seized her body in throes of frenzied panic had passed, Flora wiped her nose on her sleeve and pushed herself to her feet. The flagstones had left indentations on her white-scarred palms; she pressed them against her thighs to smooth out the skin. The Mabari, relieved that the Theirin's mate had regained her composure, nudged her pointedly towards the tower.

Hoping that she had not been too long away from the hall, Flora made her way back through the small wooden door and along the passage. She stopped a startled servant who was clutching a tray, leaning down to inspect her reflection in the side of a silver jug. Smoothing her hands over her hair to flatten it, the queen took a deep breath and prepared to return to the company of others.

The upper hall was quieter than it had been when Flora had excused herself a short while earlier. Most of the Wardens had retired to their assigned bedchambers, weary from several days of journeying. A few still sat finishing their tankards, a game of Wicked Grace spread over the table before them. Finian, viewing himself as relieved from duty, had disappeared back to the warm confines of his bed. The king and Loghain were still seated opposite one another; the basket of babes between them. Leliana was perched on a table just close enough to eavesdrop, humming softly and pretending to add sentences to a sheet of parchment.

Flora had arrived back at just the right moment – Alistair was half-rising to his feet, head turning anxiously towards the direction that she had departed in. Relief suffused his handsome features as his gaze settled on her, the concern easing into a smile.

"Darling," he said as she drew near, the affection warming each word. "Did you end up in Par Vollen instead of the privy? I was just about to come and find you."

"I… got stuck," replied Flora, unable to think of a feasible excuse.

Alistair and Loghain eyed her, for a single moment united by their mutual surprise. Loghain's eyebrow disappeared into his greying hairline; head bobbing in a quick up-down of her slender frame.

Flora lifted her chin defiantly as she lowered herself to the bench beside Alistair, reaching into the basket to smooth a hand over the plump, sleeping bellies of their twins.

"So there's no more Darkspawn in the Blackmarsh?" she asked, wanting to make sure that her brother's nearby seat of Amaranthine was under no threat.

"None that are taking instruction, lass," replied the former teyrn, downing a long draw of ale. "Which is as much as we can hope for. I doubt we'll ever be able to purge Ferelden of the fiends completely; their numbers are too great. But, at least they'll be staying below-ground for now."

While Loghain had been speaking, Alistair had been peering closely at his wife. Flora had always been adept at disguising her emotion – the cool ambiguity of her features resisted interpretation. Despite this natural obfuscation, her former brother-warden was able to detect subtle clues in his best friend's expression that might have been missed entirely by others.

Alistair's gaze moved from the flush visible at the neck of Flora's navy wool jumper, up to the faint redness lining the insides of her eyelids, then back down to the slight quiver in her fingers as she rested her hands in her lap. Taken individually, these signs were so subtle that they were not mentioning; collectively, they were unarguable proof of previous distress. Flora felt him flinch in dismay at the revelation; accompanied by a sharp intake of breath as he realised that, for some reason, his wife had just been weeping alone in some back passage.

Alistair was clearly horrified – a muscle twitched frantically in his cheek – but to her relief, he did not falter in conversation, continuing to query Loghain about how recruitment was going. As he spoke, the king reached beneath the table and took her hand in his; entwining their fingers together with inextricable tightness. The warmth of their tangled fingers and clasped palms prompted a surge of such dizzying relief that Flora felt as though she might slither right off the bench and puddle onto the flagstones.

 _Fish-roped. My Alistair-anchor._

She thought about letting her head rest on Alistair's shoulder, but her conscience warned her otherwise; despite the lateness of the hour and the strangeness of the circumstance, this was no informal chat with an old friend. The queen of Ferelden sat up a little straighter and looked Loghain in the eye, infinitely grateful for the steady rub of Alistair's thumb against her knuckles.

Loghain rummaged in his saddle-pack for a sheaf of parchment; the latest recruitment figures from his co-commander Léonie Caron. Alistair spread the pages out, curious as to where the Orlesian had managed to find so many willing to undergo the dangerous process of becoming a Warden.

"It's the effect of the Blight," Loghain explained, wry and blunt. "Now everyone wants to be a hero and save their nation. Do their bit in keeping the Darkspawn suppressed."

"That's certainly new," retorted Alistair, recalling the difficulties that his old commander had once had in finding new recruits. "Duncan had to conscript to find the numbers."

"Helps when people aren't under some misguided impression that the Wardens are a gang of traitors, drunkards and fools," Loghain murmured, mingled sarcasm and self-awareness running through the words. After all, it was the former teyrn who had once been one of the most vocal opponents of the Wardens.

Alistair let out a snort that was half-surprised and half-amused. The next moment, he seemed to remember whose humour he had responded _to,_ and hastily rearranged his features back into wary neutrality.

Just then, Taron issued a scratchy cry; blinking at the faces that immediately turned towards him. He let out a whimper, flailing a small and demanding fist.

"Hungry, if I'm not mistaken," murmured Loghain, the father in him recognising the distinctive timbre of the cry. "Funny how you never forget these things."

Alistair lifted Flora's hand to his mouth, pressing his lips briefly to her fingers before releasing them. While he reached into the basket to lift his grumbling son, Flora pulled the woollen jumper over her head and let the nightgown strap slither down her arm. As Alistair placed the baby gently at her breast, she leaned back against his shoulder and brought up her knee to rest against the table; trying to find as comfortable a position as was possible.

"I wish I had an excuse to eat every few hours," Flora whispered wistfully as the baby's cheeks flexed around her nipple. "Everyone kept offering me food all the time when I was carrying you and your sister. Now I only get three meals a day!"

She ducked her face to nuzzle against the infant's soft little head, his golden hair like a dusting of feathers.

"He's got the look of a Theirin," Loghain offered, watching the baby's fingers curling into a reflexive fist. "Aye, it's a shame that Maric isn't- "

The former teyrn cut himself off abruptly; it had been a half-decade and yet the pain of losing his best friend was still raw. Alistair shot him a swift, curious glance before returning his attention to his suckling son.

The few Wardens still remaining in the Hall finished their game of Wicked Grace; a tattooed dwarf was grinning while a blonde elf muttered a curse in her native tongue. They rose to their feet with a scrape of wood, the former crowing about her victory.

"Eh, I did warn you! Never gamble against a Dust Town girl. We're used to playin' dirty; we ain't got nothin' to lose."

"I've no idea where that last Knight card came from," retorted the elf, huffing with irritation. "You don't even have _sleeves._ Where were you hiding it?"

"You don't want to know, Vel!"

The dwarf let out a cackle, slowing her pace as they approached their commander and the royal couple. The Warden let her dark gaze – exaggerated by the conspicuous tattooed markings about her eyes – wander from king to queen; whose bared breast also revealed the silver scarring across her collarbone.

"Think we're going to retire for the night, boss," the dwarf announced, running her fingers over the hilt of her dagger. "I reckon you owe us a good long lie-in, after makin' us trawl through them Darkspawn tunnels day and night. We barely stopped to _eat,_ let alone rest!"

Loghain inclined his head in wry acknowledgement, one of his faded braids brushing against his ear.

"Aye," he replied, conceding. "Get some sleep, Sigrun."

As the dwarf and the elf departed the hall, Alistair cleared his throat; self-conscious but wholly earnest.

"Thank you for your help," the king said, quietly. "When Flora was missing. Teagan showed me the letters you sent each day, with details of the areas you'd searched. I… I didn't realise that you'd searched through the night, too."

Loghain let out a quick, humourless breath; head shaking back and forth.

"Of course," he replied, with northern bluntness. "She had to be found. The nation needs her."

Alistair nodded, his fingers tightening protectively on Flora's arm. For several minutes they sat in silence, the baby still suckling greedily away at his mother.

"Lord Harrowmont – the new dwarven ruler in Orzammar – has sent through the latest scout reports about the Darkspawn nests in the west," the king said eventually, clearing his throat. "We can go through them tomorrow morning. I'd like to have as many as possible destroyed."

The former general eyed the young man with something akin to approval in his eyes; thinking on how similar to Maric this second son had turned out. He gave a low grunt of assent, tapping his fingers against the wood.

Taron finally decided that he had finished feeding, and was passed to his father. Alistair took the baby and placed him against his shoulder, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Loghain.

"We've one other matter to discuss," he said quietly, patting the baby gently between the shoulder-blades. "Nathaniel Howe."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Haha, don't tell me that Alistair wouldn't be a hands-on father! He's definitely doing his bit in helping with the twins – no such thing as paternity (or maternity) leave back then, hehe.

This was an interesting chapter to write – I've always been fascinated with Loghain as a character (though I don't like him at all), which is why I decided to branch from game canon in the first place and put him on a bit of a redemption arc. He's still a grumpy old git though, lol.

I also thought it was important to highlight how Flo is still in mourning for her spirits – she's still grieving the loss of her abilities. Even though she's seen Loghain's wound before, for some reason the sight of it on this occasion triggered her panic attack. Not that she knew what a panic attack was, haha. Poor old Flo! I've only had one panic attack in my life, years ago, and it was HORRIBLE. I tried to make it as realistic as possible!

replying to reviews in the reviews thank you


	198. Discussions and Interruptions

Chapter 198: Discussions and Interruptions

The king, the queen, and the former teyrn sat together in the upper hall, with Leliana perched innocuous and quiet nearby. The rest of the Wardens had departed for their chambers, grateful for the temporary respite; and the fires were burning low in the surrounding hearths. The bell for the third hour had just been rung, and Castle Cousland was still.

Flora had been about to fall asleep – she had shuffled herself down the bench to lean her head on her husband – but Alistair's mention of _Howe_ saw her blink and sit up straighter. Realising that her nightgown was still drooping open, she absent-mindedly pushed the thin silk back up onto her shoulder.

Loghain said nothing at first, but one greying eyebrow quirked upwards. He reached for his tankard and found it empty; Flora slid a half-full ale-jug towards him.

"Thank you, lass. So: Nathaniel Howe," the Warden said, finally. "The man who organised the abduction of your child-bearing wife? I'm surprised he still lives."

Alistair flinched; it would take a long time for the nightmares inspired by Flora's ordeal to leave him. Still, the king managed to maintain his composure well, nodding measuredly as he continued to pat the hiccuping Taron between the shoulders.

"The man who organised the abduction of an 'apostate who murdered his innocent father in cold blood'," he countered through gritted teeth, forcing himself to show reason. " _News_ often sheds _truth_ when it crosses borders. Howe acted too quickly based on rumour alone, and he needs to be punished for it, but…"

The king trailed off and his queen picked up the thread of his thought seamlessly; running her finger around the wicker rim of the basket.

"It doesn't feel the same as it did with Rendon Howe," Flora said, in the soft and throaty northern cadence that defied Leliana's attempts to refine it. "Rendon Howe knew what he was doing when he abducted me. Whereas with Namanule – he tried to stop it, as soon as he learnt the truth."

Flora cast her mind back to Beraht's gloating triumph in the confines of the cell on the smugglers' isle. After taunting her for her helplessness, he had turned to the chained and fuming Howe.

 _I must thank you,_ the dwarf had declared, bright-eyed and grinning cruelly. _We stand to make more profit from this sale than all our past flesh-markets combined. Good thing we didn't call the whole thing off like you wanted, eh? You stupid fucker – you could've shared the spoils, and instead you're chained like a dog._

 _I'd rather be in chains,_ Nathaniel had retorted, furiously. _This is madness – I never intended – you must return her!_

Loghain just about restrained himself from mouthing _Namanule?!_ incredulously to himself. In the meantime, Taron had fallen asleep on his father's shoulder. Alistair kissed his son and then replaced him in the basket next to his sister.

Loghain let out a soft bark of laughter, considerate of the slumbering infants.

"You want Howe to join the Wardens as penance," he said, and it was a statement of fact rather than a question. "Much as you did with me. An act of mercy?"

"More one of clemency," replied Alistair evenly, his freed hand now firmly reclaiming his wife's fingers. "I want him where you can keep an eye on him. According to Flo, he's a sound fighter – swift and sharp in his aim."

Flora nodded, letting her thumb meander over her husband's callused knuckles.

"The alchemist threw a knife at me, quick as a snake," she said, gravely. "Nationale took the blade. He's brave, Loghain."

Whenever the queen shaped his name with her throaty, northerner's tongue, pronounced in the crude cadence of the lower classes, the former teyrn startled; the sound bringing back long-buried memories. Flora spoke with the same husky, laconic inflection as the girls from his home village of Oswin, tucked away in the north-western hills of the Bannorn. To his irritation, Loghain found himself looking a fraction overlong at Bryce Cousland's daughter as she sat opposite, grave-faced and full-lipped.

"Well, he's welcome to prove his mettle in the Deep Roads," the Warden said to distract himself, then gave a wry shrug. "If he survives the Joining, that is."

Now it was Theodora's turn to begin grizzling, flinging tiny fists into the air as her little mouth opened wide. Flora reached into the crib and lifted the infant girl to her breast, listening to the timbre of the cry.

"Are you hungry, crabcake?"

The baby turned her face away from the nipple and pouted; she was not hungry. She was not wet, nor tired; she was crying for no discernible reason. Both new parents gazed at each other in perplexion, having passed the little princess between them to no avail.

"Teddieeeeeee," crooned Flora, patting the baby's back tentatively. "What's wrong?"

"Is she too hot? Too cold?" asked Alistair, a bead of anxious sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Scared?"

"Dunno," replied Flora, peering down at the baby's unhappy face. "Poor little lobster."

The couple had entirely ignored Loghain's presence; their attention fixed on their unhappy daughter. Now the former general cleared his throat quietly, letting his fingers tap against the hard wood of the table.

"Anora used to howl half the night when she was a bairn," he murmured, slipping unconsciously back into the linguistic patterns of the north. "Celia and I had to find our own ways of calming her."

Flora looked at Alistair, her pale eyes questioning. Alistair half-grimaced, but then gave a silent nod of consent. The next moment, the older man found himself with an unhappy newborn deposited in his arms. Theodora paused in her wailing for a split-second to eye this new face, then resumed her grizzling.

"Shush, shush," he said softly under his breath. "Hush, little one."

After a few more minutes of similar murmuring, Theodora quietened down and stared up at Loghain with her mother's huge, solemn eyes. The teyrn gazed back down at her, struck silent by the sudden resurfacing of long-lost memories. His own daughter had been a demanding baby, able to rouse half of the household with her bellows.

"Such dark hair," the Warden said after a moment, gazing at the dusky wisps curling over the baby's ears. "Like ink."

"My mother had dark hair," Flora said, tentatively. "Or… that's what my brothers tell me. I don't remember."

"Aye, Ellie did," Loghain replied, quietly. "Black as coal."

He glanced swiftly at Alistair, but remained silent; leaning forward to place the dozing baby beside her brother.

Flora, meanwhile, had felt a strange prickling on her skin at Loghain's informal naming of her mother. It reminded her that – before the Blight – there had been a time when the Couslands, the Mac Tirs and the Theirins had been familiar with each other; had been entangled in intimate friendship and rivalry for generations.

 _Alistair and I are married, but I was originally meant to be married to Cailan._

 _Instead, Cailan was wed to Anora Mac Tir._

 _Before that, Loghain and Rowan Guerrin were going to be married, but then she married Alistair's father instead._

 _I bet if you go far enough back, all the noble families are tangled up in each other._

 _Just like how everyone marries their cousin in Herring!_

"Alistair, I think we might be _related_ ," Flora breathed out loud, forgetting that some sort of explanatory context was probably required.

Both Alistair and Loghain turned nonplussed stares on her, made temporarily identical by their confusion.

"Time for bed, my dear," the former murmured at last, leaning forward to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I think you're a little delirious."

Together with Leliana they left the upper hall, ambling at slower pace than usual in consideration of Loghain's leg. Leliana left their company first, granting both Flora and Alistair a parting kiss on the cheek. The bard took a longer time to say goodnight to the babies, cooing down in Orlesian at the sleeping twins as a patient Alistair held the basket up for her convenience. A few passageways later, Loghain grunted an ambiguous farewell and disappeared into his assigned chamber.

The moment that the door had shut behind the limping Warden, Alistair put the basket down on the flagstones and reached out for his wife. Flora only just had time to open her mouth in confusion before she was pulled into a tight embrace; drawn firmly against her husband's chest. Arms encircled her shoulders and the small of her back, pulling the two of them together as if they were a single being.

"Mmph-"

"Flo," he began, then cut himself off and pressed his face against the top of her head.

Flora inhaled the familiar, hearth-smoke and leather smell of her brother-warden, the rough cambric of his sleep-shirt clamped between her fingers. She felt him draw in a long, unsteady breath and peered upwards with a question in her pale eyes.

"Why were you crying earlier?" he asked gently, leaning back just far enough to see her face. "My sweet girl."

"Oh! Oh," replied Flora, who had almost forgotten the sudden storm of tears. "I – it was Loghain. Well, Loghain's _leg."_

Alistair blinked, then came to a sudden realisation. After all, he had been there on the rooftop of Fort Drakon when Flora had put her mouth to the ragged stump of Loghain's knee. Even her panicked, gasping exhalations – she had just realised that _she_ had to be the one to slay the Archdemon – had been potent enough to mend the torn flesh; to meld the severed sinew of the thigh and even knit together the tattered vessels to craft a working circulatory system. It had been an exquisite piece of mending. Flora had been trained how to shield by her spirits but nobody had ever needed to teach her healing, it came natural as breathing. The loss of her magic had been like losing a limb; a grief that still had sharp edges.

"Baby," he breathed in dismay, brushing a thumb over the fine arc of her cheekbone. "My love, why didn't you tell me? I would have come with you. It breaks my heart to think of you weeping on your _own."_

"You were busy talking to Loghain," replied Flora, tilting her face into his palm.

" _Loghain?!"_ retorted Alistair, incredulous. "Maker's Breath! I would gladly abandon him in an instant. Whose company do you think I'd rather be in?!"

"No, no," she protested, earnestly. "It was important for you to stay. You were talking about – about _national business_."

He took her face in her hands, the green flecks in his eyes standing out bright and indignant like shards of glass.

" _You're_ my main concern, Lo. You'll always be my priority."

"But- "

"Have I ever made you think differently?"

"Noooo," she hastened to reassure him, seeing the distress carve lines into his handsome brow. "No, no."

Alistair pressed his lips against her forehead, her cheeks, her nose; as though administering brand after tender brand of affection.

"It doesn't matter what I'm doing," he said urgently between kisses. "I could be sitting in the Landsmeet – or in an audience with the bloody Empress of Orlais - and I'd stop it in a heartbeat if you needed me."

Flora gazed up at him anxiously, her eyes searching his face.

"But I can't just interrupt everything by saying that I feel sad," she protested, tilting her head so that he could press his lips to her neck.

"Then we'll have a code-phrase," Alistair murmured against her, running his hand beneath the jumper to feel the skin exposed by the loose ties of her nightgown. "One that we can use in public if _either_ of us… feels a bit overwhelmed."

"A _code-phrase,_ " whispered Flora, feeling her heartbeat quicken as he caressed the small of her back, fingers dancing around her hips. "You think of one, I'm not good at coming up with things like that."

But Alistair was losing focus on the matter at hand, increasingly distracted by his wife's nakedness beneath the flimsy silk. He nuzzled his face between her neck and her shoulder, breath hot against her skin. The guards that followed them at a tactful distance withdrew around a bend in the passageway; the elder shooting the younger a pointed look. The twins were still sound asleep in the basket, curled together like Mabari pups beneath a thin woollen blanket.

" _I want you,"_ Alistair mumbled into her shoulder, the words emerging in a tangled rush. "I want you, Lo. So badly."

"Is that the code-phrase?" she replied innocently and Alistair let out a half-laugh, half-groan; steering her gently back against the door in small, shuffling steps. Flora felt the press of wood on her shoulder-blades and reached up to wrap her arms around her husband's neck.

"No," he said softly, simultaneously reaching down to grip the hem of her nightgown. "Don't tease me. Maker's Breath, you little beauty."

Flora peered up at him through her eyelashes, shifting her hips to let him inch the silk hem up her thighs. Alistair clutched the bundled material in a clumsy fist, his breath catching in his throat as he gazed at her.

"I wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you," he murmured into her hair, pressing his lips to the delicate skin behind her ear.

"You did?" she replied, deft fingers unfastening the laces at the top of his breeches.

"I'd always thought of myself as a bit of an overgrown boy before," he continued, hooking his thumb into the top of her smallclothes. "But when I saw you, I… I felt the urges of a _man._ Mm, look at _this._ Beautiful _,_ Flo."

Alistair inched her smallclothes down over her thighs, sparing the corridor a quick side-to-side glance to check that nobody else was around. It was a little-used passageway and it was the middle of the night; the king reasoned that there was small chance of interruption.

Flora's hand found its way into his breeches at the same time as his fingers slid between her thighs. They both inhaled unsteadily; her pressed back against the door as he leaned into her, chest rising and falling in uneven pants.

"Did you _really_ want me as soon as you saw me?" she whispered, heat blooming on her cheeks as she traced the shape of his arousal.

"Of course. Of _course_ I did, Flo," Alistair croaked back, his calloused thumb settling into a well-practised rhythm. "You were the sexiest creature I'd ever seen. That _mouth_ , those huge, pale eyes, all that dark red hair spilling everywhere like wine. I wanted to see it spread beneath me."

Flora let out a breathless whimper, her hand now working vigorously inside his breeches.

"Please," she whispered, turning her flushed face entreatingly upwards. "Please, let's not wait any longer. I want you _now. Quick,_ quick, before the twins wake up!"

Alistair was more than happy to oblige, pinning her against the door and reaching down to take himself in hand. Unfortunately for the queen of Ferelden, things would not go entirely to plan. Several events conspired to come together with almost uncanny synchrony; utterly devastating the amorous mood.

First of all, there came an irritated cough from the other side of the door that a delighted Flora had been pressed up against.

"This reminds me all too well of when I used to pitch my tent alongside Maric," came Loghain's pointed voice, slightly muffled by the wood. "Your likeness to your father continues to manifest, Alistair. Would it be too presumptuous to request that you move along a few yards?"

A split-second later, there came an ear-piercing squeal of horror from the end of the passageway. Finian, who had come down from his bedchamber to ask if they were attending breakfast, clamped his hands over his face.

"My eye! I've gone blind in my sole remaining eye!" he bemoaned, as Alistair hastily let Flora's nightgown fall about her thighs while tucking himself back into his breeches. "My little sister _, debauched in public!"_

"It wasn't _public_ until you arrived," grumbled Flora, reluctantly unwinding her leg from Alistair's waist and slithering to the floor. "And I was looking forwards to being _debauched."_

"You Herring harlot!"

The two guards then arrived on the scene with a clatter of footsteps, puffing slightly, drawn by the young arl's squeal. As if on cue, both twins woke up and began to wail simultaneously.

"Well," said Alistair after a moment, surveying his grumpy wife, her traumatised brother, their unhappy children and the confused pair of guards. "I… think we'll call it a night, then."

Flora's mouth, naturally sulky, curved into an even more pronounced pout. She reached up to curve an arm around Alistair's neck, drawing his head down to her foot-lower level.

"The first chance I get," she whispered, lips brushing feather-light against his ear. "I'm going to tie you to the bed with my _best knots_ and not let you go until I'm satisfied."

Alistair's queen then bit him gently on the fleshy lobe of his ear, letting go as an incredulous groan escaped his throat. She then crouched before the basket of babies, reaching in to soothe their unhappy twins.

"Maker's Breath, Flo," croaked the king, frantically trying to work out how he could bring about such an opportunity. "You can't… you can't _say_ things like that and then- and then… just..."

He flailed, lost for words; caught in a web of tangled desire. From where she knelt, Flora curved the corner of her mouth up at him, a single strand of dark red hair stuck to her lower lip. Without hesitation – or breaking eye contact – she licked her finger and brushed the hair away, leaving a soft gleam of saliva on the plump flesh. Alistair let out a strangled sound of despair, his eyes dark and focused with need.

"They need to make these blasted doors thicker," commented Loghain evilly from within his chamber. "Someone inform the teyrn."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ahahaha oh no! Foiled! No sexual satisfaction for our new parents quite yet I'm afraid, lol. Though they might have had better luck if they'd tried doing it IN THE BEDROOM as opposed to in a corridor. They just aren't used to having privacy, neither of them…. Anyway, at least Loghain is amenable to having Nathaniel in the Wardens! It should be a familiar situation, since it's literally HIS OWN situation, lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	199. All We Need Is A Wall

Chapter 199: All We Need Is A Wall

The next few days passed in a state of constant activity. The castle was still embroiled in the preparations for the Landsmeet: fresh-washed bedlinen hung out of every window; the ale cellars of each tavern in the town had been bought out; both stables and kennels had undergone extensions. A few minor banns had already arrived, and were housed within hastily prepared quarters.

Finian, in his brother's absence, had manfully taken on much of the teyrn's duties. He had sat at the quarterly assizes, where he had displayed a vast and encyclopaedic knowledge of Fereldan legalities, far surpassing Fergus' grasp of the law. However, the other obligations of a great landlord proved to be less appealing to the young arl – such as the touring of the mines and quarries, and hearing appeals from an endless queue of petitioners. Many of these enquiries he delegated to Leliana, who displayed a sharp and insightful political acumen. Unknown to anyone but herself, the bard had her eye on a particular position within the Chantry hierarchy; to be considered, she would need references from as many high-ranking figures as possible.

Below the hustle and bustle of the preparations overhead, a more sombre sort of provision was taking place. The dungeons were being renovated and reinforced, collapsed tunnels cleared and rusting iron replaced with cold steel. The gaolers had no idea how many prisoners would be arriving over the next few days, but they would be taking no chances – every cell was prepared for an occupant. From his own 'quarters', Nathaniel Howe watched the back-and-forth of masons, guards and carpenters with a mixture of mild interest and resignation.

Up in the royal bedchamber, the time had passed within a swirl of sleepless nights and fragmented days, everything revolving around the demands of the little infants. They woke up every few hours grizzling plaintive pleas for food; though once they had been fed, they were perfectly content to doze tucked in someone's elbow.

Flora and Alistair, who had once worked together in synchrony on the battlefield, now learnt to work with each other in a new harmony. She fed one babe then passed it to its father; he patted it between the shoulder-blades while dictating a response to Eamon to a hovering secretary. The queen would sponge each infant down with a damp linen cloth as Finian read aloud a report from the masons' guild; Alistair listened intently as he patted the fresh-washed twin dry. The newly-arrived banns arrived to pay official respects to their king and queen; the two men had to weave their way around piles of damp linens, tiny knitted socks, and clumps of discarded clothing belonging to various occupants of the room. Cod and Lobster were brought up from the kennels for a few hours each day; the puppies clearly keen to begin their official duties.

On occasion, the harmonious dance of parenting made a misstep. After a third consecutive night with only a few hours of slumber, Flora burst into tears after seeing her dropped pear roll out of reach beneath the bed. Alistair, equally sleep deprived, immediately abandoned his paperwork and lurched clumsily upwards from his desk. The exhausted young king stumbled over a basket of fresh linens and almost fell; staggering across the room towards his weeping wife.

After seeing this, Leliana put down her prettily-decorated silk foot and insisted that both king and queen take naps during the day; stealing hours of precious rest while the twins also dozed. At first, both protested strongly. The bard had needed to explain what a _nap_ even _was_ to the Herring native, whose mouth then dropped in horror at the concept of _rest during daylight_. Alistair, who had thrown himself into his kingly duties with the ardent dedication that he showed to all his endeavours, was similarly resistant to the suggestion. Leliana had finally persuaded them both; pointing out to Alistair that Cailan had spent scarcely an hour a week on paperwork.

Once Finian had also been recruited to help look after the twins – the young arl proved remarkably adept at changing soiled linens, despite his vociferous complaints – the royal couple regained some semblance of sanity. As soon as both of the twins fell asleep, both parents would fling themselves onto the bed and sink into a deep slumber; wound tightly in each other's arms. Despite Flora's lusty promise to Alistair from several days prior, they had not had the time nor the energy for intimacies. On one memorable occasion, the half-asleep Alistair rolled on top of his wife and – with her sleepy assistance - began to hoist up her nightgown. They were then interrupted by shrieks of horror from Finian, whom they had forgotten was perched in a nearby armchair with Taron in his arms.

One underlying reason for the strain in the air was their ignorance of events on the smugglers' isle. On the evening of the party's third day away, a letter came via hawk that assuaged the royal couple's fears. It was written in Fergus' own untidy scrawl: they had arrested the members of the Carta who managed to survived confinement with their own kind, as well as capturing several men who had arrived to take part in the flesh-auction. These included a minor Tevinter lordling, a man expelled from the Chantry for corruption, and a particularly nasty Antivan merchant who had made his fortune in the illegal slave trade.

The knowledge that the mission to the smugglers' isle had been successful was a burden lifted from the shoulders of both young parents. Flora slept more easily in her husband's arms that night; Alistair held her against his chest and envisioned a dozen different ways of 'greeting' the men who had tried to _purchase_ his wife and infants.

On the fifth day of the teyrn's absence, the royal couple had taken themselves out into the courtyard gardens for some fresh air. Flora carried the basket of babies, Alistair had retrieved his paperwork; together with a small train of servants carrying blankets, spare woollens, water-jugs and cushions, they made their way outside. The Wardens were drilling at the training dummies, overseen by a scowling Loghain; while retainers sporting various liveries rushed back and forth. The sons of the minor banns who had already arrived were lingering in Fergus' stables, admiring the selection of fine horses owned by the teyrn.

It was a clear and unseasonably mild autumnal day; Flora cast an approving eye up at the unbroken, milky blue expanse of sky and whispered a quiet word of thanks. Her mind was never far from her brother and her companions, dependent on the fluctuating favour of her beloved Waking Sea. Alistair had set up a makeshift desk, placed his letters in neatly arranged piles; then promptly decided that he was going to do an hour's worth of training before resuming the paperwork.

Flora sat crossed legged on the grass, cradling both babies in her arms. At almost two weeks old, they still spent most of the day sleeping; interspersed with periods where they would stare intensely up at her face. Flora didn't know how much they could see yet, but smiled widely down at them regardless. She was well aware that her cold-eyed, sulky mouthed expression did not give off a naturally _welcoming_ air – and did not want her twins to be intimidated by her own haughty features.

"I'm not scary," Flora whispered down to them; shifting her gaze from one pair of huge grey eyes to another. "I promise. I know I don't look very friendly, but that's just the way my face is."

Nearby Leliana perched on the makeshift desk, humming a gentle Orlesian melody while casting a surreptitious eye over Alistair's paperwork. Finian, initially reluctant to linger for fear of grass stains on his calfskin breeches, noticed that Alistair had taken his shirt off to train and decided that he _would_ rather like to stay.

The young arl leaned back on his elbows on the grass, positioning himself at the best angle to admire the king's sweaty bulk. Alistair was diligently going through the Templar stances one at a time; sweeping his blade methodically towards the training dummy at various angles.

Flora had stopped smiling down at the twins and was now also gazing mesmerised at her husband. She could not tear her eyes from the muscles in his back, still bronzed from the summer, working hard with each powerful swing of his arms.

"Close your mouths, you two," Leliana chided them, pouring over one of Eamon's letters. "You look like a pair of gawking geese."

"He's so edible," Finian moaned, ignoring the bard completely. "It's not _fair_ , Flossie. Why couldn't I have been recruited by Duncan and partnered up with the delectable Alistair?"

"Because you were in Val Royeaux learning about the colour _green,"_ Flora retorted, tilting her head as Taron grabbed a strand of hair. "At _uniburchity."_

"By the time we had met, it was too late," Finian continued to complain, his own full Cousland mouth curled petulantly. "You had gotten your hooks into him."

"My fish-hooks," replied Flora, pleased with his metaphor. "Hee, hee."

Loghain, who had limped off to fetch a wooden training shield from a nearby rack, passed by just in time to hear the tail end of their conversation.

"Don't worry," he offered, drily. _"_ Unlike our king, _I_ intend to keep my shirt on. Otherwise the excitement might be overwhelming."

Finian let out a startled giggle, caught unexpected by the former general's sarcastic humour. Flora, who did not grasp the irony of the statement, looked at Loghain in mild bewilderment: _had he actually been considering it?!_

"You'll catch the sun if you do that," she informed him, gravely. "You've the same colouring as me."

"Pity," the Warden replied, with equal solemnity. "I'll restrain myself, then."

Just then, there came a squeak of dismay from her arms. Flora looked down, her jaw dropping – Taron, flailing an arm, had somehow managed to scram his sister. A minuscule bead of blood appeared on the little girl's chubby shoulder; Theodora yelled in startled alarm. Taron, disconcerted by his sister's distress, began to cry.

Flora, dumbstruck with horror, let out a wail for her husband. Cod and Lobster immediately began to yelp and leap around, skittering on the grass like angry crabs. Alistair dropped his sword with a clatter onto the flagstones and leapt to her side; crashing down to his knees beside his traumatised family. He took Taron while Flora cradled Theodora, kissing her daughter's shoulder as the baby clung to her.

"What happened?!"

"I don't know," croaked Flora, slightly traumatised. "She's BLEEDING. I think Taron scratched her?"

"You need to trim their nails," offered Loghain quietly; the only parent present. "It's easiest to do when they're asleep. You could put mitts on them, too."

Alistair and Flora blinked at one another, then looked down at Taron's plump starfish hand. Sure enough, the tiny nails – as well as those of his sister – had grown distinct little edges over the past two weeks.

"Oh," breathed Flora, cuddling the whimpering Theodora. "We… we didn't know. Thank you. Poor little Teddy."

Both twins had calmed down quickly in the arms of their parents; the scram was no more than a tiny nick. Alistair leaned forwards to kiss Flora's damp cheek, cupping her face in a tender, albeit slightly sweaty, palm.

"She's fine, sweetheart," he murmured. "Don't cry. I'll trim their nails later, there's a tool in the stables that'll do it. A hoof-clipper."

"You will?" she asked him tearfully, and he gave a nod.

"I've a set of manicure scissors," interjected Finian hastily, eyeing the tiny fingers of the babies. "I _insist_ that you borrow them."

The sun meandered gently towards its apex; the sky continued to defy the onset of cloud. Alistair stayed with his young family until he was sure that they were settled once more. A short while later, the sleeping twins lay nestled in the basket, and Flora's heart had stopped racing at a frantic, fluttering pace.

"Sorry to interpret your training," she whispered, lifting her head from his shoulder and peering at him. "I know you hadn't finished."

Flora was familiar with the various Templar sword-drill stances; having watched him practice them for over a year.

Smiling, Alistair ruffled his hand over her hair in a swift and affectionate gesture.

"You've nothing to be sorry _for,_ my love. Though I might go back and finish the set now – can't shake the memory of my old drill instructor glowering at me."

Flora watched her best friend return to the training dummies, bending to retrieve his dropped sword with easy grace. After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Alistair resumed the pattern of carefully angled strikes; careful not to strike at the wooden mannequin with his full strength.

The king continued to train for the next candle-length, sweat gleaming across the broad musculature of his shoulders. His hair, darkened with perspiration, was plastered to the nape of his neck; yet he persisted defiantly in the face of the heat. The wooden training dummy began to look increasingly worse for wear, unable to stand up to the brute force of the young Theirin's assault.

"You're a lucky girl, Floss," Finian observed sagely from his languid position on the grass. "I don't think you could find a more attentive husband."

Flora startled; she had believed her brother to have fallen asleep in the autumnal sunlight. Finian was eyeing her, one hand shielding his face from the brightness.

"I know," she whispered in response. "I'm so grateful, every day. I _adore_ him. He's so kind to me, and he's lovely with the twins. He's the best father ever, the best husba- "

Flora abruptly cut herself off, jaw dropping. Beside her, Finian pushed himself up from the grass in a smooth gesture; focusing his sole remaining eye with hawk-like intensity. Leliana, despite her earlier sanctimonious chiding, was also uncharacteristically open-mouthed.

All three of them were struck into silence by what had just transpired in front of them. Alistair had responded to a passing comment that it was unseasonably warm with a nod; his sword-arm lowering. The king - struck by sudden impulse - had unhooked his water pouch from his belt, popped open the cap, and poured its contents over his chest. Rivulets of water streamed downwards, their course dictated by the contour of the muscle. Wet trails wound their way across taut olive flesh, mingling with the sweat beading on the skin. The faintest trail of golden hair rose from the waistband of his breeches; the flimsy wisps damp with perspiration.

"I'm going to wash quickly," he called to a hovering servant, canting his head towards a nearby wooden doorway. "Could you put my sword back in the rack?"

Flora reached out to grope blindly at Finian's arm, unable to take her eyes from her husband's broad torso. Rubbing at the back of his neck with a sweaty palm, Alistair strode leisurely towards the door; pushing it open and disappearing inside.

"The twins are asleep," she croaked, hoarse with desire. "Come and get me if they need feeding. I'll just be in… that… wherever _that_ is."

She canted her head towards the small doorway, already scrambling to her feet.

" _Florence!"_ hissed Leliana, managing to claw back some of her coherence. _"That's_ the knights' washing-room. _Hardly_ a place for amorous congress. There's nothing in there except a water-channel and shelves of clean linen!"

"Doesn't matter," Flora retorted over her shoulder, almost tripping over her own feet in her haste. "All we need is a wall. Stay with the twins, Cod and Lob!"

As Leliana had claimed, the knights' wash-chamber was indeed sparse and utilitarian in décor. It was little more than a plain, mid-sized chamber with plastered walls and exposed wooden beams spanning the ceiling. Low benches divided the chamber in half, while a granite trough ran the full length of one wall. This channel was connected to a subterranean spring, so a constant stream of cold, clear water flowed through the hollowed stone.

The noise of the castle was muffled by the stone walls; it was cool and dim within the wash-chamber. Alistair glanced around the empty space, amused that none of Loghain's recruits had bothered to rinse off the grime of training. He supposed that, after a week spent within the murky depths of the Deep Roads, a little sweat would not bother them unduly.

Alistair took a step towards the water-channel, pushing loose the top button of his breeches with a callused thumb. From somewhere behind him came the sound of the entrance door opening and closing, followed by silence. Alistair assumed that some guardsman had arrived to wash, then hesitated as they were confronted with the king.

"Don't let me stop you," he began, turning. "There's plenty of room- "

The rest of his words died in his throat as he set eyes on his wife, who stood before him as the door swung shut behind her. She had already unfastened the laces of her navy tunic, beneath which she was bare-legged and booted; her gaze was focused intently on him. Without breaking eye contact she shrugged off the tunic, revealing a distinct lack of small-clothes. The decision to go naked beneath her outer garb had not originally been for the purpose of seduction – preoccupied with the twins' laundry, Flora had forgotten to put her own underwear in for washing and had subsequently run out of clean garments.

The king felt the inside of his mouth go dry as he gaped, pulse leaping upwards like a startled horse. His queen lifted her chin, wholly at ease with her own exposed nakedness; leather boots clung to her slender calves and that was all she wore. Zevran had once teased Flora that she did not know how to seduce a man – which was true on one level, since she could neither flirt, nor purr, or pose in provocative manner. This did not bother Flora in the slightest, since she knew that her allure worked on a more _primitive_ level. She did not need to _do_ anything convoluted; she simply let her pale, dark-lashed eyes settle thoughtfully on her partner and parted her wide, sulky mouth in an unspoken question. The queen also knew that it was lazy to rely solely on her own full-lipped beauty to seduce her husband; regardless, Alistair had never been able to resist.

This time was no exception. The king's eyes moved feverishly over his wife, his breeches growing uncomfortably tight with each passing second.

"Maker's Breath," he said hoarsely, taking a step towards her with his breeches already half-unbuttoned. "You _fucking exquisite_ girl. Let down your hair."

It was an instruction and Flora went immediately to obey, tugging the leather tie from the end of her braid.

Alistair let out a strangled groan as she ran her fingers through the strands to separate them; there was something innately decadent about the mass of rich, wine-red tresses as they fell loose past her waist. Flora looked back at him with her ambiguous seawater gaze, naked but for her boots; at once shy and wholly wanton.

"Maker, grant me restraint," the king breathed, forcing himself to take a measured step forwards as every muscle in his body urged him to lunge. "Give me the strength to hold back."

"Don't hold back," she implored, repeating it for emphasis. _"Don't."_

Alistair did not need any further encouragement. In three strides he had reached Flora, hoisting her up onto his broad thighs as she wrapped her booted legs around his waist. She let out a little half-gasp as he bore her back against the wall, her parted lips readily receiving his tongue. The passion of his kiss took her by surprise; a man hungrily reclaiming the body of his wife, with whom he had lain chastely for almost a month. She clung to him with equal need, fingers digging into the broad expanse of his shoulders as their tongues made vigorous love.

There was no time for any other form of foreplay, both were aware that they were on borrowed time. Alistair leaned back just far enough to shove his breeches down his thighs; he had been gloriously and painfully erect since first setting eyes on his naked wife. Spitting onto his palm, he made himself slick; sliding his fingers between her legs to check that she was ready.

She blushed at the resultant wetness, bright patches of pink flaring on her cheeks. The king grinned - dark and Marician – and continued to coax forth the sounds of her arousal.

"Please," Flora croaked, the pupils in her eyes huge with need. "Please."

Alistair, partly because he loved her, and partly because he _also_ could not wait, reached down to take himself in a clumsy hand. Shifting her weight on his thighs, he found the correct angle and began to lean into her. Flora let out a little startled exhalation, eyes widening. Sensing her flinch, Alistair paused with a shuddering breath; gritting his teeth with the effort.

Glimpsing a flicker of doubt in Alistair's eyes – the last thing he ever wanted to do was _hurt_ her – she pressed her mouth against his, teasing his lower lip with her teeth. A low growl escaped the king's throat; raw desire swiftly overtaking his temporary hesitation. He asserted ownership of Flora's mouth, kissing her with increasing urgency as he sunk deeper within her. She clutched his shoulders, inhaling great lungfuls of air while beads of sweat trickled down between her breasts.

"Baby, if you've changed your mind, tell me now," Alistair muttered in low and urgent tones, gripping a fistful of her loosened hair. "You know what I'm like when I'm in you. I won't be able to stop."

Flora pressed her face feverishly against his neck, tasting the salt of his perspiration on her lips. Lifting her mouth to his ear, she whispered something that made Alistair's jaw go slack with lust; the warm hazel eyes darkening several shades. In a swift, seamless movement, the king pressed his queen against the wall and thrust upwards within her. A ragged whimper tore from her throat, but it was a cry of need rather than one of pain. He began to move within a heartbeat, quickly finding a rhythm as the supple tan ovals of his rear relaxed and contracted.

A man now fuelled purely by raw instinct, the perspiring Alistair brought her away from the wall to better control the momentum of her body; gripping her thighs as she wound her legs around him. The muscle of the king's body was now exercised with equal vigour but for different purpose; assisting the desperate bounce of her buttocks. She began to let out half-sobs of pleasure, incoherent and primal.

He was as loud as she; ragged groans mingled with the unmistakable sound of sweaty flesh in urgent collision quickening in pace. Alistair was gritting his teeth now, the effort of self-control quickly becoming unbearable. Just as he thought that he would be able to hold out no longer, he heard the wonderful catch of breath in her throat; followed by a low, throaty sigh. Seconds later, he let himself release within her, hips juddering with the force of climax.

A panting and sweaty Flora turned her face up to him, catching the gleam of tears in his eyes. Alistair kept her on his hips, not quite wanting to let her go.

"Alistair," she whispered, pushing a strand of damp hair away from his eyes. "I love you."

His face creased; if he had spoken, he would most likely have wept with relief. Instead, he pressed his flushed face into the curve of her neck, greedily inhaling the body-scent of his lover as she clung to him.

"My wife," the king muttered, the words muffled against her skin. "My sweet girl. You give everything I do purpose."

Flora smiled at him, slightly dazedly, her fingers curling against his neck.

"We ought to go back," she croaked, still out of breath from his kisses. "The twins."

Alistair nodded, letting his queen slide gently down onto the flagstones but not quite ready to release her yet. He took her hands and brought them to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

"I love bedding you, Flo," he said, sudden and impulsive. "It's… it's such a privilege. I can't believe that you're mine."

He closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath to calm himself. When the king opened his eyes once again, he saw Flora rotating on the spot; her solemn mouth forming the words _no thank you, no thank you, no thank you._

Alistair reached out to steady her as she stumbled, a quizzical smile creeping across his face.

"I know we did it standing up, so a baby won't catch," Flora clarified, gravely. "But I'm just _making double-sure!"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Hahaha so turning on the spot and saying NO THANK YOU was one of Flo's bullshit wives' tales methods of contraception, lol, oops! Anyway, that was a scene long over-due… obviously only possible because Wynne healed Flo up, I'm not condoning sex two weeks after childbirth, haha. But sex has always been important for Floristair and I'm glad they're back at it again, so to speak! Even if it is in the equivalent of a locker room :P

This was a cute chapter to write! Sorry it's a bit late, it's SOOOOOO HIDEOUSLY HOT in London at the moment, I really can't cope in the heat, I think it's the Welsh in me lol. I literally just want to sleep all the time! Anyway, I also wanted to show some of the trials and tribulations that new parents go through, hehe.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	200. Fishing Lessons and Golden Fish-Hooks

Chapter 200: Fishing Lessons and Golden Fish-Hooks

Dinner had just been set out in the upper hall of Castle Cousland when word came that the teyrn's ship had been sighted off Will's Point. Accompanied by the fleet of the Royal Army, fully laden with prisoners, the flagship had caught a favourable breeze and would arrive at the harbour shortly after nightfall.

Leliana's gaze darted swiftly to Finian's; her bright blue eyes meeting his with interest. Flora, sitting at the king's right, glanced at the cradle set up beside them. She recalled how the Carta had planned to auction their twins off at a flesh-market, and felt a surge of scorn.

 _They thought I was weak without my magic._

 _An easy target._

As the steward finished recanting the message, Alistair's jaw stiffened; a muscle flickering imperceptibly in his cheek. His fingers tightened around the stem of the silverware until it embedded its edge into the skin. Abruptly, he dropped the spoon into the bowl of soup before him; hot liquid splattering over the table. Taron's eyes opened in alarm at the clatter of metal. The baby flailed a plump arm and Flora hastily scooped him up, cuddling him to her breast to waylay the wail.

"Finn," Alistair said, with a distinctly ominous edge to his query. "You've the best knowledge of royal protocol. How should a king respond when brought face to face with those responsible for abducting his wife? Because – as a _man –_ I'm sorely tempted to go and meet those ships with my sword in hand."

Flora peered at him anxiously, feeling tiny fingers wandering over her collarbone. With her free hand, she reached out and put a hand on Alistair's arm. He grasped it, clasping her palm tight against his own, but seemed no less agitated.

"Well," Leliana interjected, her lilting voice deliberately light. "The Landsmeet will be arriving over the next day or two, and there ought to be something for them to pass judgement over, save for bloodied remains."

This was not a convincing enough argument for Alistair; thunderclouds gathering over the handsome Marician face like a storm above the Waking Sea.

"Those dwarves stole Flora from me," he continued, fury smouldering in a slow burn. "Carried her off when she was almost full-term with child. Fed her barely anything, housed her in a cell and treated her worse than a dog. She was _chained,_ Leliana. She still has the marks on her wrists! _My precious wife."_

Leliana continued to nod, quiet and placating.

"Then think of the impression that you wish to make at this trial," she said, softly. "You want to send out the message that no organised crime is welcome within Ferelden? Let the full force of your law come down on the criminals. Then their punishment will be recorded in the annals of history; a worthier deterrent than simple slaughter."

Alistair passed a swift hand over his face, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Fine," he said after a long moment of pause, the agreement hollow. "You're right. I just- … ah, Maker."

Flora could sense the tension pulsing from her husband in sharp, staccato waves; a vein of stress throbbing away in his neck. Alistair pushed his plate away, leaning back with teeth gritted and eyes still raw with anger.

"I've no appetite," he said, shortly. "Carry on without me, please."

He made no attempt to move – he was not going to leave his family at the table – but glowered forwards as though Beraht's pickled head had been placed on a platter before him.

Flora reached out and put her hand on his elbow, Taron still nuzzled in the crook of her elbow. Feeling irrationally guilty at being the inadvertent cause of all this; she leaned in close to whisper into his ear.

"Let's go, husband."

Alistair glanced sideways at her, astonished.

"Darling, you've not had anything to eat, yet."

"I'll take something with me," she said, pulling an inadvertent face as a dozy Taron grasped a strand of hair in his chubby fist and tugged. "Come on."

Alistair watched his wife, utterly perplexed, as she replaced Taron in the basket and carefully began to wedge in bread rolls around his sleeping body. Several pears and an apple were packed near the bottom of the basket, and a wax-paper wedge of cheese was placed carefully beside their daughter.

"It'll be like a nit-pick," Flora said, testing the weight of the augmented basket before deciding that she would let her muscle-bound husband carry it. "You know, like Finian spoke about. The Orlesians love their nit-picks."

Finian mouthed _nit-picks?!_ in confusion to Leliana, who gave a helpless shrug.

As they watched the royal family make their way from the upper hall, a flicker of realisation passed across the arl's face.

"Oh!" he said, stifling a sudden cackle. "Bless her – she means a _picnic._ Nit picking indeed! I know she doesn't have a very lofty opinion of Orlesian nobility, but they haven't quite stooped to _mutual grooming_ yet."

The king followed his wife down a series of passageways, followed by the usual trail of Mabari, guards and stewards. He carried their children and the dinner things in one strong arm; she picked up a ewer of rapidly warming cider and several cups. They descended down a winding stair and emerged in a walled courtyard near the kitchen garden. There had been a brief fall of misting rain during late afternoon, and the scent of damp, fragrant herbs rose from the neatly planted rows. The evening was drawing in more rapidly now; the sky wreathed in swathes of rose and ochre. Gold-edged wisps of cloud lay on the horizon beyond the crumbling vista of the fortress wall.

"I can't believe my brothers didn't tell me about this place," Flora called over her shoulder as she led them beneath an archway trailing with ivy; following the subtle prompts of her subconscious. "I had to _remember_ it by myself."

 _This place_ turned out to be the castle fishing ponds: four long rectangles of water set in symmetric pairs within a large grassy courtyard. Unlike the overgrown pool beside which the alchemist had been apprehended, these ponds were quite clearly in use; the surface of the water rippled with underwater activity. Assorted paraphernalia – nets, baskets and buckets – were stacked neatly beneath purpose-built wooden shelters. Although the darkness was rapidly encroaching in the skies overhead, eight squat iron braziers cast a mellow amber hue over the courtyard. High above, in a recessed alcove, a life-sized statue of William Cousland watched keenly over the fish-ponds he had once installed.

"I didn't even realise that these were _here,"_ Alistair remarked in astonishment, shifting the basket to his other arm as he gazed around. "This place is even bigger than I thought."

Flora beamed, taking his free hand and leading him towards one of the rectangular stretches of water.

"Remember, months ago, I promised I'd teach you to fish?" she breathed, nudging him towards a patch of grass. "I'm going to do it now. Though- " this was said over her shoulder as she scuttled to fetch the requisite equipment, "though, it doesn't really seem _fair._ The fish don't have much of a chance, trapped in this little pond."

"You're going to teach me how to fish?" the king repeated, handsome brow creasing in surprise. _"Now?"_

"Yes," replied Flora firmly, threading a hook onto the end of a slender line with long-practised finesse. "Now."

As the surviving members of the Carta – and the unfortunate would-be bidders – were brought ashore at the base of the cliffs, the queen taught the king how to select the most suitable bait, and how best to thread it onto a hook. The prisoners were brought up through the streets of Highever, escorted for their own safety by soldiers of the Royal Army; she showed him how to cast his line into the water without tangling the slender thread.

At first, Alistair's mind kept wandering to the men being brought to the castle in shackles; his teeth grinding in his head and fingers clenching tight around the fishing rod as though it were his sword-hilt. Yet Flora persisted in her instruction, gently reclaiming his attention each time his eyes darkened with anger. Eventually, soothed by the familiar, husky intonation of his wife's voice; Alistair found himself focusing his attention on the task at hand. Flora was so earnest that he wanted both to please her, and to make her proud.

"Don't go like _this_ when it pulls," she instructed, mimicking a wild, flailing yank backwards. "You'll send the fish flying, or it'll get away. You have to be _eloquent_ about it."

"Eloquent?"

"Like Leliana! Ladylike."

" _Elegant."_ Alistair grinned suddenly at her, leaning sideways to press a kiss against her cheek. "I'll do my best, darling. It's easy to get over-excited in your company."

Flora, made pink with pleasure at the compliment, darted him a shy smile.

The prisoners were brought into Castle Cousland and taken straight to the newly-strengthened dungeons; thrust into mildewed stone cells as cage doors were slammed shut behind them. Nathaniel Howe, despite being in the same position, took vicarious pleasure in seeing the reversed fortunes of his former gaolers.

"I wouldn't entertain any thought of escaping," he commented as one grumbling dwarf was led past in chains. "The queen cut the manhood off the last one who tried it."

As the dungeon door was double-locked – a triple-guard had been assigned to stand watch, Fergus was taking no chances – the king's mind could not be further from thoughts of revenge. He was recanting a story from his days at the monastery involving a fountain, a roasted chicken and an enraged Chantry sister; the rod gripped tight in both hands. Flora, sat cross-legged on the grass beside him with Theodora suckling eagerly from her breast, was alternately giggling and gasping at each new twist in the story.

"And then she believed that the stolen chicken was some strange _fish – aah!"_

This was in response to a sudden and unexpected tug at the end of the line. Caught unawares, the king did precisely what Flora had instructed him _not_ to do, and jerked the rod sharply backwards. The unfortunate fish flew twenty foot into the air, scales glittering in the firelight, and promptly landed on William Cousland's head.

Both king and queen peered up at the elevated statue, which now sported a most undignified accessory.

"Shit," said Alistair, as Flora collapsed into helpless hilarity; the startled baby coming detached. "Isn't that your grandfather?"

"Dunno. Wait, yes it is! Grandpaaaa!"

"Oh, Maker's Breath- " Alistair cast about him helplessly for something to hurl towards the statue.

"You'regetting haunted tonight," Flora chortled, guiding Theodora's mouth back to her nipple. "How undignified!"

"You share a bedchamber with me, my love – if _I'm_ getting haunted, _you're_ getting haunted too!"

"Oh noooo!"

When the teyrn of Highever finally came across the royal couple, intent on reporting the success of his mission, he stumbled on a most unusual sight. The king was hurling a stray branch towards a crumbling statue on the ramparts; as it fell, he cursed and picked it up again for another fling. His queen was sat cross-legged on the grass a short distance away, one infant at her breast and the other nestled in her lap. She was cackling away like a fishwife and offering unhelpful directions. The royal Mabari were quivering on the spot; desperate to lunge forwards and chase the hurled branches.

"Use a bigger stick!" the queen suggested, between fits of giggles. "Throw it harder!"

"I might knock his nose off. Then I'll _definitely_ have a spirit of vengeance after me in my dreams tonight!"

"Ahaha- "

Fergus, despite some general confusion at what was going _on,_ felt a wistful twinge as he watched his little sister and her husband; whose collective years only just added up to the age of the bann at his side.

"Let's speak with them tomorrow," Teagan murmured quietly, shifting his weight to avoid rustling his travel leathers. "Everything's gone well, the prisoners were recovered successfully with no casualties on our part. There's nothing urgent that needs to be told tonight."

Fergus gave a swift nod of agreement; watching Alistair let out a sudden shout of triumph. Something silvered and scaly slipped from the statue's head, dropping onto the grass with a damp thud.

"Aha!"

Despite the fact that the remnants of the Carta were imprisoned in the bedrock fifty feet below their bedchamber, the king slept soundly that night. The twins only woke three times – an improvement on the usual four – and both fell asleep quickly after feeding. There was even time for him to make hasty love to his wife during the gilt-edged hour of dawn; with dappled patterns of sunlight falling across the blankets.

Some time later, king and queen were lying drowsy and content amidst the cushions, when a quiet knock came at the door. The royal Mabari raised their heads from where they were sleeping before the crib; sensing the familiar scent of the visitors, they settled back down on the flagstones.

Alistair glanced down to where Flora's dark red head nestled against his shoulder, checking that the furs were sufficiently covering her nakedness. She was dozing against his arm, resting her cheek on the muscle as though it were a particularly firm pillow.

"Come in."

One of the Highever stewards, clad in navy blue, entered with the usual sign of deference.

"Your majesty, the Chancellor of Ferelden is here – as well as the Royal Commander, returned from sea. Shall I show them in?"

"Maker's Breath, has Eamon just arrived, too? He must have travelled through the night."

"From dawn, actually," came a familiar voice from the doorway. "I stayed in an inn just south of Highever last night, and rose with the sun."

It had been several months since they had last seen Eamon. To Alistair's relief, the responsibilities that accompanied the Chancellorship had not adversely affected the man whom he viewed as an uncle – to the contrary, the arl seemed robust in health and spirits. Behind him, as the steward had announced, followed Leonas, bright-eyed despite his exhaustion. It had been a most successful venture to the smugglers' isle; the party had spent some time celebrating a mission well-accomplished the previous night.

"You look well, uncle," remarked Alistair, unable to stop himself from grinning. "It's good to see you."

Clad in Redcliffe ochre, Eamon strode across the room towards the bed, a smile curving behind the iron-grey beard.

"And it's very good to see you, Alistair. Florence too – is the lass awake?"

Flora gave a drowsy grunt of assent, pushing strands of unruly crimson away from her face. She smiled sleepily back at Eamon, pleased to see him in such good health.

"Mm. Hello, Arl Eamon."

Old habits died hard, and the arl did not chastise her for using the unnecessary honorific. Instead, Eamon leaned over the crib and gazed down at the sleeping twins; his pale green Guerrin eyes softening.

"Well, what have we here? Congratulations, you two. How are you finding parenthood?"

Alistair grinned, opened his mouth to reply and suddenly found himself unable to speak; a hard lump rising within his throat. The arl glimpsed a faint gleam at the corner of the king's eye and smiled, reaching down to adjust the blanket over the curled-together infants. The elder Guerrin could not quite hide the relief spreading over his face: not one, but _two_ plump and healthy heirs to the throne. Such was a luxury that Ferelden had not enjoyed in many years; the Chantry had already named the twins as recompense from the Maker for the nation's recent trials.

"They're both big babes, as would be expected. All Theirins are born large. How was the labour, Florence?"

"Eh," she replied mid-yawn, almost sitting up before remembering that she was naked beneath the furs. "Sand got everywhere."

The arl snorted, aware that Flora's native stoicism rarely allowed for complaints.

"I heard that the birth took place on a beach," he commented, wryly. "Somehow, I'm not surprised. I'm glad to see you in such good health – thank the Maker that your recent ordeals have left no mark."

Alistair's smile went a fraction more rigid, his arm stiffening around Flora's shoulders.

"Nothing like that is ever going to happen to her again, uncle," he said quietly, a hard certainty in his reply. "I swear on Andraste's honour, I'll keep my queen safe."

"Where's my brother?" Flora asked, keen to both establish Fergus' wellbeing and to distract Alistair from self-rumination. "And Bann Teagan, Wynne, Zevran?"

"They're all well," Leonas replied, stifling a yawn with a gloved fist. "They've retired to their bedchambers for a short rest; we were sailing most of the night. Got blown a little off course, but the captain assured me that the Waking Sea was a capricious mistress."

Alistair pushed himself further up on the cushions, more awake with each passing minute.

"You ought to rest too, Leonas," he said, reluctantly. "Tell me first: how many of the whoresons did you capture?"

"A good two-dozen dwarves," replied the general, after a moment's thought, "And a dozen foreign miscreants who fell right into our trap."

Alistair nodded, taking a deep breath and a moment to suppress the natural urge to rush down to the dungeons with blade in hand.

"And when will the trial be?" he asked, lifting his arm to let Flora lean across into the whimpering crib. "Sooner rather than later, I hope."

"Much of the Landsmeet is either here already," said Eamon, in acknowledgment of the presence of the teyrn of Highever and the arls of Amaranthine, South Reach and Redcliffe. "Several of the banns arrived over the past week. The Arl of the West Hills arrived yesterday. Edgehall's colours were sighted on the road this morning."

Alistair nodded, watching his wife feed their son with her hair loose about her shoulders. King and queen had been greeted by a whole procession of banns within the castle over the past few days. Many of them bore crafts from their bannorns as congratulatory gifts, and the majority of them had blurred together into a well-meaning mass. Fortunately, Alistair had already learnt which colours corresponded with which local lord, and Flora had a good memory for faces. Between them, they had managed to work out who was who.

"Does this place have a chamber suitable to host the Landsmeet?"

"Aye, the judicial court," Eamon replied, with a nod. "Where the quarter-assizes are held. It won't be as spacious as the hall in the palace, but it'll serve well enough."

"Well enough to serve justice," Alistair said, biting back the urge to say _vengeance._ "Thank you, uncle. And Leonas too – I'll be down to see the men later."

"Aye, lad."

For a moment they were silent, watching the little boy pull away hungrily at Flora's nipple. The wisps of golden hair gleamed in the early-morning sunlight; one plump hand was spread possessively across his mother's breast.

"He does have the look of Maric," Eamon said, who had not been present at the birth of the old king but who was well-versed in the dynastic traits. "Near-identical to you as a babe, Alistair, from what I recall."

Alistair shot his uncle a glance, a flicker of curiosity sparking within him – yet, to his surprise, it was only a brief glimmer of interest. With the birth of his own children, the king's days of agonising over his past were put firmly behind him.

"With Cousland eyes, though," interjected Leonas, gazing down at a sleepy Theodora. "Ah, what bargain wouldn't I strike with the Maker for Bryce and Eleanor to see their grandchildren? They loved Oren dearly; they would have cherished these twins."

 _I keep forgetting that my parents were murdered here,_ Flora thought, with a little shiver. _I hope their ghosts don't still haunt this place._

 _I wonder where they were killed?_

The baby at her breast gave a squeak and Flora immediately felt guilty, nuzzling her face against Taron's downy head.

 _Sorry for thinking about evil things when you're feeding from me. It's probably not very healthy._

Eamon gazed down at the twins a moment longer; his expression carefully neutral to disguise the emotion beneath. There had not been any royal babes born – at least to public knowledge – since Cailan himself a quarter-century prior.

"You should've been in the city when the news of the twins' birth was broken," the arl murmured eventually, smiling to himself at the memory. "I thought the cheers would carry all the way to Val Royeaux. The taverns threw open their doors and served revellers all night. I haven't seen such a wild outpouring of joy, since – since, well. I can't even _recall_ the last time I saw the people celebrate in such a manner."

"The people are pleased at the news?" Alistair sought to confirm, his hazel eyes alight with curiosity.

"Aye, lad. It gives them hope, you see. Turns their mind to the future."

The occupants of the chamber fell silent for a moment; the stillness broken by the fatigued general stifling an inadvertent yawn.

"You should get some rest, Leonas," Alistair suggested, taking note of the dark circles beneath the commander's eyes.

The general nodded, then let out a short bark of laughter; his eyes sliding sideways to Eamon.

"Ah, but Eamon, are you not planning to share the Empress' gift? I want to see the contents before I retire."

Both Alistair and Flora glanced at each other and then across to the arl; the former curious, the latter mildly alarmed.

"Gift? It's not my birthday," replied Flora, anxiously. "Are you sure it's not for the twins?"

"The twins have already been sent a merchant's dream of goods from Orlais," Eamon said wryly, thinking on the three chambers of tributes and congratulatory gifts sent from across Thedas, currently stored within the palace at Denerim. "This is for you, Flora. I was going to save it for, ah… well. For later."

Alistair, deciding that he wanted to be on his feet in the face of this unexpected gesture from Ferelden's oldest enemy, clambered out of bed and retrieved a pair of loose breeches. Flora, after looking around in the blankets, managed to manoeuvre herself into the mustard dressing gown. Leonas raised his eyes to the ceiling; while Eamon headed hastily towards the door to request the conveyance of the gift.

"I don't know what I've done to deserve a present," a confused Flora said out loud, buttoning up the dressing gown. "Is this a noble thing? Giving gifts for no reason?"

"It's diplomacy," replied Leonas, amused. "A measure of wealth and power. A demonstration of Orlesian influence."

The queen envisioned the worst: hideous ruffled nightgowns that she would be obligated to wear, hats with live birds, jewel-encrusted shoes. Alistair laughed at his wife's expression, though there was a guardedness shadowed behind his own gaze.

"What's the meaning of it, Leonas? I hope it's been checked for curses, enchantments, poisons!"

His tone was light, but there was a serious question embedded within it. After Leonas had assured him that all gifts received from foreign nations were thoroughly checked before being passed on to the royal couple, the king relaxed a fraction.

At that moment, Eamon came back into the room, bearing a bundle of objects wrapped in velvet on a silver tray. There was a small slip of parchment resting before the object, several lines of neatly calligraphed writing just visible.

"Written in her own hand," Eamon said, canting his head towards the slip of paper. "Unusual."

"This is from Citrine?" Flora repeated, brow creasing as she received the tray on the mattress beside her.

" _Celene."_

"Mm, yes. What does it say?"

She knew that there was no way she could decipher the elaborate swirls and curlicues of the writing on the card. Alistair took the card, clearing his throat as he read the words depicted there. His Orlesian pronunciation was raw around the edges, but he had enough passing knowledge of the tongue to make a good attempt at it.

"' _From the Empress in the West to the Queen in the East._

 _Florence,_

 _I too have been targeted by foul intent during my tenure on the throne. I was only a few years younger than you when I accepted the crown._

 _May your hand never want for a suitable tool, sister._

 _Cordialement._

 _Celene.'"_

Flora blinked, mulling the words over in her mind as Alistair read the card for a second and third time.

"What does she mean: targeted by foul intent?" the queen asked, eventually.

"The Orlesian court crawls with bards and assassins like maggots," replied Eamon, stroking a thoughtful thumb along the line of his beard. "Celene has sat on the Sunburst Throne for a decade, and – to my knowledge – has survived at least a dozen assassination attempts so far."

"Is it sincere?" Alistair asked, naturally wary. "I know you can read about twenty different meanings off one Orlesian sentence."

"I believe so," the older man said thoughtfully, watching Flora unwrap the bundle of velvet-wrapped objects. "The lady Leliana – who is much better versed in the nature of Orlesian intrigue – suggests that it is no more than what it appears: a declaration of well-wishes."

Flora unwrapped the last fold of light blue velvet, and a soft squeak of surprise escaped her throat. Within the velvet lay a pair of innocuous and wholly familiar objects – a de-scaling blade, and a fish-hook. The metal parts of both were fitted with leather cases, complete with a cunning strap designed to affix the tools to a belt-loop.

Yet despite their unassuming appearance, the closer the queen looked, the more she noticed. The wood of the handles was mahogany, dark and glossy; sanded to a sheen. When she removed the cases, the blades were honed from a brilliant burnished metal. They caught the weak light of sunrise filtering in through the window, and reflected the rays back with far more brilliance.

"Is it gold?" Flora asked, eyes watering as she accidentally directed a beam of light into her own face. "Ow, it's _bright."_

The other men in the chamber were silent for a moment, glancing between each other.

"I believe it's _aurum,"_ Leonas offered after a moment, stepping forward to appreciate the craftsmanship of the 'tools'. "Volcanic aurum. It's the rarest metal in Thedas. Only one mine still produces it – and its location is kept hidden."

Flora turned the fish-hook over, a crease furrowing itself into her brow as she inspected the brilliant curve of metal. The blade had been honed to a paper-thin edge; fine and deadly.

"I'll have to find a fish to fillet later," she said thoughtfully, after a moment's contemplation. "See how well they cut."

Eamon was about to correct her with a murmur that the tools were not _actually_ intended for preparing fish; when he abruptly changed his mind and gave a wry smile instead.

"It's a thoughtful gift. She's an odd one; Celene."

* * *

OOC Author Note: OMG can I buy some 10 degree cooler temperatures please? I've literally been napping every evening in this heat, awful! Apologies for any editing mistakes, I'm watching the England v Croatia World Cup semi final….and Croatia just equalised! D: D: D; lol

Anyway, this was a nice chapter to write! It was nice to see Flora distracting Alistair from going on a rage-fuelled murder spree amongst the Carta prisoners, even if he did end up flipping a fish on top of William Cousland's head, haha. And I've always been fascinated with diplomatic gifts between royal families – I thought that Celene, a target of so much political intrigue, might realistically send her fellow queen weapons with which to defend herself – and ones that Flora is familiar with using.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	201. Ragwort and Small Talk

Chapter 201: Ragwort and Small Talk

Leonas retired shortly afterwards to his assigned bedchamber, wearied from the days at sea. After breaking their fast, Eamon and Alistair sat down together at the desk. They began to methodically sort through the most recent stack of correspondence; conferring in low voices. Alistair, keen to grasp the reins of leadership, asked question after question to consolidate his understanding. The arl answered each one in meticulous detail; drawing from his decades of experience in Fereldan politics.

Flora, simultaneously eating her own breakfast, fed each baby in turn once again – Taron had demanded a second course – and then snuggled with them against her breast, warm and sleepy. She kept one ear on the conversation between her husband and the Chancellor; determined to understand as much as possible about this new position that had been thrust upon her.

 _I'm preoccupied with the twins now,_ she thought to herself, gently extricating Theodora's fist as the baby accidentally clutched a handful of her own ink-black hair. _But in the future, I want to learn about… whatever they're talking about. Politics, governance?_

 _I want to help Alistair. I want to be a good queen, just like I tried my best at being Warden-Commander (acting)._

Both of the babies soon fell asleep and she replaced them gently in the crib, adjusting the blanket over their plump, curled-up bodies.

Alistair kept the corner of his eye on his wife as she moved about the chamber, retrieving a tunic of Theirin crimson. She brushed her unruly mass of hair with some difficulty before pulling it up into its customary high ponytail. When Flora began to hunt for her boots, the king promptly paused Eamon in the midst of a discussion over the winter grain tariff. Rising to his feet, Alistair crossed to his wife; taking her in his arms and pressing his lips to her forehead.

"Sweetheart, you're going somewhere?" he asked, trying to disguise the note of anxiety in his voice.

Flora inhaled the leather and sword-oil scent of her husband, curling her fingers around his elbow. Aware that his increased wariness was a consequence of her abduction, she sought to reassure him.

"I'm going to see the others," she said, fiddling with a button on the edge of his tunic. "Their quarters are just down the hallway. Not far at all. I'll hear the babies if they cry."

"Take a guard! And a dog. _Two_ dogs."

Accompanied by two Mabari and a guard clad in Cousland livery, Flora made her way down the corridor. She passed several archways leading to various chambers – one which had once belonged to her parents, another belonging to Fergus – and came to a halt before Finian's door. Curious as to whether her earlier hunch was correct, she lifted her fist and knocked at the door.

There was a rustle of bedclothes from within the chamber, an exchange of muffled whispers, then her brother's voice echoed through the wood.

"Yes?"

"It's Flora," she said, her mouth to the door. "Your sister."

"Well, I don't know any other Floras," echoed back Finian's voice, archly. "Come on in, Floss."

Flora nudged at the door, and it swung open to reveal the book-case crammed space of Finian's chamber. Just as it had been last time, tomes, texts and stray sheets of parchment were scattered across the flagstones; an ink vial leaked its contents in one corner.

Finian himself was sprawled back against the bed-cushions, elegant in a set of Orlesian silk pyjamas in mint-green brocade. There was a slender book in his hand; swiftly concealed beneath the bedclothes as his sister entered. A hearth was smouldering away but the window-shutters were open, letting a sea-breeze air out the scent of smoke and musty tomes.

Beside the young arl, Zevran reclined in languid and unashamed nakedness, one leg bent over the other and humming in accented tones to himself. The guard following Flora coughed and hastily averted his eyes; Finian let out a perturbed grunt and flung a nearby animal skin over the grinning elf.

"Morning, Floss – sorry about _this._ He's incorrigible."

"Don't apologise on my behalf," Zevran corrected in silky tones, flashing Flora a wicked smile. "Good morning, _mi florita._ Did you miss me while I was away?"

"Yes," replied Flora, honestly. "I did."

The queen had taken advantage of Zevran's nakedness to check for recent injury; to her immense relief, all of the wound-marks across his torso predated her entry into his life. Once his intactness had been established, she padded across the room and perched on the edge of the bed. Zevran smiled very widely at her to disguise the affect her reply had had on him, white teeth gleaming in the gloom.

"Did you _really_ miss me, _carina?"_ he asked, letting his eyes unashamedly wander over the neat curves of her body as she sat beside him.

"Of course," Flora replied gravely, her pale gaze settling on his face. "How was the journey?"

The elf laughed, sitting up against the cushions and letting the wolfskin settle across his lean, tan thighs.

"I am not as enamoured with your precious Waking Sea as you, I fear _._ We were tossed about like a paper boat in a whirlpool, but the teyrn and captain both assured me that these were _normal sailing conditions_ for the region."

"Mm, yes. What happened when you got to the island?"

Zevran smiled once again, very widely.

"Well, first we came across the cell that you slew the Carta leader in, _amor._ There was blood everywhere – even on the ceiling – it was a _glorious_ sight. I was so proud of my _pequeño alumno."_

He pecked her swiftly on the cheek before continuing, leaning back into the silken cushions with a sigh.

"And then we found the dungeons. I admit, _nena,_ it was difficult for me to hold back my wrath once we got to the cells. Your brother also found it most taxing to restrain himself. Only the weak and starving condition of the dwarves prompted us to stay our blades."

Finian, seeing remorse dawn on his sister's face, pointed a stern finger at her.

"Don't you start feeling _guilty_ for locking them up, Floss! It's only because of your kindness that they'll get a trial in the first place. If it were up to Ferg, he'd be returning with two dozen dwarven heads decorating the mast."

Flora nodded, pleating folds in the blanket as she thought about how to phrase her next question.

"What about the… the people that came to buy me?"

"I killed the first one to arrive," the elf admitted, quick and without remorse. "I could not help it, _carina._ He practically _leapt_ off his ship with eagerness stumbling like a drunkard and shedding gold coins. Poor sod, he believed that _I_ were a member of the Carta and called out to me: _where's the girl?_ I opened his throat before he had finished speaking."

The elf cut himself off after a brief moment of deliberation; deciding to withhold some of the more gruesome details.

"But he did leave _some_ alive to put on trial," Finian added, hastily. "Otherwise all these important people would have come a long way for nothing. Are you ready to speak your part, Floss? It's been a while since you've had to address the Landsmeet."

Flora let out an ambivalent grunt; she was not overly concerned.

"It'll be fine," she said, stretching her legs out before her on the blankets. "Where's Fergus?"

Finian launched into a convoluted tale regarding Fergus' whereabouts. The young teyrn had been waylaid by the Bann of Calon, then distracted by a horse that had gone lame. Flora tried her best to follow the thread of Finian's story; but it was complicated and she kept getting distracted by memories of the previous night.

The sharp-eyed Zevran spotted both the queen's vacant look and the faint flush on her cheeks. Eventually he let out a giggle, administering a sly pinch to her calf.

"So, would I be correct in assuming that you have allowed Alistair between those succulent thighs once more? About time, _nena!_ Neither of you cope well with enforced celibacy."

Genuinely curious as to how the elf had managed this astute observation, Flora turned questioning eyes on her brother.

"I didn't say anything about your shenanigans in the wash-chamber!" protested Finian, indignantly. "Don't ask me how he knows."

"You seem a little less _tense_ than you did on our departure," Zevran explained, shooting her a wicked grin. "I'm glad that Alistair has resumed his husbandly obligations. You know that I would _readily_ have offered my services otherwise."

Flora beamed at her friend, used to his lascivious flirtations. Finian rolled his eyes, reached for a nearby cup of warm ale and then startled, splashing liquid over the wolfskin.

"Flossie!" he chimed in, half-alarmed and half-reproving. "The ragwort essence hasn't arrived from the Circle distillery yet. I thought you and Alistair wanted to take _precautions_ for the immediate future _."_

"We do!"

"Then I certainly hope you didn't let him… _you know…_ in the wash-chamber."

"Whaaa?"

"Don't make me say it! You're my _sister."_

The arl made a euphemistic hand gesture, shooting his sister a beady-eyed stare. When a guilty Flora grimaced, Finian let out a long and exasperated sigh.

"Florence! You couldn't have waited a few more days?"

"No," retorted Flora, stubbornly. "I _needed_ him. Anyway, we _did_ take precautions! The first time, we did it standing up. The second time, I closed my eyes. And the third time – well. You can't catch a baby from doing _that."_

Finian shot his sister a dagger-filled glower, while Zevran clasped his hands together in delight.

"Never fear, my lusty little _reina:_ Zevran to the rescue!"

Elegant as a cat, he rolled himself over a grumbling Finian and sauntered towards his leather pack. Finian put a cushion over his sister's face; rolling his eye as the elf leisurely slung a linen cloth about his loins.

"Debauched!"

" _You_ weren't complaining last night, _amor._ Anyway, a moment- "

The former Crow rummaged in his pack, prompting a rustle of parchment and tinkling of glass. It sounded as though there was a whole alchemic laboratory secreted within the confines of the leather case. Eventually, Zevran triumphantly held up a slender phial filled with a clear, green-tinted liquid.

"Pure distilled ragwort, _nena._ Add three drops of this to water and take a sip within a few hours of making love. Do it faithfully and nothing will take root in your belly, I promise you."

"Are you _sure?"_ Flora asked, eyeing the liquid suspiciously.

"If it was ineffectual, I would have several dozen little Zevrans running around in my wake," retorted the elf, confidently. "And, as far as I know, I do not."

Flora sat up straighter as Zevran sauntered towards her, ragwort in hand. She received the slender glass phial in her palm; eyeing the greenish liquid as her pulse sprang unexpectedly quicker.

"And it won't be harmful to the twins? Since I'm feeding them," she sought to clarify, anxiously.

"It is perfectly safe, _nena."_

Flora nodded, then tucked the phial of ragwort down the front of her cleavage. She reached out to grip the elf's fingers, giving them a swift squeeze of gratitude.

"Thank you. Where's Wynne?"

The queen went next to find the senior enchanter, who was up typically early. Wynne was adding another page onto her latest letter to Irving; tapping her quill briskly against the inkwell to shake off the excess liquid. Flora greeted her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, pleased to see her old friend. Wynne had proven herself invaluable on the trip to the smugglers' isle; performing the grim task of reviving the spirits of some of the weaker Carta members.

Flora had been about to make her way towards the quarters assigned to Bann Teagan, when she heard a distinctive cry from the far end of the corridor. Turning barefooted on the flagstones, the queen scuttled back up the passage towards the royal quarters with the dogs and the guard on her heels.

Alistair met her in the doorway, with Taron and Theodora in his arms. Theodora was just waking up, her rosebud lips opening in a wide yawn, but Taron was grizzling plaintively for food. His tiny arms thrashed about his head, mouthing hungrily at thin air.

"Good timing, darling," the king murmured approvingly as Flora took their son, tugging at the laces of her tunic as she headed towards the armchair. "How are the others?"

"They're alright, I didn't see Bann Teagan," she replied, letting Taron mouth his way to her nipple. "When is the trial going to be?"

"Two days' time," Alistair said, attempting to keep his tone light. "By then, the Landsmeet should be fully assembled. How are you feeling about seeing the Carta and the – the _others_ again, my love? I'm sure we can hold the trial without you if you'd rather not face them."

Flora appreciated her husband's concern, but both she and he were well aware that the queen would not miss the chance to face off against her abductors and would-be purchasers. She kissed the baby as he let out a little peep and snuggled into her breast, feeling a cold and steely resolution seep through her veins as she envisioned confronting the men who would have stolen her children.

 _What shall I say? I'll say: YOU BEASTS, worse than Darkspawn, cruel as an Archdemon-_

 _No, that sounds really stupid._

 _Monsters! You wanted to sell me like a fat red snapper fish at market! Well my SCALES proved SHARPER than your wits!_

 _Nooooo. Don't try and plan what you're going to say, Flora, that's never worked out in the past._

Then she happened to catch a set of words that made the blood run cold in her veins for very different reasons.

" – and Isolde arrived with Eamon. They're staying in the chamber just below us," Alistair was saying, bobbing Theodora up and down in his arms to distract her from the fact that she had not yet had her second breakfast. "Can't you smell the buckets of Orlesian scent she drowns herself in?"

" _Lady Isolde,"_ Flora croaked, immediately recalling the arlessa's cool, pale blue stare. "She's _here?_ In the castle? Oh, no!"

"Oh, _yes,_ my darling," Alistair corrected, shooting her a sympathetic frown. "But there's no need to fret, my love – she can't treat you the way she used to do in the past. You outrank her now, remember?"

Flora grimaced, unable to get Isolde's supercilious derision from her mind. The arlessa had shown subtle scorn towards the Herring native from the moment they had first met; a dislike based not only on snobbery, but on Isolde's envious and accurate suspicion that Teagan had an especially soft spot for the young redhead. Even after the revelation of Flora's lofty heritage, the arlessa had merely plastered a thin veneer of politeness over an underlying hostility.

"Oh dear," she mumbled, nuzzling her nose into Taron's downy, golden head. "She hates me."

"Isolde doesn't _hate_ you," Alistair corrected, despite having little time for the arlessa himself. "How could anyone hate you, baby? You're sweeter than Redcliffe honeycomb."

Flora gave a slightly grumpy shrug, accidentally dislodging her nipple from the baby's mouth. She hastily tucked it back in as Taron squeaked in outrage, cuddling him apologetically.

"And – I'm sorry about this, sweetheart," the king continued, feeling a twist of guilt within his gut. "I think you're going to be socialising with the noblewomen later this morning. The wives of the banns and the arls."

Flora's blood curdled in her veins – first at the prospect of _socialising,_ second at the thought of a dozen well-bred wives. She wished fervently that she could stay with Alistair and the others – Teagan, Leonas, Eamon, Fergus and Finian – but bit back her protest; gloomily assuming that this was one of the duties expected of her as queen.

Alistair, despite his own unhappiness at the prospect of parting from his wife and children, sought to soothe the trepidation on Flora's face.

"I promise, I'll come and get you before a candle-length passes," he assured her, perching on the armrest of the chair and ducking to kiss her head. "I'm not looking forward to it either. I'd much rather keep you with me."

"What are we going to say to each other?" whispered Flora, tremulously. She did not know what would be worse: frivolous small-talk, or an interrogation about either the slaying of the Archdemon or her abduction by the Carta.

Alistair likewise had no idea about the rhythms of usual conversation between noblewomen, so wrapped an arm around her shoulders to reassure her.

"Remember, you've got a reputation for glowering and not saying much," he said at last, soothingly. "They'll know that. If all else fails, just reply to their question with Herring-grunts."

* * *

OOC Author Note: CAN THIS HEATWAVE BE OVER NOW PLEASE? It hasn't rained in London since 31st May, LITERALLY RIDICULOUS. The garden is completely dead, grass everywhere is yellow… and I can't cope in heat, I can barely think to write! Arrghhh!

Anyway, I wanted to show the contradiction in Flora's reactions here – she's unfazed about facing her abductors and the Landsmeet at their trial, but she's terrified at the prospect of making small talk with a lot of wealthy, well-bred ladies, haha. Poor old Flo! I'm sure it won't be as bad as you're expecting (or it might be, lol).

I'm loving writing mummy Flo and daddy Alistair though! So cute!

This summer my husband and I are going to visit his mum in Seattle for a couple of weeks! Should be good, I love Washington State 😊 I hope I can find some things to do, I've been there a lot but I'm always open to suggestions and recommendations!

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	202. Let the Bitch Suckle Her Pups in Peace!

Chapter 202: Let the Bitch Suckle Her Pups in Peace!

A short while later, Flora lingered at the entrance to a well-appointed audience chamber in the depths of Cousland Tower. The archway marking the entrance was flanked by two large vases placed atop granite pedestals, engraved with scenes of hunting Mabari. The door itself was ajar; from within drifted a low murmur of refined conversation, voiced in the cadences of the upper classes.

The Cousland servant at the door waited patiently to push it open, one palm spread across the wood. Flora was aware that she was hovering, the basket of babes resting in the crook of her elbow. At just over two weeks old, the twins had grown plump enough that soon she would not be able to bear the weight of both in a single arm. Cod and Lobster, keen to begin their official tenure, were poised at her heels. Cod had already sniffed the chamber's entrance to check that there were no unfamiliar smells present; Lob kept an eye on the passageway behind them.

The queen cast a swift and longing glance in the direction of the teyrn's study, where Alistair and the other nobles were gathered. Leliana – who had helped to tame Flora's hair and smarten up her austere navy tunic – gave a chiding tut of disapproval.

" _Florence,_ I am perplexed as to the cause of your nervousness. You once faced an Archdemon without fear- " then, at Flora's indignant correction, "- alright, without letting your fear manifest. What's so intimidating about a half-dozen noblewomen?"

Flora did not quite know how to articulate her trepidation: her past as a mage, her childhood raised by commoners, her initiation into the shadowy order of the Wardens and her role in the defeat of the Archdemon – all coalesced to make her an object of naked curiosity.

"Dunno," she said, then grimaced as Leliana visibly flinched. "Sorry: _I_ dunno. Can't you come in with me? You'd be _much better_ at talking to them."

" _Non, ma petite –_ you must learn to do this by yourself. It is a part of being queen, just as much as addressing the people!"

Flora shifted the basket containing the twins to her other elbow, took a deep breath, and then gave a nod to the navy-liveried retainer at the door. The guard hastened to push it open, and she stepped forward with her chin raised.

The chamber within was small and finely appointed, placed on the southern face of the tower to gain the most sun. In another lifetime, it had been Lady Eleanor's sitting room, furnished in the distinctive tartan plaid of the Mac Eanraigs. A series of tapestries denoting the exploits of an infamous clan ancestor decorated the far wall; armchairs and chaises were gathered in a convivial huddle around a bearskin frozen in mid-snarl.

Rising from these chairs, in a rustle of costly fabric, were a selected of well-appointed ladies. A small handful were dignitaries in their own right – Bann Reginalda had brought five hundred men from White River to aid in the fight against the Darkspawn – but most were the partners of current Ferelden liege-lords. The wives of Arl Myrddin, Arl Wulff of the West Hills, the Arl of Stenhold and the Bann of Calon were clad in the colours of their respective families; save for the woman at their head. Lady Isolde wore a gown of rich, eye-catching ultramarine, her blonde hair caught up in a pearl-studded net above her ears.

" _Florence,"_ the Arlessa of Redcliffe declared, sweeping lightly across the room to greet Flora with dual kisses in the Orlesian manner. "It has been _too long._ Florence and I have been bosom companions since the moment we first met. I, of course, _immediately discerned_ her Cousland heritage and informed Eamon."

Flora had to stiffen her jaw to stop her mouth from dropping open in disbelief. On her first meeting with Isolde, the arlessa had mostly ignored her in favour of talking to Teagan. On their second meeting, Isolde had hit her over the head with a ceremonial vase to quicken her descent into the Fade for Connor's purging. Feeling a bead of sweat break out on her forehead, Flora followed Isolde back towards the chaises. Cod and Lobster, sensing their mistress' discomfort, padded close at her heels.

Fortunately, the sleeping twins proved a good initial distraction. Their plump little bodies, still so delicate and new-formed, nestled together in the basket; Taron's gilded head beside Theodora's dusky one. For several minutes, the gathered women cooed over the fat newborns; except for Bann Reginalda, who preferred dogs to children and spent the time greeting Cod and Lobster instead. While the others were preoccupied with the twins, Flora asked Isolde about how Connor was faring. The arlessa had issued a faint, forced smile in response, and murmured something unintelligible. It was clear that Lady Guerrin did not feel comfortable discussing her son in polite company.

Once the babies had been admired, passed around and replaced in the basket, the women reconvened in their armchairs and turned nakedly curious stares on Flora. Flora gazed back at them mutedly, wondering if she was meant to say something first. As a Herring native, the making of _small talk_ was wholly beyond her zone of comfort or expertise. Unfortunately, the wives had been instructed by their husbands not to interrogate the queen about her capture by the Carta, or her role in the ending of the Blight – ironically, two topics that Flora would much rather have been asked about.

"Two heirs to the throne," said the Bann of Calon's wife, smiling and leaning back in her chair with her palms spread over her raspberry-hued skirts. "Nobody can deny that you've done your duty to Ferelden, Florence."

Flora was unsure how to take this compliment; she had done nothing of effort to conceive her twins, except prove a receptacle for Alistair's seed. Their creation, growth and delivery had all been beyond her control – in fact, for the first three months of their existence, she had thrown herself headlong and careless into danger. She had been knocked to the ground, faced off against demons, dragged over the grass by werewolves – somehow, the stubborn little tadpoles had clung determinedly inside her belly.

 _Anyway,_ she thought to herself, in slight indignation. _Wasn't my duty to Ferelden saving it from the Fifth Blight?_

"Mm," the queen agreed neutrally after a moment, her pale eyes settling on the bann's wife.

"And now you'll get some months of peace," offered the Arlessa of Edgehall, who had imbibed one too many glasses of Amaranthine cider. "You've given the king children; he's got no cause to pester you at night for a good long while! You might even persuade him into a separate bedchamber, as the Orlesians do."

It took Flora several moments to work out what they were implying; once she had, a furrow of confusion worked its way into her brow.

"Separate _bedchambers?"_ she replied, astonished. "But… how do you _lie together?"_

"Well, you've a good excuse _not_ to!" chirped the mildly tipsy arlessa. "You've provided the king with two heirs already, and you've not been married six months. You've done your duty in the bedchamber."

Flora suddenly felt rather sorry for the Arl of Edgehall.

"I bedded my husband three times last night," she said, not caring what they thought. "I enjoyed it a lot. We're NEVER having separate bedchambers!"

Isolde nearly spat out her mouthful of cider, eyebrows shooting into her pale gold hairline.

"Alys, you've had too much to drink," she said, icily. "Florence doesn't want to take part in such lewd conversation – we aren't _Marcher women._ "

Reginalda of White River, who had fought in the defence of Denerim and thus knew Flora a little better, leaned forward with her elbows on her leather-clad knees.

"How are you finding life on the throne, my dear? Must be rather different from a peasant village."

Relieved by a question that she could understand and answer, Flora gave a little nod.

"It's very different from Herring," she agreed, solemnly. "But not that different from life in a Circle."

"How so?"

"Everyone watches me all the time. And I'm never left on my own."

The women – save for Bann Reginalda – all shifted uncomfortably on their seats; finding the thought of a Circle disconcerting. Isolde, whose own son was currently resident within the Jainen Circle, flinched so infinitesimally that it went unnoticed by most.

"Speaking of – _ahem –_ your past," the bann of Calon's wife murmured, clearing her throat delicately. "I can't imagine the _relief_ that you must feel, now that you're no longer a mage. You must finally be able to sleep easy at night!"

This was so ludicrous that Flora almost wanted to laugh. Fortunately, she was saved from having to make coherent response by a hungry whimper from the crib. Theodora was awake, her fists flung up beside her head, mouth opening and closing in nonverbal demand.

Leaning into the basket, Flora retrieved the baby and lifted her to her breast, tugging at the laces of her tunic with one hand. The little girl immediately began to suckle greedily, a small hand splayed across her mother's clavicle. Flora beamed down at her daughter, so absorbed with the baby's intensely determined feeding that she did not notice the silence from the other women.

"My dear," said Edgehall's wife faintly, after a moment. "Don't you have a wet nurse?"

A gloomy Flora, now bored of trying to make conversation, shook her head mutedly. She had no desire to defend herself; focusing instead on the little girl at her breast. As though sensing their mistress' glumness, Cod and Lobster settled themselves across her feet.

"I suppose it's a _peasant_ custom," Isolde murmured to the Arlessa of Edgehall, who gave a cider-fuelled hiccup in response.

"Let the bitch suckle her pup in peace," grumbled Reginalda, who meant it kindly.

The women discussed the upcoming Landsmeet quietly amongst themselves; shooting the occasional glance at the queen as she fed her baby. Flora, delighted that nobody was speaking to her, continued to feed Theodora until the infant was sated. She felt as though a vast chasm was opening between her and the other noble wives; the disparity in their circumstances too great to span.

 _I might have been friends with these ladies if I'd been raised at Highever. Maybe._

 _Between Herring, the Circle, and the Wardens – I don't think I'm what they expected a teyrn's daughter to be._

While the baby suckled, her mother happened to hear a louder-than-intended whisper from the Arlessa of Edgehall, intended for Calon's wife.

"Robert was right – her looks are unparalleled – but she's an odd one, to be sure."

"I agree, my dear. _Peculiar."_

Flora, used to such observations from her residency at the Circle, let out a little sigh and lifted Theodora from her breast. As she began to pat gently between her daughter's shoulder-blades, the door opened and a Cousland retainer's voice echoed into the chamber.

" _The king!"_

The other women sprung to their feet with eagerness, save for Reginalda, who eased herself leisurely out of her seat. Flora, holding Theodora on her shoulder, looked up just as Alistair strode in, his eyes already impatiently sweeping about the chamber. As his green-flecked gaze settled on her, he grinned; she turned her face up to his like a prisoner emerging from some underground dungeon.

"Sorry, ladies," the king said, coming to a halt before Flora and reaching out to take Theodora. He lifted her onto his own shoulder and began to pat her with a gentle palm. "I've come to reclaim my family."

The women whispered amongst themselves, pink-cheeked and excited; the older amongst them murmuring on this handsome young king's similarity to his father.

As a northerner, Flora would never publicly do anything so emotionally naked as _weep with relief._ However, she had been under the impression that she would be spending all day in the company of these women, with whom she had nothing in common. Theodora was replaced in the basket, which was then hoisted up into the king's arm. Flora followed Alistair out into the passageway, with Cod and Lobster trotting dutifully at her heels.

The moment that they had turned a bend in the passageway, Alistair put down the basket of babes and held out his arms to his wife; who flung herself into them with shameless speed. He gathered Flora against his chest as she exhaled a long and unsteady breath of relief.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmured, ducking his head to kiss the top of her ear. "I… I just _can't_ be apart from you and the twins for that length of time. I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"No, no, no- " she mumbled into his tunic, clinging to him like a limpet stuck to a rock. "You didn't interrupt anything. I wasn't enjoying myself. They all think I'm _strange._ I felt like a prawn at a lobster party."

Alistair grimaced, cupping the back of her head in his hand and stroking her earlobe with his thumb.

"I think that Eamon thought he was doing you a favour," he said eventually, as Flora shot him a slightly incredulous stare. "Help you to make a few friends, that sort of thing."

"I don't want new friends," retorted Flora, stubbornly. " _You're_ my best friend. That's all I need."

She tilted her head back and peered up at him; Alistair smiled down at her, the green flecks in the hazel irises standing out like chips of glass. His hand slid in a gentle caress towards her cheek, thumb tracing the finely hewn line of her jaw.

"How could anyone think that you were _strange?"_ he murmured, low and tender. "You're the best girl in Thedas, and it's _their_ loss, my darling."

Flora knew that Alistair was speaking from a _highly_ subjective viewpoint; yet found his words reassuring regardless. She tilted her face into his palm, as familiar with each line and callous as she was with her own hand.

Glancing swiftly around – they were alone in the passageway, save for Cod, Lobster and a pair of Royal Guard lurking a tactful distance away – Alistair ducked his head to reclaim his wife's mouth with his lips. She responded eagerly, returning the kiss with enthusiasm.

The working of their lips soon became more frenzied as Flora put her arms around his neck, wanting to purge the judgmental stares of the noble wives from her memory. He clutched her back, fierce and proud, feeling his body respond to the proximity of his lover. She pushed herself into him, almost _too_ forceful; her fingers curling into the fur of his collar.

Alistair let out a low groan against her mouth as they parted, before determination set in across his handsome features. He reached down to scoop up the twins' basket in one arm, then lifted Flora bodily in the other; easily able to do so now that her belly was unburdened. Flora let out a noise that was half-giggle and half-squeak, curling an arm around his neck to anchor herself. The king glanced swiftly around before he caught sight of a nearby doorway, flanked by two mouldering tapestries.

Alistair strode towards the entrance; since his arms were full, he shoved at the door with an impatient knee. Beyond the threshold was a small, little-used parlour, crammed with an assortment of poorly matching furniture. Placing the basket of sleeping twins carefully on the rug, the king's gaze settled on a nearby _chaise,_ its velvet furnishing threadbare and faded from exposure to sunlight. His eyes lit up with lust-fuelled purpose; he carried his wife towards this most _convenient_ of objects.

Eight minutes later, a grinning Alistair emerged in the passageway with the basket of sleeping twins on one arm, the other wrapped proudly around his wife's waist. Flora, pink-cheeked and a fraction more dishevelled than she had been on entering the chamber, was also beaming.

"Why can't I ever resist you?" he murmured against the top of her head, brushing his lips over her hair. "I swear to the Maker, I'm as lustful as Zevran when it comes to my beautiful wife."

Flora smiled up at him, made irrationally shy by his raw affection. She was about to return the compliment with equal fervour when there came the growing sound of footsteps from the far end of the passageway.

Moments later, Eamon, Fergus, Leonas, Finian and Teagan all rounded the corner, followed shortly by Wynne and Leliana. The chancellor's eyes lit up as he caught sight of the royal couple, a new purpose to his swift stride.

"What do you call a group of nobles?" Alistair murmured, amused. "A pack? A herd? A _gaggle?"_

"A gaggle! _Definitely_ a gaggle!"

As the group converged upon them, Eamon let out an approving rumble deep in his throat; his green Guerrin gaze taking in Flora's beam and flushed cheeks.

"Well, somebody enjoyed themselves," he commented kindly, as both Alistair and Flora froze in their tracks. "So, it wasn't so bad socialising with the wives after all!"

Alistair had to bite back his laughter, relaxing once again as Flora scrambled for composure beneath her stoicism, letting out one of her usual non-committal grunts.

"Hm," muttered Finian suspiciously, who had ascribed a _different_ cause to Flora's pink cheeks and dreamy-eyed contentedness.

"Anyway, now that Edgehall has arrived, that's the last of the arls," Eamon continued, oblivious. "We'll convene a meeting of the council this afternoon."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Hahaha eight minutes! Not Alistair's best effort, but to be fair, they did have to be quick given the circumstances :P Anyway, poor old Flo- she had a bit of a trial this chapter. She just doesn't do very well with small talk! It's ok, Flo, you have a reputation for being solemn and silent in public anyway. Unfortunately, Flora doesn't realise that the reason Eamon is trying to get her to make new friends is because it won't be long before her companions take their leave D: D: Also, I love Bann Reginalda, who is more interested in dogs than babies and is just like LET THE BITCH SUCKLE HER PUPS IN PEACE lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	203. The Duty Of A Queen

Chapter 203: The Duty Of A Queen

The meeting of the King's Council would take place within one of the audience chambers in Cousland Tower, where a round table and chairs had already been set up in preparation. A wooden crib had also been placed beside the two most prominent chairs; once it became obvious that the royal family came as a single, undivided unit. Before the meeting commenced, the king and queen returned to the bedchamber to eat a quick lunch. Wynne, Zevran and Leliana came to join them, although the former two made no mention of their escapades on the smugglers' isle. Instead, the elf kept them amused by his antics aboard the _Slate Hound,_ Fergus' flagship.

Flora fed each of the twins before passing them across to Alistair for patting; half-listening to Zevran's increasingly outrageous stories. Alistair vacillated between disbelief and amusement, commenting on various occasions that he was surprised that the elf had not been thrown overboard.

" _In the captain's quarters?_ Zev, I'm surprised you weren't made to walk the plank!"

"You know me, _amor –_ a smile is my most effective lockpick!"

The former Crow flashed his dazzling, white-toothed grin; eyes glittering with glee.

As Theodora finished feeding with a yawn, Flora passed her over to her father. Tugging the laces of her tunic taut once more, she slithered to the edge of the bed and rose to her feet. Alistair, perched on the edge of the bed, swivelled as best he could with an infant draped on his shoulder. She could see the rising anxiety on his face, defiant against his attempt to veil it.

"Darling?"

"I'm going to the privy," Flora said, leaning to kiss him on the cheek. "Just down the corridor. I won't be a moment."

Alistair grimaced; the conflict raw across his face. He gave a swift nod of instruction towards one of the Mabari, which ambled to its feet.

"Take a dog, sweetheart."

As the queen disappeared into the passage with the royal hound trotting dutifully at her heels, the king let out a groan and pushed his free hand agitatedly over the top of his head, rumpling the golden hair.

"Will I ever stop being worried about her?" he asked, the plaintive question directed out into the chamber. "I don't want her to feel smothered, but… _every_ time she leaves my sight, I feel my heart seize in my chest."

Theodora hiccupped, and grew frightened by the sound that had emerged from her own throat. Her face crumpled and she began to grizzle. Alistair held her against his chest and began to tilt her back and forth in a now-practised gesture.

"Alistair, you've been through as much of an ordeal as she has," Wynne said, her pale blue eyes filled with sympathy for the young man. "It's no surprise that you're anxious. It won't last forever, my dear. Soon, you won't think twice when she leaves the chamber."

Alistair nodded, kissing the top of his dusky-headed daughter's head to soothe her as she clutched his tunic in a chubby fist.

"I hope so, Wynne. Or else I'll be completely grey by the time I reach thirty!"

In the privy, just as Flora rinsed her hands with water from a blue enamel jug, she felt something tumble from her sleeve. It landed in the copper basin with a chime, rolling around the concave arc until it came to a halt at the base of the shallow pool of water. Flora peered down at the slender glass container, her heart irrationally skipping a beat. Rolling up the sleeve of her tunic, she reached into the water and retrieved the phial of ragwort essence. The contents gleamed pale and green in the sunlight filtering through the window; it reminded her of the vials clustered on the shelves of Owain's laboratory back at the Circle.

 _Take this with a drink,_ Zevran had said. _And Alistair's seed won't stick in your belly._

There was still clean water left in the ewer, and several copper cups placed on a wooden shelf overhead. Instead of taking a cup, Flora retreated with the phial to the bathtub; perching on the copper rim as she contemplated her options.

"We have the twins," she said out loud to the Mabari, who eyed her from its sitting position on the flagstones. The tan-spotted ears pricked attentively; and the queen had the odd feeling that the dog could understand every word.

"We have the twins, so that's _two_ heirs for Ferelden," Flora continued, thinking of Taron and Theodora's plump bodies nestled in their basket. "Surely having _two_ babies gets me out of having any more for a little while?"

The dog let out a rumble, deep in its throat. Flora put a hand on her belly, wondering if there was even the _slightest_ chance that the seed spilt already in her by her enthusiastic husband had taken root. She recalled Eamon's words from his first arrival in their bedchamber:

 _When the birth was announced – I thought that Denerim's cheers would carry all the way to Val Royeaux._

 _I haven't seen such a wild outpouring of joy, since – since, well. I can't even recall the last time I saw the people celebrate in such a manner._

 _It gives them hope, you see. Turns their mind to the future._

Flora looked down at the hound, who gazed up at her with solemn, rich brown eyes.

"You're very dutiful," she said, reaching out to scratch the top of its head with her bitten fingernails. "You know what your obligations are."

The Mabari let out a quiet yap of agreement.

 _Alistair hasn't mentioned anything about the ragwort,_ Flora thought to herself, recalling their post-coital cuddles. _And he doesn't forget things. He didn't make any effort to stop spilling his seed in me._

 _He didn't want me to take the ragwort at all, but he wouldn't ever say it. He gave me the choice._

The queen looked down at the slender phial in her palm, determination coalescing in her chest. Before she could change her mind, she rose to her feet and let the phial drop deliberately from her palm. It fell several feet to the flagstones and shattered in an arc of scattering glass, spilling its pale contents over the basalt.

"I'll never regret _anything_ that Alistair gives me," she said to the dog, who was nudging her gently away from the broken glass. "Especially not a baby."

"Your Majesty?" came a servant's anxious voice through the wooden door. "My lady, are you alright? We heard a strange noise – are you stuck in the privy again?"

"No," replied Flora, slightly indignant. "I did drop something, though. It broke. Could I borrow a broom?"

There was a sharp and shocked intake of breath at the prospect of the queen _undertaking manual labour._

"Lady Cousland, _please,"_ came the servant's pained reply after a long moment. _"Allow me."_

Back in the royal bedchamber, Alistair's ears pricked hopefully in the direction of the door as it opened; an involuntary beam spreading across his face as he set eyes on his queen. Flora made a beeline straight towards the armchair where he was sitting. She sat herself without hesitation on his knee and put her arms around his neck.

"I love you," she said into his shoulder, the words emerging muffled. "Husband."

Alistair abandoned the scrawled updates from the masons' guild – _literally,_ sheets went scattering across the flagstones – and drew his wife to his chest. He pressed his lips to her cheek, her forehead and her nose; plastering his tender affection across her face.

"I love you too, sweet wife."

"And I love lying with you," she added, remembering the words of the Arlessa of Edgehall. "A LOT. I never want separate bedchambers!"

The king growled tenderly into her neck, rubbing his bearded chin across the soft ripeness of her skin.

" _Never_ , my darling."

The meeting of the royal council was convened within the audience chamber, a mid-sized hall in which the quarterly assizes were held. For the day's different purpose, the benches had been pushed towards the walls and a large, circular table brought in from elsewhere in the castle. A large, mouldering painting of a stern faced Andraste with a sword – representing justice – dominated one wall of the chamber, although a patch of damp was beginning to soften and blur the graveness of her expression.

There were a dozen nobles in the king's council in total; their job to provide advice and guidance to the monarch. These were the most loyal of the Landsmeet, whose faithfulness to the Theirins had been proven countless times throughout the centuries. Leonas and Eamon had sat on the council for decades, Fergus had recently taken up the place of his father. Although Teagan and Finian were not official members – one representative per noble family was standard – they were invited by the king's special request.

Alistair and Flora sat side by side, the crib positioned next to the queen so that she could attend to the hungry demands of the infants. Both twins had been asleep for much of the afternoon, but Taron had woken up on their arrival into the assize chamber. As Eamon cleared his throat to begin proceedings, Flora reached into the crib and retrieved their son; cuddling the baby to her chest as he peered up at her.

"Scribe, note the day and attendants," the Chancellor instructed, aware that his usual secretary was still back in the city. "Include the presence of the king. And ensure that your notes are sound. I call this one-thousandth and seventy Fifth meeting of the royal council to order!"

Flora leaned back in her wooden seat, wondering why _expensive_ chairs always seemed to be more uncomfortable. She assumed that it was due to the intricate carving on the back of the chair – this particular one depicted a tangle of fighting birds. Taron swiped her chin gently with tiny fingers, and she smiled down at him, amused by the intensity of his pale stare. He appeared to be memorising the details of her face, as though he would soon be asked to replicate them.

"The first order of business is to officially acknowledge the birth of the royal children," the Chancellor began, the officious tone of his voice softening somewhat. "We are now in the fortunate position of claiming two heirs to the throne; with _Taron Angus Pelegrín_ as the precedent and _Theodora Amity,_ ah - _Seashell -_ as princess royal."

Flora beamed down at the twins; their sleeping daughter and confused, blinking son. She knew that Alistair was also looking at them, knew too that he was taking deep breaths to retain a semblance of composure. The queen reached out with her free hand and placed it on Alistair's knee; he immediately claimed her fingers with his own.

"The palace has already received congratulations from Orlais, four out of the five Marcher cities, Tevinter, Navarre, Antiva and Rivain," continued Eamon, giving his own notes a cursory glance. "And ample gifts for the twins, I might note."

"Which Marcher city hasn't sent congratulations?" asked Leonas, an eyebrow rising.

"Ostwick," chimed a soft, melodic and familiar voice from the entrance. "And it arrived this morning, along with an entire menagerie of carved wooden animals. The craftsmanship is exquisite."

"As usual, the lady Leliana is the most well-informed amongst us," Eamon commented wryly, as the bard took a leisurely seat at the table. "Welcome."

Flora beamed surreptitiously at her friend, somewhat surprised at her presence. Leliana tended not to attend meetings of the royal council, correctly claiming that she already knew most of the business that they planned to discuss. Leliana smiled back at her; oddly enough, there was a tinge of sadness within the mistral blue of her eyes.

"The Chantry have consulted with their augurs, and have determined an auspicious date for the twins' blessing ceremony," Eamon continued, checking the sheaf of parchment before him. "It happens to be Satinalia – well timed, I believe. The blessing can be incorporated into the day's ceremonials."

Alistair gave a fervent nod: the less time spent in long, formal Chantry services, the better.

"Congratulations to Alistair and Florence on the birth of their children," Eamon finished, canting his bearded chin towards the royal couple. "May they be the first of many."

Alistair beamed and – once again – ducked his head in a firm nod of agreement.

"Here's hoping, Eamon. Becoming a father is – it's the _best_ thing that's ever happened to me. I still can't believe how fortunate I am. I… I pray that the Maker grants us more children."

Flora thought about the shattered vial of ragwort, and took a deep breath; peering down into Taron's curious stare.

 _You might have a brother or sister soon,_ she thought, thinking on the seed that Alistair had spent within her. _I hope they sit more calmly inside me than you two did._

 _Sick and dizzy every day for almost the entire time! That was a mean trick to play on your mother. I had a Blight to end, you little lobsters!_

Eamon ran through several more items on the agenda. The grain supplies for the winter were good, trade had now exceeded its pre-Blight levels due to a surge of interest in Fereldan goods, the Orlesians had put in a request to create an official embassy in the city.

Both Alistair and Flora listened intently – the former asking the occasional question, and the latter concentrating hard to ensure that she understood.

 _Grain supplies means that everyone has enough to eat,_ she thought to herself, solemnly. _Trade means more coin. And Orlais sending an ambassador – that means they want to resolve any future issues with words, rather than with swords._

Taron began to gum hungrily at the front of her tunic, small mouth opening and closing. Flora tugged at the laces of her tunic, baring her breast for the baby while still thinking about Eamon's words.

 _Everything sounds good,_ she mused in tentative hope. _It – it sounds like the land is recovering._

"The next item to discuss is- " Eamon paused, glancing down at his parchment. "Ah, yes. The Denerim rebuilding projects. The repair and reinforcement to the city walls is almost complete – they've just one more section to finish, near the western gate. The master-builder estimates that they'll be finished by first snowfall."

"And they've got room for siege weaponry?" Alistair questioned, recalling how they had been almost entirely reliant on the dwarves for large-scale catapults and trebuchets.

"Aye," replied Leonas, leaning forward on the table. "The weapon-parts have already been fashioned, they'll be assembled fully atop the ramparts. Twelve large catapults and twice that number of trebuchets."

Alistair nodded, satisfied, and made a note in the small leather book he brought to every council meeting. As well as the official minutes marked by the scribe, the king liked to keep his own handwritten notes; which he would then read over in the evening to ensure that he kept abreast of current affairs.

Flora, the baby still clinging hungrily to her nipple, glanced sideways at the small leather tome. Each page was covered in Alistair's sprawling hand; his natural writing such a contrast from the neat, detached letters he used when teaching her. She felt a sudden surge of tenderness towards her husband and squeezed their conjoined fingers with impulsive affection. Alistair returned the pressure immediately, then put down his quill, leaned sideways and kissed his wife on the cheek. Flora, her movement restricted due to their son, smiled shyly at him; he went in to plant a second impulsive kiss on her mouth. He did not know whether it was _convention_ to kiss your wife during a council session – much as Flora did not know whether it was standard custom to breastfeed your infant in front of Ferelden's most lofty peers – but neither of them much cared. In reality, the elder of those nobles present recognised such lack of concern for convention: Maric the Redeemer himself had scorned much of the formalities of kingship, denouncing them as _Orlesian._

"Newlyweds," murmured Leliana to Leonas, who chuckled quietly under his breath.

After a few tactful moments, the Chancellor then cleared his throat; the king and queen dutifully returned their attentions to him. Eamon spent the next few minutes detailing the repairs made to Fort Drakon, which had been damaged in several places by the wings and scales of the Archdemon. At Eamon's request, many of the claw-marks had been kept intact for posterity.

As he spoke, Theodora woke up in the crib, blinking and bleary-eyed. She did not seem to be hungry, but flailed out chubby arms in a clear request for attention. Leliana, who had kept one eye on the dozing infant, rose swiftly and rounded the table; descending on the crib to scoop up the fat little newborn. The bard returned to her seat with Theodora cuddled to her bosom, murmuring in Orlesian to the blinking baby.

Flora deliberately did not listen to the arl's description of Fort Drakon's renovations in close detail. She allowed his words to fade to a low background murmur as she focused on the contented face of her son, suckling hungrily at her breast. She did _not_ want to dwell on the events at Fort Drakon, where her spirits had been brutally torn from her and her gifts purged forever; she wanted to admire the exquisite features of the infant. Taron's eyes were huge, grey and solemn, his nose as tiny and perfectly formed as a button, his skin an exact copy of Alistair's olive shade, without the fading summer tan. His hair was the bright golden hue of ripe corn; the wisps curling over a still-forming skull.

 _You are the most handsome baby in the world,_ Flora thought fiercely, hoping that he could read the spirit of her message in the intensity of her gaze. _You and your sister are loved more than anything else in Thedas._

As Taron finished feeding she lifted him gently from her breast, passing the baby across to his father. Alistair took his son on his shoulder and begin to pat him, while simultaneously enquiring about the cost of the reconstruction projects and how much of the budget they had consumed.

"Arl Eamon," the queen spoke up softly, once she had registered a pause in the Chancellor's speech. "I have a question about building in Denerim, too."

"Of course, Florence. Please, speak."

"What about my sewer?"

"Ah!" Eamon shuffled the parchment, smiling at her through his beard as he found a particular set of scrawled figures. "I was just getting to that. The final item in city construction: the creation of a waste-water channel and tidal outlet to divert foul miasmas from tainting the alienage's water supply."

Traditionally it was almost unheard of for the Denerim alienage to be discussed during a meeting of the royal council; unless there had been some riot within its walls or trouble at its gates.

"The waste-water channel was finished six weeks ago," the arl continued, squinting down at his notes. "And the tidal outlet shortly afterwards. The dwarven builders waived their fee, save for materials, as a mark of gratitude towards – well, towards _yourself,_ Florence."

Flora nodded, her pale eyes set gravely on the piece of paper clutched in Eamon's hands. She wished that she could read it herself, and resolved to resume her literacy studies as soon as they returned to Denerim.

"And has it made a difference yet? I know it might take a while."

Eamon glanced down at the figures, a wry half-smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"Cholera and dysentery appear to have been almost eradicated within the alienage. There are reports of elvish allotments producing untainted goods for the first time in decades. The nobles are all building sewers in their own properties now."

Flora tried her best to keep her composure, but it was difficult in the face of such unexpected victory.

 _I can't heal anymore, but I can take away a cause of sickness._

Tears sprung to her eyes and she turned wordlessly towards Alistair, who reached out with the arm not holding the baby and encompassed her shoulders in an awkward, but affectionate embrace. Flora felt him press a kiss to the top of her head, pride radiating from every sinew of his body.

"My sweet wife," he murmured into her hair, every word soaked in affection. "My clever girl. Your idea worked."

Flora took a deep breath, gathering her composure before returning upright. She passed a hand over the top of her hair, flattening down any dishevelled crimson strands before returning her gaze forward.

 _I can still help._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol Eamon was definitely thinking WTF 'SEASHELL' when he was saying the little girl's name, haha. Anyway, Flora has – rightly or wrongly – made the decision to not take the ragwort. I definitely would have taken it in her position!

I wanted to show the contrast in this chapter between what she _thinks_ her duty as queen is – producing children for the throne – and what her duty actually IS: helping Ferelden to recover, and to strengthen itself, and grow strong. In this example- she's helped to bring clean water to the alienage. Prior to this, she helped to secure funding for the Gwaren restoration committee, and sorted out provisions for the refugees in Denerim harbour.

Flo will learn that she's more than just a vessel for children, but it's going to take a little while for her to understand her purpose in the world After all, she's young and all this is very new to her, haha. I wanted her journey to be realistic - she's not going to be FERELDEN'S PROGRESSIVE SOCIAL JUSTICE QUEEN straight off the bat, lol, it's going to be a growing journey!

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	204. The Chatelaine of Valence Chantry

Chapter 204: The Chatelaine of Valence Chantry

The sun was beginning to lower itself in the sky; the shafts of muted autumnal light moving in slow increments across the table. Eamon shuffled through the sheaf of parchment, swiftly running through the remaining items for discussion. This included a report on the numbers of refugees leaving Ferelden (decreasing), a note from the leader of the Dalish permitting a new trade route at the edge of the Brecilian Forest, and a letter from Irving to state that the final repairs to Kinloch Hold had been completed. Now, almost a year after it had been swarmed by abominations, the Circle had returned to its own definition of _normalcy_.

"Florence, the Gwaren restoration committee have once again requested that you consider taking on the empty position of teyrna," the Chancellor said, peering at Flora over the top of the parchment. "The teyrnir remains leaderless. Are you sure you don't want it?"

Flora shook her head: she was sure.

"My wife doesn't want to be away from Denerim for long periods of time," Alistair added, quietly. "Nor does she want to give them only part of her attentions. But, uncle, I've an idea instead."

"Aye?"

Alistair took a deep breath before speaking – he not forgotten the hurled mug that had hit Flora in the head.

"Anora Mac Tir needs something to occupy her time," the king said, with a fluid confidence that indicted much prior thought. "She's a gifted politician and it would be senseless to let her skills go to waste. Granted, the Mac Tir name isn't popular in Gwaren as it stands – but this might give the woman a chance to redeem herself, while rebuilding the south at the same time."

Alistair had talked over this suggestion with both Teagan and Fergus on the previous day; and then brought it up again with Flora whilst they were entwined beneath the bedcovers later that night.

Eamon rested his chin on steepled fingers for a moment, contemplatively. After a moment he gave a slow nod; his clever mind already running through the possible outcomes.

"Myself and Teagan hold the bordering lands, so we can keep an eye on her," he said, visibly warming to the idea. "And Anora's main flaw was that she was too deeply beneath the sway of her father. That's no longer a concern, according to our spies – there's been absolutely no communication between them since the Blight was ended."

Leliana added her confirmation with a swift flutter of her fingers, still cradling the blinking Theodora in the crook of her velvet-clad elbow.

"It'll be a long, difficult and time-consuming job," Leonas added, nodding. "And it'll keep her away from the city. A good test of loyalty. Anora's issue was never that she _betrayed_ our country – at least, not directly – it was that she bent when she should have stood firm."

Flora grimaced to herself; she could not help but feel a little sorry for Anora. The woman had been obedient to her father – defying the Landsmeet to obey his wishes, even if this meant ignoring the growing evidence that there was a Blight. The queen was grateful that her only surviving father had no interest in politics.

Alistair glanced around the table, gaining nods of agreement from all present.

"The only issue I can see is," he continued, replacing the sleeping Taron in the crib before leaning thoughtfully back in his chair. "The people of Gwaren may not _want_ a Mac Tir as their teyrna."

"The bitterness towards Loghain for his indifference to their plight runs deep," Leliana confirmed, still cuddling Theodora to her breast. The little girl was both confused and fascinated by the gleam of Leliana's earrings, which caught the waning sunlight and flashed brilliantly amidst the gloom. "I know they ought not hold it against Anora, but many of them do."

"Tell them that she has to rebuild the town, like her dad once had to do," Flora offered, feeling Alistair's strong thumb move in tender circles across her knuckles. "Loghain told me that Gwaren was little more than wreckage when he was given it by the old king. Now it's Anora's job to build it back up, even _better_ than her father."

She paused to wind in the next strand of her thought; as though pulling in a fishing line, getting her tangle of ideas in order.

"I'll talk to them at their next committee meeting," the queen continued, in her mellow, throaty peasant's cadence. "They're fishermen, so they'll listen to sense. Anora is the best person for the job. I can _persuade_ them."

Bryce's daughter gazed around at the men who had been her father's friends; full-lipped and solemn, her eyes like pale smoke caught behind a veil of glass. Loose ribbons of oxblood tumbled to her waist, decadently and impractically long.

"Aye," Leonas agreed wryly, accompanied by nods from the others. "I… don't believe that you'll have any issue, Flora."

The members of the king's council shared the same private thought: that it was hard to imagine any man denying their young queen anything. The distant sound of music filtered into the audience chamber, somewhere, someone was playing a lute, not very skilfully.

"Ahem," said Eamon after a moment, hastily shuffling his parchment. "Right. Our final matter involves the lady Leliana."

At that moment, Theodora began to mouth hungrily at the front of the bard's cornflower-blue robe. Leliana hastily passed the baby to Fergus, who passed her to Alistair, who passed her to Flora, who had already bared her shoulder and breast in preparation. The queen took her mewling daughter and guided the infant's mouth to her nipple. Her own brow had furrowed at the mention of Leliana as a _matter to be discussed._ Her mind ran through all possibilities: someone had made an accusation against her friend based on her Orlesian heritage, she was in danger from some unknown source, some private misfortune had befallen her-

Flora felt a swell of quiet determination form within her. She readied herself to thrust the unsuspecting baby into Alistair's arms and – if required - rise immediately to her feet in Leliana's defence.

Eamon produced a sheet of creamy vellum, covered in neat and italicised script. The Chantry's seal was just visible in one corner, along with an emerald-green personal stamp. Leliana's eyes fell upon the sheet and the breath caught in her throat; the bard sat motionless at the edge of her seat.

"This is a letter from the Divine Beatrix III," the arl stated, letting the heavy vellum unroll to display the contents. "She has agreed to sponsor the lady Leliana as the _chatelaine_ of the Valence Chantry in Orlais, under the employ of Mother Dorothea. As this was a _personal_ request made by the lady Leliana, the Divine requires signatures of recommendation from the king and queen of Ferelden."

For the briefest moment, Leliana's bardic training abandoned her. Fleeting joy passed across her face, mingled with genuine sorrow for the sudden and brutal nature of this revelation. The Orlesian hardly dared look across the table to where Alistair and Flora sat. The king – who had half-expected it – grimaced in regret. The queen sat as still as a statue, as though struck by some mage's petrifaction; the colour draining in slow increments from her face.

Sat on a chair of solid Highever oak Flora felt as though she were drowning; saltwater closing over her head and the roar of the tide echoing in her ears. Only the determined tug of her daughter's mouth – and the grip of her husband's strong hand – kept her anchored to her composure.

The king could feel his wife's hand cold and clammy against his own callused palm. He glanced sideways at her, aware that the outer stoicism was in danger of catastrophic collapse.

"Can we have a few minutes alone with the lady Leliana?" he asked, the tone of his voice indicating that it was an expectation rather than a request. "Thank you."

The others filed out of the assize chamber; the sympathetic Fergus squeezed his sister's shoulder hard as he passed. As soon as the door was shut gently behind Leonas, Leliana rose and flew around the table, falling into the vacated seat at Flora's side. Flora could not move – the baby was still suckling greedily at her breast – but tears had begun to spill over her eyelashes like an overfilled reservoir.

" _Ma chérie,_ I am so sorry that I did not tell you," Leliana whispered, reaching out to frame Flora's horrified face with elegant fingers. "The thought upset me so greatly that I kept delaying it. I did not expect Arl Eamon to bring the matter up before the council."

Flora did not care about the context of _how_ it had been brought up; all that she could think of was how her friend would be an entire _country_ away. She could feel hot and salty tears dripping from her chin and onto Theodora's head. Fortunately, the baby was so absorbed with feeding that she did not notice. The grim-faced Alistair had an anchoring arm around his wife's waist, his fingers curling on her hip.

"You're _leaving_ us," the queen croaked, the words splintering in her throat: "You're going to – to the _other side of the world!"_

"Not the other side of the world, _chérie._ To Orlais."

" _Orlais!_ That's _worse!"_

"Calm down, _ma petite- "_

" _You're leaving us! Leaving meeee,"_ Flora wailed in hormonal dismay, her eyes huge and wet. "I can't bear it!"

Picking up on her mother's distress, Theodora detached from the nipple and let out a thin grizzle, flailing an angry fist. Alistair reached out his free arm to take their daughter; seeing her opportunity, Leliana lunged forward and embraced the sobbing queen.

"Ssh, ssh- your lovely skin will get all blotchy if you keep up this weeping!"

"I don't – I don't _care- "_

Leliana made a clucking noise that she must have copied from Wynne, sacrificing the raw silk of her sleeves to mop at Flora's cheeks.

" _Ma fleur,_ you _knew_ that I would not be staying with you in Denerim forever. You know that the Maker wants me to continue my service to the Chantry."

Flora wiped her nose on her own sleeve, dolefully. Deep within her heart she had known that her companions would not stay at her side for the rest of her life. Oghren had joined the Wardens, Morrigan and Sten vanished and reappeared as they pleased. Yet Flora had stubbornly refused to think about the possibility that her _closest_ friends – Zevran, Wynne and Leliana - would ever leave her. Her head knew that this was a selfish desire, but her heart twisted itself into fishing-knots at the very thought of their departure.

"What will I do without your advice?" she whispered at last, miserably. "I won't know what to wear. Or how to act. How can I be queen without you?"

Leliana tutted, the high and pale brow creasing.

" _Ma petite,_ you could go out clad in sackcloth and ashes and the people would still hail you. Your deeds make you a worthy queen, not your garb."

Flora reached out to embrace her friend, inhaling the sharp citrus scent that Leliana favoured. They held each other for a long while as Theodora snuffled miserably in her father's arms, confused as to why her meal had been so rudely interrupted. Leliana reached up to run her fingers through her friend's ponytail, admiring the contrast between her own bright ginger locks and Flora's dark crimson. Flora rested her face against the bard's shoulder, feeling her heartbeat gradually slow.

"At least you won't be able to stink up my baths with that nasty oil anymore," the queen mumbled eventually, and the bard let out a slightly tearful chuckle.

" _Stink up your bath?_ Those were premium-quality botanical essences, imported from Val Royeaux."

Leliana looked so indignant that Flora could not help but giggle, wiping her nose once more on her sleeve.

"When will you come back?" she asked, wistfully. "You have to visit often."

"Satinalia," Leliana reassured her, reaching out to peel strands of red hair from where they had stuck to Flora's tear-stained face. "I will be back for the twins' Maker-blessing, I promise."

This was only three months away. Flora sniffled, then leaned forward and kissed her friend on the cheek.

"I want to help you," she whispered, her eyes damp and earnest. "To further your career in the Chantry."

Alistair leaned forwards to retrieve the sheet of creamy vellum that Eamon had tactfully left on the table in his wake. Cradling the grumbling Theodora in one arm, he used a nearby quill to scribe _Alistair Theirin_ at the bottom of the page.

Flora took a deep breath, recalling the shapes and stances of the letters in her own name. Taking the quill from Alistair, she wrote out in her rounded hand: _Florence Cousland._ Aware of the importance of the document, she was especially careful to make no errors in spelling.

"There, Leliana," she whispered, swallowing a hard lump of sadness. "I hope... that takes you wherever you want to go."

" _Merci beaucoup,"_ the bard murmured, the candlelight illuminating a damp sheen in her duck-egg blue gaze. "Your support means the whole world to me – both of you."

Flora nodded, reaching out to take the unhappy Theodora back from her father. She covered her daughter's head in a dozen kisses of apology, nuzzling her nose tenderly against the dark wisps of hair.

"I'm so sorry for interrupting your meal, Teddy. Please forgive me. I love you _so much."_

Fortunately the two-week old baby did not hold grudges. Theodora latched back onto the nipple happily enough, clutching at her mother's breast with both little hands as though determined not to be extracted from it again. Her solemn, dark-lashed eyes fixated themselves on Flora's face; Flora gazed back down at her, equally enthralled.

 _Was it you or your brother who first nudged me on the morning of the final battle?_ she thought, recalling the little flutter within her belly on that dull and terrible dawn.

Leliana watched the two of them for a moment, various emotions blurring across her face like oil on water. When she spoke, her words emerged thick from her throat; as though she had struggled to shape them.

"You are so lovely with your children, _ma petite_. It truly warms my heart to see you together."

Alistair, puffing up with pride like a peacock, put an arm around his wife and kissed her on the cheek.

"Flo's a natural mother," he said, beaming with delight. "I _knew_ she would be."

At that moment, Theodora was sick over her mother's hair; while Taron simultaneously wet himself in the nearby basket. As the royal council still had some matters to discuss, Flora decided to take the babies back up to the chamber to wash and change them. Although – as a former healer – she did not mind being covered in bodily fluids, she thought that she ought not inflict them on the others.

Alistair had to be persuaded by both Leliana and Flora to continue with the council meeting. The king was on the verge of cancelling it on more than one occasion; each time, the two redheads managed to convince him otherwise. At last, Alistair agreed to let his wife disappear from his sight – to venture to a different floor of the tower – on the condition that she be accompanied by two Mabari, two Royal Guard and two Cousland retainers.

Flora hoisted up the basket of babies and took her leave from the audience chamber; the security entourage trailing dutifully on her heels. On returning to the royal bedchamber, she found that a lukewarm bath had already been prepared for her and the infants. The human members of her escort fled to keep watch outside the chamber as the oblivious queen began to unlace her tunic.

Wynne had secreted herself away in one of the Cousland libraries, to the queen's mild annoyance. Flora had wanted to discuss Leliana's departure with her makeshift mother figure, and also gain some reassurance that Wynne was not also planning on leaving her any time soon. Since the elder mage was nowhere to be found, several awestruck maids assisted the queen with her bath.

Flora sat in a foot of lukewarm water, hair loose around her shoulders, with both warm and damp babies cuddled against her breast. One of the maids carefully poured water over the queen's hair as she brooded to herself, a crease furrowing her brow.

 _Wynne hasn't mentioned anything about leaving yet. I know she wants to go back to the Circle eventually, but – I hope it isn't for a long time._

 _And Zevran –_

The thought of Zevran leaving was so alarming that Flora inhaled sharply, feeling her heart clench itself in panic. Hastily, she put the dreadful prospect far from her mind; letting one of the maids lift Taron gently from her breast to pat him dry.

The drowsy babies fell asleep while being dressed in creamy woollen garments, and were replaced in a fresh basket. Flora found a clean pair of smallclothes and a rust-coloured tunic that fell to her knees. After putting it on, she realised that it must have belonged to Alistair; not wanting to change, she drew in the excess fabric with a tight belt around her waist. Once her boots had been retrieved from beside the cooling bath, she was ready to depart.

Leaving her damp hair loose in order to hasten its drying, Flora picked up her basket and left the chamber. The guards and the Mabari fell in line once more behind her; the queen was rapidly growing used to such constant surveillance and barely noticed them.

The thought of Leliana's return to Orlais still sat heavily on her mind, and Flora did not want to return to the royal council. She spent several minutes hovering at the entrance to the assize chamber while the sentry sweated, on the verge of announcing her. Ultimately, Flora decided that she would not be able to pay adequate attention to the matters being discussed if she was preoccupied with her friend's departure.

Instead, the queen turned her attention to the next chamber along in the corridor; its entrance marked by a pair of squat stone pillars. The door was part-open and the dim glow of candlelight was just visible in the inches between wood and frame. A rustling of parchment came from within, followed by an irritated mutter.

Flora advanced toward the doorway with some trepidation – _what if it was a library? What if someone made her read – or asked her to write something!_ Shifting the basket of sleeping infants to her other elbow, she nudged the door open and stepped within the candlelit shadow.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Two for one chapter today because we have a super busy week at work with a big project that needs completing before Friday, so won't have time to update before the weekend!

Anyway, as we're now entering the final phase of the story, this is the part where Flo's companions are going to start making their departures. Poor old Flo! Imagine her dismay when Zevran leaves to take on the Crows aaaaaah.

I completely made up the chatelaine of Valence Chantry position, but I needed a way to get Leli into the Chantry! Mother Dorothea will be made Divine Justinia in a couple of years, Valence is her Chantry.


	205. A Spot of Cartography

Chapter 205: A Spot of Cartography

Inside lay one of the strangest chambers that Flora had ever seen – and, having spent four years in a Circle, she had viewed her fair share of oddities. The dimensions of the room were mid-sized, its architecture unremarkable; it was the _décor_ of the chamber that made it so unusual.

Three of the four walls of the room were covered in bookshelves, yet no books were contained within them. Instead, what seemed like hundreds of round wooden cases were stacked neatly side by side, each one meticulously labelled. Globes on polished stands stood at each corner of the room; the most expensive appeared to have been coated in enamel. On the only wall not crowded with shelves, a vast mural of the teyrnir had been daubed onto the plaster. This giant map depicted all the main landmarks in Highever; with rivers picked out in navy and villages labelled in black.

Loghain stood at a slab of oak in the centre of the room, leaning forwards over a vast sheet of parchment. The sheet kept curling up at its various edges, hence the muttered curse that had drawn Flora into the chamber.

Flora placed the basket of plump, sleeping babies on a faded armchair, her eyes round with astonishment as she gazed about the chamber.

"It's a map room," Loghain offered abruptly, lifting his dark eyes from the parchment and letting them settle on her. "Bryce had the largest cartographical collection in Ferelden. He wasn't _interested_ in them, of course, but he still had to exceed my own."

"My father collected carts?"

"No," he replied, without condescension. "Cartography is the _intellectual's_ term for maps. Trust an academic to over-complicate a perfectly adequate term."

Flora took another step inside the chamber and turned around, staring up at the vast mural depicting the Cousland teyrnir. She recognised _Highever –_ she had learnt to spell it – but could not see any label for _Herring._ Her eyes travelled westwards along the irregular line of the coast, searching in vain for the village which had so irrevocably shaped her.

"They've got _Skingle_ on here, but not _Herring,"_ she said at last, childishly indignant.

The former general watched her closely, eyes reluctantly following the damp ropes of hair as they hung to her waist. The queen rarely wore her hair loose in public; this was a sight usually reserved for her husband in the seclusion of the bedchamber.

As a result of his distraction, the map he had been attempting to spread out sprang back together in a soft rustle of parchment. Mildly annoyed with himself, he infused his voice with an additional layer of sarcasm.

"I'm surprised that Alistair isn't breathing down your neck. Isn't he usually two steps behind you at all times?"

"He's next door," Flora said, still scouring the coast in vain for a glimpse of Herring. "And he's allowed to breathe down my neck. Even though I'm not in danger anymore."

Loghain snorted wryly, eyeing the cluster of guards that had positioned themselves in the entranceway. From their suspicious glares, and the proximity of their hands to their blades, it was clear that they did not quite agree with Flora's assessment of the situation. Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the map; muttering under his breath as he looked around for some object to pin down the curling edge.

"Typical of an _amateur_ cartographer," he muttered, spreading out his palms as the parchment defied his attempts to flatten it. "No weights to be seen. Most of these maps are _covered_ in dust."

The queen abandoned her search for Herring and wandered over to the table. Without ceremony, she hoisted herself up to perch on the oak slab; using her body weight to hold down the curling edge.

"That's one way of doing it," the disgraced teyrn observed sardonically, using a metal-framed focus lens to pin down the map's opposite side.

Flora let out a grunt; as a northerner, she was used to finding practical solutions to problems.

Shuffling with his distinctive gait, Loghain went to retrieve a candelabra from a nearby table, positioning it so that the amber aura spilled over the parchment. He then leaned forward, eyeing the markings on the map with brow furrowed. Several faded strands of hair had slipped from the loose band at the nape of his neck; he pushed them back impatiently.

Turning to peer over her shoulder, Flora gazed down at the map, absentmindedly pleating the tunic over her bare knees.

"What's this a map of?"

"Southern Thedas."

A faint furrowing of Flora's pale brow and a quizzical tilt to her chin indicated to the Warden that this would not be sufficient explanation.

"I was comparing the borders inked on here to the borders on the Val Royeaux version," Loghain continued, darting a swift glance sideways to where Bryce's daughter was perched, her boots propped up on a nearby chair. "To see how they differ. Not that it's my concern any more, but… I've an interest in maps, aside from the politics."

The queen thought about this for a moment, pulling the bulk of her damp hair over her shoulder so that it did not drip onto the finely inked parchment.

"What am I sitting on?"

"Eh?"

Flora canted her head downwards, to where a section of the map was pinned down by her rear.

"Oh – that's Orlais."

The resulting expression on the queen's face was one of such evil glee that Loghain was unable to suppress an amused snort. He watched her as she shifted her slender weight, turning around to peer curiously down at Ferelden's most troublesome neighbour. Her gaze went from one carefully inked label to another, narrowed in focus; her lips struggled to shape unfamiliar words. At last, she gave up:

"Where's _Valence?"_

He rounded the table towards her – the guards at the door narrowed their eyes – and dropped a finger on a small coastal town to the north of Lydes.

"Here."

Flora stared down at the calligraphed, utterly unintelligible label, which seemed a _world_ – whole inked mountains, seas and rivers – away from Denerim. Slithering off the table, she let the edge of the map curl up in a rustle of parchment, her boots landing squarely on the flagstones. To the former teyrn's astonishment, the queen proceeded to let out a growl of frustration; shaking out the mass of wet hair like a Mabari.

" _Why_ does Leliana want to go to Orlais?" Flora demanded to the thin air in a rare fit of temper, her eyes huge with outrage. _"ORLAIS!?"_

Caught up in her own disbelief, the queen stormed over to the guards and repeated her question: "Why?!"

They gaped, providing no answer. Flora next entreated the twins, curled up like puppies in their blanket-lined basket.

"WHY?"

Since the babies were both asleep and two weeks old, they were equally unhelpful. Their mother let out another little growl of frustration, returning to the table and glaring down at Orlais as though she could erase the offending town from the map with the icy disdain of her stare.

Loghain looked at the outraged young woman – pink-cheeked, breast heaving with indignation – and cleared his throat.

" _I_ would personally rather lose my other leg than go to Orlais," he offered, bluntly. "I assume it's to further her career in the Chantry."

Flora let out a noise of miserable agreement. She reached out to spread her palm over the parchment, letting her little finger rest on the coastal town of Valence. Even when she stretched out the rest of her fingers, her thumb only just made it to the western part of the Hinterlands.

"It's such a long way," Flora breathed, almost to herself. "She's going to be _so_ far."

Loghain eyed the queen, who was drooping like a wilted flower; the corners of the full mouth turning down and the rain-grey eyes mournful. Irritated that- even at his jaded years - he was _apparently_ still susceptible to a pretty face, he limped to a nearby shelf and retrieved a flat, wooden case with an etched pattern on its lid.

Inside were a series of carved wooden figures: a man, a horse, a carriage and a ship. Each of these had a cunning device fixed within them; a small wheel around which a plain leather string was wound. The string was marked at regular intervals with black ink. Loghain lifted the ship from its case and returned to the map, placing the small ship on the label that read _Valence._

"Hold the line there," he instructed, and Flora did as she was told; pressing a finger carefully onto the leather string to keep it in place.

Loghain then drew the ship eastwards across the Waking Sea, the string unwinding itself in increments from the small wheel. The leather string followed the coastline, around the Amaranthine peninsula, and came to a halt with the ship as it reached the port at Denerim.

The former general let go of the ship and made his way back around the table, counting the number of etched black marks between the Fereldan capital and Valence.

"Ten days' sail," he said at last, nodding down at the string. "Week and a half."

"Ten days," breathed Flora, absentmindedly winding the end of the string around her fingertip. "That's… not as bad as I thought."

Loghain let out a grunt, beginning to wind the leather stand back into the belly of the wooden ship. He eyed her finger, pointedly.

The queen let go of the string, hoisting herself back onto the edge of the table and propping her leg up onto a nearby chair to inspect her own leather strapping. The band around her knee had come loose during her earlier fit of temper. Hoisting the russet hem of the tunic up her thigh, she leaned forward and began to untwist the leather, working free the knot with her fingertips.

"Ten days is how long it takes to get from Herring to the Circle Tower," Flora said, recalling both times she had made the journey. "It's not _too_ long. Thank you for showing me."

Loghain let out a _don't mention it_ grunt, keeping his eyes deliberately averted.

Just then, the guards at the doorway visibly straightened and saluted, shifting their polearms from hand to hand in a show of respect. Flora knew well enough what this meant; visibly brightening as she turned an expectant face towards the doorway. Sure enough moments later Alistair strode in, his tall and broad-shouldered frame temporarily blocking the light in the doorway. His eyes scanned the chamber impatiently, lighting up as they settled on Flora and then almost comically narrowing as they went over her shoulder to Loghain.

Passing a hand over the fat bellies of his sleeping children, still nestled contentedly in their basket, Alistair strode to his wife. Flora beamed up at him and he kissed her on the forehead, reaching down to help her tighten the band around her knee.

"Sweetheart, let me."

"Valence is only ten days' sail from Denerim," she whispered, leaning back as he tucked in the loose end of the strap. "It's not _too_ far."

Alistair straightened, peering down at the map spread across the entire breadth of the table. His eyes meandered first over Ferelden – the kingdom under his domain – and then travelled westwards to Orlais. He noted where Valence was located, then focused on the carefully inked label of _Val Royeaux._

"It'll be good to have someone like Leliana close to the capital," the king said, half to himself. "She can keep an ear to the ground and keep us informed of anything that might affect us. Orlais have been oddly keen on _diplomacy_ recently."

Alistair thought of the extravagant presents sent from Val Royeaux for the twins, the personal gift from Celene to Flora, the invitation to visit Halamshiral in the spring and the request to open an embassy in Denerim.

"You know why that is," stated Loghain bluntly, made astute by decades of experience and political savvy.

The king eyed him in silent expectation. Loghain canted his head towards Flora, who was sitting on the edge of the table and stifling a yawn.

"All your wife needs to do is point one of those pretty fingers westwards. Half of Ferelden will leap to their and look for their armour. Orlais knows this well."

Both men looked towards Flora's hand, which – like other parts of her body – had been mottled by the Archdemon's soul. One silvered marking curled up her forefinger; a permanent reminder of her triumph over an old god. Flora, oblivious, was now blowing kisses towards the sleeping babies.

"But there's no way that Ferelden could take Orlais," Alistair replied, astounded. "Nor would we _want_ to."

"No, but Ferelden _could_ inflict a nasty bite," Loghain countered, feeling the oddest sense of _déjà vu._ For a brief moment he could have been thirty years younger, stood at the map table advising Maric Theirin on some political strategy. "And Orlais has been embroiled in border disputes with Navarre for years. Their armies are stationed in the north; they've no desire to relocate them. Hence this new desire for cordiality."

Alistair thought on this for a moment, then glanced back towards Flora. She was now glowering up at the mural daubed over the eastern wall. Her indignant gaze once again trawled over the coastline; looking in vain for the letters that denoted her spiritual home.

"What are you looking for, my love?"

"Herring," said Flora, disgruntled. "It's been _cruelly excluded_ from this map! I don't understand: it's part of Highever, and Skingle is on there. Skingle's no bigger!"

Alistair thought privately that perhaps the old teyrn had not wanted to draw attention to the village where he had secreted his daughter. Still, he reasoned, this was a problem that could easily be rectified.

Flora and Loghain watched with expressions of mutual astonishment as the king first retrieved quill and ink-pot from a nearby cabinet. Alistair then manhandled one of the chairs into place at the foot of the mural; clambering onto it as agile as any mountain goat. He turned expectantly towards his startled wife, grinning down at her as she gawped up at him from the table.

"Right – where am I putting Herring?"

Flora let out a squeal of delight as Loghain raised sardonic eyes to the heavens. The queen lifted her finger – to which the former teyrn had ascribed such potency – towards a particular rocky peninsula.

"There – no, just to the left a bit – there! _yes! Perfect!"_

Determination and amusement mingled across the king's face in equal measure; he inked HERRING onto the mural in strident capitals, emboldening the letters with additional strokes of the quill. Flora clapped her hands in delight, dazzled at his boldness.

"There we go, my darling," Alistair said, triumphantly. "Maker, this reminds me of my early years in the Templar monastery. I won't tell you the sort of things I got up to _there_."

He flashed her a lopsided, charming grin over his shoulder, adding a final flourish to the _G_ before hopping down to the flagstones. She, perched on the very edge of the table in her excitement, held out her hands to him.

"Husband!"

"Sweet wife!"

Loghain curled his lip, raising his eyes to the heavens. Abandoning the quill and ink-pot, Alistair strode forward into Flora's eager embrace; ducking down to let her wrap her arms around his neck. Covetous palms slid up his wife's thighs, beneath the rumpled russet fabric of her tunic.

"My cue to leave, I assume," muttered Loghain into the gloom; neither one paid attention to him as he made ready to depart.

The king lowered his face to nuzzle against his queen's neck, inhaling the clean, saltwater scent of her skin. His fingers were already gloriously lost amidst the damp oxblood tendrils that hung loose to her waist.

"You look so sexy with your hair down, baby," he murmured throatily in her ear, pulling her legs more tightly about his waist. "You _know_ I can't resist it."

Flora rewarded him with one of her shy, languid smiles, the dark-lashed eyes dreamy with anticipation. Their mouths came together softly at first, lips brushing delicately as they shared a dozen tender pecks. Her fingers stroked the hairs at the back of his neck; he cupped her buttocks in his palms as she shifted on the edge of the table.

Despite the innocence of their kisses, Alistair let out an embarrassed half-chuckle when they parted, glancing down.

"Look at what you do to me," he breathed, although there was no complaint in his tone. _"Every_ time, Lo."

Flora dropped her gaze to his breeches, then beamed up at him in transparent delight. Instead of replying, she reached out to draw his face back down, parting her lips in wordless expectation. Alistair readily accepted, his mouth joyfully reclaiming hers as he crowded her up against the table. This kiss was far fiercer than the first, tenderness melting into raw desire as he sought dominance of her mouth. His queen responded with equal passion, biting at his lower lip as he drew her bared leg up around his waist.

"I got worried earlier that you might not fancy me as much," she whispered when they parted for a second time, breathless and wild-eyed. "Now that I'm a mother."

Alistair paused in his nuzzling to shoot her a look of slack-jawed incredulity. Flora stared up at him, enthralled by the earnest intensity in his hazel gaze. So intimate was she with her best friend's stare that she could describe with perfect certainty the location of each green fleck in his irises.

" _Not fancy you_ as much?" he said at last, astounded. "Baby, you're a _goddess._ "

Flora peered up at him though her eyelashes, the pink flush spreading rapidly from her cheeks to her throat. Her pale gaze purposeful and unblinking, she leaned back against the map table until she was lying against the wood, her hair spread in a volcanic cloud about her head. There was an unspoken suggestion in the tilt of her head and the languid beckon of her fingertips; an invitation that Alistair had never been able to ignore.

Breathing hard, the king checked swiftly that the guards had closed the door – they had – before turning back to his wife. Within seconds, he had pulled loose his belt with an impatient tug; his breeches shoved hastily down his thighs. Flora stretched out a damp finger to extinguish the candle as he leaned over her, broad palms spread either side of her shoulders.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Just to clarify lol: Loghain has definitely left the room by this point! Hahhaa. Anyway, this chapter felt a bit like a part b) to the previous one – with the discussion about Leliana. I also wanted to incorporate a bit of Loghain's fascination with maps! I LOVE maps, incidentally. Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	206. The Anniversary of Betrayal

Chapter 206: The Anniversary of Betrayal

Sometime later, the grinning king was refastening his belt buckle as his queen looked about in vain for her smalls. As usual, she had ended up missing the majority of her clothing; Alistair tended to get a little _enthusiastic_ when uncovering his wife's nakedness. She had just located her tunic beneath the map-table when Taron gave a plaintive cry for attention, one plump arm flailing upwards from the basket. Hastily tugging the tunic over her head – and abandoning the search for her small-clothes entirely – Flora went to retrieve her son. She cradled the baby to her chest and kissed him on the top of his silky, butter-yellow head.

"Are you hungry?" she whispered, checking to see that he was still dry. "Are you tired? Do you just want a cuddle?"

It seemed to be the latter: the little boy soon settled down contentedly within his mother's arms. He blinked up at the underside of her chin thoughtfully, his huge grey eyes contemplative.

"Right," Alistair said, passing a hand over his head in an effort to calm his rumpled hair. "Do we look presentable, my darling? Or does it look like we just made love on top of a map table?"

Noting the gleam in his eye and the healthy pinkness in his cheeks, Flora thought privately that it was rather obvious what they had been up to. She flashed him a sweet and ambiguous smile in response, shrugging a shoulder.

"We'll just say that we were… reorganising all the maps," she replied, solemnly. "Very _sweaty_ and labourious work."

The baby gave a squeak, waving little fingers in a semblance of a royal wave. Alistair beamed at them both; seeming - for a moment - more excitable boy than monarch of the realm. With Theodora in a basket on his arm, he pushed open the door, keeping it held back for his wife.

" _Ahem."_

Teagan was sitting on a stone bench opposite the map room door, his face deliberately neutral. Alistair's jaw dropped; he searched frantically for some explanation to explain his dishevelled clothing and flushed features.

"We were… just tidying the maps," Flora offered when it became obvious her husband was still grasping for words, her grave and earnest eyes settling on Teagan.

"Sounded like it," replied Teagan, with equal solemnity.

The corner of her full mouth quivered for a second; she was trying very hard not to laugh. Still, the famed composure rarely failed her and she managed to meet the bann's amused gaze unblinkingly.

"Anyway-" Teagan lowered his voice, stepping forward to meet them in the centre of the corridor. He glanced swiftly to either side, before reaching inside his tunic.

"This was delivered yesterday from the Circle, along with First Enchanter Irving's report. I assume that my brother 'forgot' to pass it on to you- " his voice took on a wry note, here – "so I thought I'd save him the trouble."

He held out something in his palm: a glass phial, neatly corked, containing a pale green liquid of familiar appearance. Flora recognised it immediately as ragwort – the same substance that she had dropped onto the flagstones of the privy earlier that afternoon.

Alistair took an unsteady breath as he gazed down at it; something unreadable passing swiftly across his face.

"You need only mix a few drops of this with a liquid, and swallow it after the act, Flora," Teagan advised, quietly. "It's almost as good as a guarantee that your womb won't catch."

The bann spoke with a certainty that suggested that _firstly_ he knew full-well what the royal couple had been up to in the map chamber, and _secondly,_ as a confirmed bachelor of many decades, he too was familiar with the herb's purpose.

Alistair was very quiet beside her, but he said nothing, grimly determined to let his wife make up her mind.

Flora felt a surge of gratitude towards the bann of Rainesfere, who would surely be receiving some sharp words from Eamon as a result of his interference. Leaning up on her toes and placing a palm on his chest for balance, she kissed him squarely on the cheek.

"Thank you, Bann Teagan."

She then found herself anchored to the bann through the proxy of her son, who had inadvertently clutched a handful of Teagan's tunic in a flailing fist. Very carefully, Teagan extracted the baby's curling grip from the lambswool; amused at the contrast between the tiny fingers and his own callused hand.

"A strong grab on this little one," he commented, successfully extricating himself. "Good sword-grip."

Once the bann had taken his leave, Alistair reached out to take Flora's hand in an equally firm anchor, guiding her over to sit on the same stone bench that Teagan had patiently waited on. Placing Theodora's basket at his feet, he turned to face the curious Flora; taking a deep breath before rummaging within a pocket.

"Here you go, my darling," he murmured, producing a small flask. "I think it's ale, but it should do just as well."

Flora gazed at her best friend, admiring his clear, open and handsome face; the line of the chiselled jaw and the earnestness of the green-flecked hazel eyes. She could read his reluctance in every nuance of his body, and yet he was still leaving the matter up to her, respectful of his wife's wishes.

"I'm sorry that it's not water, my love," he continued, grimacing. "I know that you don't like ale."

"My body used to purify alcohol in my mouth," she replied, appreciating the proud, straight line of Alistair's nose. "Like a poison."

Taron gave a gurgle against her chest, dribbling over the rust-coloured tunic. Flora smiled down at him, ducking her head to kiss his _far littler_ snub nose. She could feel Alistair's anxious, restless gaze; his eyes moving from the ragwort, down to her belly, up to the baby in her arm, then finally to her face.

"Zevran gave me his own ragwort this morning," she said, tilting her head as Taron grabbed at a loose strand of hair. "I didn't take it. I'm _not_ going to take it, Alistair."

Flora pressed the glass phial into Alistair's fist, curling his fingers tightly over the top of it.

"You – you aren't?"

"I think we should just… see what happens," she continued, thoughtfully. "And _whatever_ happens, I'll have no regrets."

 _I'm not doing this for Eamon, or even for the future of Ferelden. I know Alistair's always dreamed of a large family._

Alistair inhaled unsteadily: if she had not been holding their infant son, he would have embraced her. Instead, he leaned forwards and kissed her on the forehead, the cheeks, the lips; happy for reasons that he could not quite articulate.

When they parted, he was grinning and she was pink-cheeked, both slightly out of breath.

"I love you more than I ever thought possible," the king said, the words catching like burrs in his throat. "My sweet wife."

"I love you too, husband!"

Even at night, Castle Cousland was rarely at rest. The kitchens worked from dusk to dawn baking the bread that would be delivered to the breakfast table; various repairs to crumbling walls were carried out by torch-light; retainers hurried back and forth with wax-sealed envelopes and gossip on their lips. The castle had the population of a small village living and working within it, even as the nobility slept, those who kept life within the fortress flowing smoothly worked diligently behind the scenes.

On this particular night, however, all was still and silent. The kitchens were dormant, occupied only by particularly daring mice. The servants had been dismissed from their posts early and instructed to retire to their quarters. No repairs would be taking place tonight, despite the west gate's sore need for maintenance.

A pall of sobriety had fallen over Castle Cousland; a strange melancholy hung thick in the air like miasma. For those who believed that buildings had more substance than simple wood and stone; the ancient family seat could somehow sense the terrible significance of the upcoming dawn. Grief reverberated down to the very bones of the ancient castle: a year ago to the day, a most grotesque betrayal had taken place within its very heart. Castle Cousland, which had withstood decades of Orlesian assault and trickery, was deceived by one who had stayed within its walls countless times as a friend and ally.

The memorial for the murdered teyrn and his family would be taking place on this anniversary of their slaughter. The day had already been named as a period of mourning for those within the teyrnir: within Highever itself, shops and taverns had been ordered to close. The morning would be spent in mourning, the Chantry service would take place in the afternoon. In the evening, a pyre would be set alight atop the headland overlooking Hagor's Bay. This was – naturally – symbolic, since the remains of the teyrn and his family had been flung into an unceremonious pile and burnt into ash with the rest of the castle's lowlier dead.

The three Cousland siblings had dealt with the prospect of the upcoming day in differing manners. Fergus had left dinner abruptly in the middle of the second course, professing the need for some quiet prayer and contemplation. He had spent the evening in the castle chapel, and then retired to his quarters; admitting no visitors. Finian, who desired distraction of a different sort, had turned to Zevran. The elf, who had treated his perennial partner with unusual gentleness all day, readily agreed to accompany the young arl up to his own quarters. The pair of them had departed before the third course was served, Zevran's fingers snaking out to touch Finian's elbow as they left.

By the time that dessert arrived, Flora was the only Cousland sibling left within the great hall. She had devoured her first and second course – breast-feeding gave her a ferocious appetite – but then noticed that neither of her brothers were eating. The queen began to brood over why she _too_ was not off her food _– why was she the only Cousland able to eat? Surely she should also be preoccupied with thoughts of the next day?_

 _It's the anniversary of my parents' death tomorrow. Surely my body should be racked with grief?_

Her anxiety was augmented when both of her brothers got up to leave. Flora watched them go, a sweat breaking out on her forehead.

Ironically enough, her worry over her own lack of distress caused her appetite to shrivel. Alistair looked at his queen in naked astonishment when her favourite dessert – pears baked in honey – did not even get a second glance. Flora was preoccupied with the dryness of her eyes – _surely_ there must be a tear in there, somewhere?

 _Are you sad over your parents, my love?_ he'd asked; she could not bring herself to reply.

That night, still preoccupied with her own lack of grief, Flora had found herself unable to sleep. The babies were fresh-fed and deep in strange infant-dreams; the hearth cast a warm and comforting amber hue across the bedchamber. There was not a single sound or distraction present that could be blamed for disturbing her rest. Alistair had gone to sleep with the dead-to-the-world swiftness of a new parent, his body tucked around hers in a protective wall.

The queen tossed and turned within her husband's arms; kicking off the furs and then pulling them back up. She turned over several times to rearrange the cushions, trying to find some magical arrangement that would lull her into the sound slumber that Alistair was currently enjoying.

Indeed, Alistair was displaying remarkable commitment to his rest, sleeping through all of his wife's fidgets. He unconsciously curled himself around her contortions; a thigh draped over hers, one arm bent around her waist and the other enveloping her shoulders.

 _Did you feel sad when King Maric was lost at sea?_ Flora had asked him when they first settled down for the night, wound in each other's arms.

 _I didn't know how to feel,_ he had replied, after a moment's genuine consideration. _I was in the Templar monastery, so I didn't hear about it for weeks. No one there knew who I was, after all. I felt more annoyed than sad, I think. Because now I could never get any answers._

After an indeterminate amount of time had passed – the usual night-bell had also fallen silent – Flora decided that enough was enough. Holding her breath, she managed to extricate herself from Alistair's arms; pushing down the furs with sock-clad feet before clambering out of bed.

As though sensing movement in the chamber, a little peep rose from the crib. The chirp swiftly became a mewl for attention, a chubby fist flailing above the blanket.

Flora reached down to lift Taron to her chest, cradling his head in the palm of her hand.

"Are you hungry?" she whispered, wandering in be-socked feet about the flagstones as the baby nestled against her throat. "Are you _angry?"_

Taron seemed to be neither; he fell into contented gurgling the moment that he was picked up. Flora seated herself cross-legged on the armchair before the hearth, gazing down at the infant as he peered up at her.

"Why aren't I more upset about the memorial tomorrow?" she breathed, as though the solemn-faced baby might offer some explanatory response. "I should be grieving, like Fergus and Finian."

In fact, when Flora thought about it, she felt _far_ more upset when thinking about the tragic fate of her nephew, the little boy Oren, whom she had never met. Tears rose to her eyes for her oldest brother, who had lost a wife and son; but as hard as she tried, she could not summon the same emotion for her own parents. She felt sad in a _detached_ sort of way, as she would if told about any unrelated murder.

Taron waved a chubby palm and the queen caught it with her little finger, watching the baby's even tinier fingers curl in a determined grab.

 _How could they send me away?_ Flora thought to herself, blowing kisses at her son as he clung determinedly to her finger. She could understand their actions even less now that she was a _mother_ ; the thought of being even more than a chamber apart from her babies was unbearable.

"My sweet little shrimp," she whispered to Taron, who responded with an obliging peep. "Help me to not be cross with them. I want to be a dutiful daughter tomorrow _."_

Impulsively, the queen decided to go and see Fergus. After all, she reasoned, if _she_ was awake; there was a good chance that he would be, too.

"Want to come with me?" she asked the baby, who gave a gurgle in response. "Let's go and see your uncle. He might not let us in, but it's worth a try."

Tucking the baby into an arm, she pushed herself out of the chair and headed across to the bed. Theodora was still sound asleep in the crib, her little fists flung up beside her head. After blowing her daughter a kiss, Flora paused to admire the sleeping form of her husband; broad and rugged as the Frostbacks. Very gently she leaned forward and kissed the strong peak of his shoulder, her lips lingering against the warm flesh. Alistair mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, reaching out an arm across the bed. Finding a cushion, he pulled it to his chest; clearly under the impression that it was the body of his wife.

Flora pressed her face to the carved muscle of his back for a moment, mouthed _I love you_ against his skin and then returned upright. Taron, who had not minded being tilted at an unusual angle as she bent forward, clung to his mother amiably enough.

She then had to manoeuvre herself into a nightgown – the royal couple always slept naked – which was no easy task with a baby in one arm. Eventually, Flora managed to wriggle her way into one of Alistair's shirts, a linen garment that fell to her knees with the Theirin lion stitched onto the front.

After retrieving a blanket for the baby, the queen then made her way to the door, followed by one of the castle Mabari. After she had rapped quietly on the wood with her fist, the door opened. Two guards and a hovering servant immediately appeared in the shadowed inches beyond.

"Ready to go on an adventure, baby?" Flora whispered to Taron, cuddling him close to her breast.

The guards and servant wore simultaneous looks of alarm at the prospect of their queen and heir to the throne going on an 'adventure'. Flora hastened to reassure them, eyes wide and earnest.

"Not an actual _adventure._ We're just going to see the teyrn," she clarified, in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. "Down the passageway. Could you tell my husband where we are if he wakes up? I'd leave him a note but I don't think he'd be able to read my writing."

"Aye, your majesty."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Haha after all of Flora's escapades, no one wants to hear the word 'adventure' coming out of her mouth!

Anyway, I wanted to explore a few different angles in this chapter – firstly, the political machinations of Eamon, who deliberately delayed in giving the ragwort to Flora – he clearly wants more children and more stability for Ferelden, lol. Good for Teagan for intercepting!

Secondly, Flora is worried about her own lack of grief for her parents' murder, considering it's their memorial tomorrow. Since she's naturally a compassionate girl, she's stressed out about the fact that she doesn't feel a more _personal_ grief for her parents – she's still cross with them for sending her away, probably MORE so now that she's become a mother.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	207. No Chance To Say Goodbye

Chapter 207: No Chance To Say Goodbye

Clutching Taron, Flora wandered down the corridor with two Mabari trotting at her heels. She reached down a hand to scratch at a velvet head, feeling a pang in her belly as she thought of Cod and Lobster. They had a few more weeks of training left before they would accompany her day and night; the girl who had once been a little afraid of Mabari was now impatient for the presence of her own puppies.

 _I think Cod and Lob will be the twins' best friends._

 _It won't matter so much that there aren't any other children in the palace. They'll have their dogs._

Lost in her thoughts Flora rounded the end of the corridor and almost collided with a tall and slender presence. She let out a yelp of alarm, as did the lofty figure.

"Aah! Floss, you just gave me _heart palpitations,"_ complained Finian, taking a deep gulp of air and fanning himself with a hand. "What are you doing wandering the corridors at this late hour? Hello, honeybee."

This last part was directed to the baby, who was peering in mild confusion up at his uncle.

"I was going to see Fergus," Flora said, shifting Taron from one arm to the other.

Finian made a soft noise of agreement; he had taken to the corridors with the same goal in mind. Despite their similar colouring the two younger Couslands could not have been garbed more differently: her in a plain linen nightshirt and lurid mustard-coloured socks, him in luxuriant Orlesian silk pyjamas so fine they might have been spun from cobwebs.

They continued on down the passageway, passing several imposing suits of armour and a full-sized stuffed bear leaning at a decidedly drunken angle. Finian reached out absentmindedly as they passed, patting at a spot on the bear's flank that had worn almost bald.

"Force of habit," he explained to Flora, catching her curious look. "Barric the Ferocious, Terror of Highever. Slain by Finian Cousland, our great-grandfather and my namesake."

The arl giggled, lowering his voice and glancing conspiratorially about him before continuing.

"Rumours say that the bear was actually trapped and slain by the teyrn's _elven manservant,_ but the teyrn claimed the credit. But don't speak it too loudly, or old Finian's ghost will come and haunt your dreams!"

"I don't dream," said Flora, but decided that she would still not chance provoking any ghostly apparitions.

The new teyrn had not moved into his parents' bedchamber, where his father had been so ignominiously slaughtered. Nor had he chosen to stay in the marital bedchambers he had shared with his wife and son. These rooms had been sealed off; locked, barred and sanctified with Chantry candles. Instead, Fergus chose to sleep in the chamber of his boyhood, a shrine to the pursuits which he had once valued so highly. Stuffed trophies decorated the walls, bows of various sizes hung on carved stands. A jousting lance was propped alongside a bookcase, the shelves of which stood mostly empty. A suit of armour crafted for an adolescent – a Cousland laurel engraved on its breastplate – stood in the far corner.

Fergus Cousland, most justifiably of all, had not been able to sleep. He had spent several hours in the castle chapel, a place which he had rarely visited prior to the dreadful events of the past year. He had then returned to his chamber and lain awake in bed, too afraid of what the Fade might have in store to risk going to sleep. Eventually, he had abandoned his pillows and gone to his desk; mindlessly reading and re-reading a report on the teyrnir's grain harvest. When a tentative knock on the door came midway through his fifth review, the teyrn startled, dropping the letter.

"Who is it?"

"The heir to the throne," came an affected squeak; a grown's man's voice trying to emulate an infant. "And his two loving servants."

The door opened to reveal the two more physically similar Cousland siblings; both slender-built and autumnal-coloured. The heir to the throne, plump and yawning, waved tiny fingers as though announcing his own entrance. Both Flora and Finian also wore identical expressions of uncertainty, unsure whether their presence was wanted.

But Fergus was smiling and rising to his feet in greeting, pleased at the interruption to his own brooding.

"Come to check up on your big brother?" he asked, summoning a half-smile.

Flora nodded, inadvertently sabotaging Finian's blasé response. She went to perch on the end of Fergus' desk, settling herself comfortably atop a sheaf of dull-looking reports. Fergus' gaze – the greyish-blue of the Mac Eanraigs -went straight to his nephew's little face. The baby had gripped the edge of his woollen blanket in a chubby fist and was tugging at it, eyes huge with confusion at this new sensation against his fingers.

"He's a curious little chap," the teyrn commented, the half-smile turning into a full one. "What are you doing awake, pup? It's past your bedtime. Where's your sister?"

"Teddy is sleeping. He's just being rebellious," Flora said, then added tentatively, "like his grandfather."

She bit her lip, hoping that she had recalled her family history correctly.

Fergus grinned, appreciating her reference to Bryce Cousland and his defiance towards Orlais.

"The babe is half-Cousland and half-Theirin. A recipe for trouble if I ever saw one."

Flora impulsively held out the baby to his uncle, who took him without hesitation. Paternal instinct rising to the fore, Fergus let Taron settle against his chest, cupping the baby's head against his shoulder. The little prince eyed his uncle with the bleary and incoherent stare of a two-week old infant, then settled contently against the rumpled linen.

" _Speaking_ of rebellion," Flora whispered, shifting herself into a more comfortable position on the desk. "He was sick _all_ over his sister earlier. Teddy wouldn't stop roaring in rage for an _hour."_

"I heard that," Fergus replied, grinning as the baby made a flailing grab for his collar. "Andraste, that was Theo? I thought it was a herd of screeching banshees. What a set of pipes on the girl!"

"It sounded like an Orlesian opera-singer whose concert I once had the misfortune of attending," Finian added darkly, shooting them a baleful glance over his silk-clad shoulder. _"Madame Pomme de la Pierre._ I'd never heard such ear-splitting caterwauling in my life. It was a most traumatic experience, and listening to little Ted brought it all back."

Flora beamed, proud of her daughter's hearty lungs. To her relief, the hollow-cheeked, hauntedness of her brother's face had alleviated itself somewhat with the arrival of his incorrigible siblings.

Finian, who had sauntered over to the adolescent suit of armour, let out a sudden cackle of remembrance.

"This was your Summerday games regalia, wasn't it? Maker's Breath, I'd forgotten how tall you were at thirteen. Shame you stopped growing shortly after!"

Fergus almost made a rude gesture towards his brother, then restrained himself for Taron's benefit. He chuckled instead, stroking the baby's back with a gentle palm as his gaze settled on the elaborate armour.

"Aye. Remember how proud Father was when I came out in it for the first time? I could barely _walk_ , it was so heavy. But I still managed to win the joust against Nathaniel Howe."

Fergus' voice faded away at the end, but it was due to reminiscence rather than regret. With his nephew in his arms and his siblings gathered around him, the teyrn's future suddenly did not seem quite so bleak.

"You were a far more satisfactory son than I," Finian retorted, smiling and without rancour. "Oddly enough, getting caught behind the smithy with a messenger boy didn't _quite_ inspire the same level of paternal pride."

"He was proud of you, Finn, and you _know_ it," countered the teyrn, feeling the gentle rise-and-fall rhythm of the drowsy infant's chest against his shoulder. "He was always bragging about how sharp-minded you were. How many languages were you studying by the time you were fifteen?"

"Three," replied Finian, as Flora – who had not known this – gaped. "Though I'm not sure how impressed he was by my choice to learn _Orlesian_."

"How many languages can you speak _now?"_ Flora demanded with mingled admiration and envy, thinking on her own mangled Fereldan. She did not bother to ask if her parents had been proud of _her;_ she had been a mage and a brat, a double disappointment.

"Fereldan, naturally," her academic brother replied with a little roll of the eyes. "Orlesian. Nevarran. I'm reasonably fluent in Ancient Tevene. And – thanks to Zev – I can hold a conversation in Antivan, albeit one of slightly _scandalous_ nature."

"Oh! I can only speak one, and I can't even _write_ in it," Flora complained, pulling petulantly at a loose thread in her sock. "I hope the twins have somehow inherited your brains rather than mine. I don't know how _inheriting things_ works. What's the Summerday games?"

"They're held once every three years in Ferelden. The children of the nobility compete against one another in feats of agility and strength," Fergus explained, adjusting the blanket around the baby's shoulders. "Each family take it in turns to host. Two years ago, Eamon held the games at Redcliffe."

"Father was annoyed that I didn't come back from university for it," Finian added, lifting the visor on the helm and peering inside. A spider stared back at him and he hastily closed it again. "But, why _would_ I? I've never been very good at that sort of thing – jousting, archery, duelling. Cailan used to win all the time, anyway."

Flora was fascinated by the concept, though mildly confused at why the contest was limited to the children of the nobility only.

"We should have the Summerday games next year," she said, impulsively. "And another games, for the rest of the people. Elves and dwarves could enter, too."

"Announcing the _'Queen's Games',"_ pronounced Finian, spreading his hands outwards like a herald. "What better way to unite the people and give them something to look forward to? Floss, where do you get these ideas _from?!_ Sewers, employment for refugees, games for the common folk!"

"Dunno."

Flora smiled vaguely, reaching out to wiggle Taron's chubby foot. Truthfully, most of her ideas came from her unique Herring-shaped perspective, which sought practical solutions to pressing problems. Having now experienced life in both high-born and low-born society, the queen realised that – ultimately – people had similar needs and desires, regardless of station.

Finian wandered next to the bow and arrow, eyeing the range of heads pinned to wooden boards on the wall.

"I wouldn't be able to sleep with all these glaring down at me," he murmured to himself, reaching out to wipe a smear of dust from one stuffed deer's false eye. "Though perhaps I should invest in a glass eyeball, like these chaps. Might look a bit more _normal."_

The self-conscious arl reached up to trace the ragged scar that ran from the bottom of the black leather patch down the finely hewn plane of his cheek; the pale academic face permanently altered.

"I like your eyepatch," replied the kind Flora, immediately. "It's a mark of your bravery. Out of all the nobles here, only you and Teagan fought the Darkspawn _head on."_

"Hurrah for we second sons!" replied Finian, abandoning thoughts of glass eyes and sauntering across the chamber. "If only Father could have seen me, eh?"

The three siblings were silent for a long moment. The usual night-sounds of the castle had been quelled; the very air itself seemed to hang still and waiting around them. A year ago to the very hour, the first blood had been spilled in the corridors of Castle Cousland. The quiet was disturbed by Taron, who let out a little snort as he slept against his uncle's chest. Fergus startled, as though awoken unexpectedly from a dream.

"I've got something to show you, Floss," he said, leaning back in his chair and pulling out the drawer of the desk with his free hand. "I was going to show it to you tomorrow, but… well."

A leather case emerged from the desk drawer; about the length of Flora's forearm and almost as wide. It was flat, and appeared to be some sort of protective sheath.

"Lots of our family portraits were destroyed by Howe's men," Fergus explained, tilting his head as Taron squirmed more closely into his shoulder. "But this one… our father must have concealed it well."

Flora, her heart inexplicably racing, reached into the leather case. Her fingers gripped stiff parchment and pulled gently; inch by inch, an image was revealed that stole the breath from her lungs.

It was not a portrait in the traditional fashion; it was a cunningly crafted pencil sketch by an artist of obvious skill. The old teyrn sat in an armchair, clad in his finest clothing and with the band of authority atop his head. Unlike the constricted poses of a formal painting, the teyrn's head was angled downwards; he was smiling not at the viewer, but at the little girl perched on his knee. Flora recognised herself immediately: the petulant pout, the solemn, wide-set eyes. She looked perhaps four, the chubby limbs just beginning to elongate.

Despite the lack of colour, and their great disparity in age, the similarities between Bryce and his daughter were starkly apparent. Even in the informal circumstances, they were both sitting proud and straight-backed, with a slight haughtiness to the tilt of the chin.

Yet Flora looked only briefly at the sketch itself; her attention drawn by something far more prosaic. The edges of the parchment were mottled, the material worn prematurely thin from repeated handling. The collection of fingerprints was undeniable proof: this was an image that had been taken out from its hiding place over and over again throughout the years.

As Flora stared down at this undeniable proof that her father had never forgotten her, she felt something break open within her; something which had – until now – been locked up fast. Tears began to roll down her cheeks as though they had been waiting for their owner's tacit consent. Her face crumpled and she let the pencil sketch drop onto the desk, hunching over and pressing her palms against her cheeks.

"Our parents are _dead,"_ she heard herself whispering, speaking the words which had been hovering on the tip of her tongue. "Mama. Papa. They're _dead!"_

Fergus, who had not predicted this outcome, looked helplessly around the room. Fortunately Taron was sound asleep by this point and unbothered by his mother's tears. The new teyrn reached out with his free hand and rubbed his sister between the shoulder-blades; not used to offering comfort.

"Floss- Flossie- "

"Aaah!"

Finian hovered in the background like a long-limbed, nervous spider; his sole eye wide with alarm. Flora, bent double as the grief _truly_ hit her for the first time, let out a phlegmatic wail. Her nose ran as liberally as her eyes as she pressed her face into her hot and sweaty palms. The arl patted her on the head: the gesture only prompted a storm of fresh sobs.

Their sister could not explain her grief – it was not as though the pencil sketch had prompted a deluge of long-forgotten memories about her parents. Instead, it seemed to have struck some vein of grief that had hitherto been buried. It delved beneath the hurt over her abandonment and the adoption of a Herring identity, resonating with a little girl who had never had the chance to say goodbye to her parents.

"Fetch Alistair, Finn," instructed Fergus, hoping that Taron was a sound sleeper.

After Finian had darted out, the new teyrn put an awkward arm around his sister's narrow shoulders, conscious that neither he nor his brother had much experience in offering comfort. Flora continued to hunch over, distraught, careless of her own precarious position on the desk.

"Careful, sister," he said in alarm as she came close to slithering off. "Hush, hush."

He patted her on the head like a dejected Mabari, which did not make a great deal of difference.

"I- I- I didn't get to -," she wept, then dissolved into more tears.

"Didn't get to _what,_ Flossie?"

But it was too late: the moment of coherency had passed.

Then the king was in the doorway, clad only in a pair of hastily-donned breeches and clutching his sleeping daughter in his arms. Finian, who had struggled to keep up with Alistair's anxious stride even with his own long legs, appeared a moment later, slightly out of breath.

On seeing his queen bent over with misery, Alistair thrust the peaceful, blanket-wrapped Theodora into Finian's arms. He crossed the chamber in three paces, reaching out even as Flora looked up, able to detect her husband's presence even without the preternatural connection of the taint. She reached out her arms, relief crossing her face beneath the veil of falling tears.

"My sweet wife," Alistair breathed, lifting her into a bodily embrace as she curled her legs around his waist. "What's wrong? Tell me and I'll put it right."

"I never got to say goodbye to them," Flora whispered in his ear, hiccupping wetly. "I never got to say _goodbye,_ and now I never will."

"To who, my love?"

"My _parents."_

Alistair was silent for a moment, for of course, this was something that he was _not_ able to put right. He held his wife for several minutes, pressing his lips against her cheek, her throat, her forehead; murmuring soft and incoherent comfort into her ear. This was something that the boy who had grown up with horses and Mabari was inherently good at; soothing, and stroking, and calming down the agitated.

Taron had slept through his mother's distress, tucked warm and secure in his uncle's elbow. Theodora, however, had woken up and started to mouth the air hungrily. Finian, sweat breaking out on his forehead, did his best to delay the inevitable wail by giving his niece his little finger as a substitute.

Eventually, Alistair sat down on the end of Fergus' childhood bed and held Flora on his lap; she wrapped herself, octopus-like, around the stalwart rock of her husband. He reached down and gripped her foot, still clad in the lurid mustard sock, rubbing her wool-covered toes with a strong thumb.

"Baby," the king said in her ear, cupping the back of her head in a broad palm. "I'm going to say something to you that you ought to recognise."

Flora turned eyes on him like rain-filled skies; wide, wet and miserable.

"' _He's not dead, because nothing ever dies in this world, not really. His spirit will be in the Fade, watching us through the Veil. I should know, I'm a mage. Of course he sees us. Of course he's proud.'"_

Alistair recited the words with an ease that suggested that this was not the first time he had called upon them. Flora looked up, a flicker of memory igniting in the depths of her mind. She remembered speaking those words to Alistair, many months prior; before Denerim, before South Reach, even before the true revelation of her heritage.

"I said that to you," Flora breathed, wiping her nose on Fergus's bedsheet. "About Duncan."

She still said his name like a prayer; the one who had taken her from the Circle and named her as something rare and precious, ' _spirit healer'._

"And you believed in what you said, sweetheart?"

"Every word," Flora whispered, swallowing a hard lump that had risen in the depths of her throat.

Alistair looked at her for a long moment, the hazel irises bruised with tenderness.

"Well, those words kept me going during the Blight, Flo," he murmured, caressing the elegant profile of her tear-stained face with a thumb. "I believed in them, too. And now I'm saying them back to _you."_

Flora threw her arms around his neck, mute with gratitude and relief. She pressed her face into his shoulder, inhaling the masculine scent of sword-oil and perspiration.

"Thank you," she mumbled into his skin, her heart throbbing with painful resonance. "That's such a kind thing to say. I love you. _I love you."_

"I love you too, my best girl."

A fascinated Finian, watching the pair embrace, cast a sideways glance at his brother.

"Here, Ferg – do you reckon our noble upbringing has left us emotionally stunted?"

Fergus let out an ambiguous grunt, shifting the plump Taron from one arm to another.

"Hm. Maybe."

Finian cackled, relieved that their little sister appeared to have calmed down. The young arl was not surprised; he personally believed that it was _impossible_ to stay upset when you were enveloped in a pair of brawny arms and held against a divinely sculpted chest.

"Sweetpea," he said, glancing down at the increasingly irate little girl in his arms. "I don't think Ted is being fooled by my finger anymore."

He had spoken truthfully: Theodora had stopped suckling at his finger, her face contorting in angry confusion.

A sniffling Flora unwound herself from Alistair's embrace and held out her arms for her daughter. Alistair helpfully unlaced the front of the nightshirt; just managing to restrain himself from pressing the habitual kiss to her breast.

"Alright now, Lo?" he breathed, keeping one protective arm around her waist.

Flora nodded, unable to stop herself from smiling down at the baby as she squirmed her way towards the nipple.

"Mm, I think so," she mumbled, leaning her head against Alistair's shoulder as Theodora's cheeks began to flex furiously. "I think tomorrow's memorial is going to be harder than I thought."

"I won't leave your side for a _heartbeat,_ my love."

"Promise?"

"I swear to the Maker, sweet wife."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Not going to lie I actually laughed when I wrote down the bit about Finian wondering if he and his brother were emotionally stunted because of their upbringing in a noble family. Haha I don't know if that translates well to modern society but there's a stereotype in England about the upper classes being unable to show emotion properly (like stiff upper lip to the max).

Anyway, this chapter resolves the issue that Flora was worrying about last chapter – that she didn't feel personally sad about the death of her birth-parents. All it took was a well-thumbed pencil sketch of the teyrn and his daughter – much looked at over the years – to bring that grief to the surface!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	208. Three Siblings, Three Stories

Chapter 208: Three Siblings, Three Stories

The next morning, Flora woke with an odd heaviness in her stomach; as though she was lying beneath a particularly suffocating fur. Rolling over into a dip in the mattress, she tucked herself more closely against Alistair's abdomen, pulling his arms tight around her. Still half-asleep, he encased her in an embrace, ducking his head to press sleepy lips against her shoulder.

Thus reassured, Flora opened her eyes into the milky amber of dawn; the chamber flooded with anaemic autumnal sunlight. The room looked much as it had done the previous night – baby blankets hanging before the hearth, dirty linens crumpled in a heap beneath the dresser – but there was something intangibly _different_ that she could not quite put her finger on –

 _It's so quiet._

The castle was silent; the usual machinations still. No patrolling footsteps echoed against the battlements, no carpenters called to each other above the clatter of construction. There were no maids gossiping beneath the window, nor any nobles barking orders to beleaguered scribes. Even the Mabari had fallen quiet, as though able to perceive the awful significance of this particular day.

Flora felt a chill run down her spine like a trickle of seawater. She pressed her face against the warm bulk of Alistair's arm, inhaling the familiar scent as she had done on so many occasions during the Blight.

 _It's too quiet. I don't like it._

She had never been more relieved to hear a scratchy grizzle rise from nearby. Unentangling herself from her husband's strong grip, Flora rolled back across the mattress and peered down into the cradle. Taron was sound asleep, flat on his back with his mouth slightly open; Theodora was kicking her chubby legs like a frog mid-swim, whimpering.

"Teddy," crooned the queen, reaching down to scoop up the baby. "Ready to break your fast, little lobster?"

The infants – and the mother who nourished them – were the only ones who would be permitted to eat on this day of mourning. As Flora settled back against Alistair's arm with the little girl at her breast, she felt sorry for her husband and his hearty appetite.

"Your poor papa is going to starve today," she whispered, stroking the baby's plump arm with a finger. "His stomach will be rumbling like a… an angry bull."

"What's that about Chantry balls, my darling?" Alistair murmured into her hair, his voice still blurred with sleep.

" _Angry bull,"_ Flora replied, stifling a snicker. "That's what your belly will sound like after a day of no food."

The king looked perplexed. Having his wife and daughter cuddled up in his arms had lulled him into warm domesticity and he had briefly forgotten the significance of the day. Then realisation passed across his face in a physical jolt, and he tightened his grip around Flora's shoulders.

"Ah, I forgot for a moment - how are you feeling, my sweet wife?"

Flora thought for a moment before responding, listening to the quiet suckle of the baby at her breast.

"Alright, I think," she replied, aware that her voice was smaller and softer than usual. "I'm glad that the Chantry service isn't until this afternoon."

Alistair twisted his head to plant a kiss on her ear, his hand seeking out hers in the usual ritual. Flora smiled reflexively as their fingers wound together, the fish-rope bonded further by the bands of gold.

"I wish we could stay in bed all morning," he murmured in her ear, watching Theodora's small fingers whisper over her mother's throat. "I have no motivation whatsoever to get up, especially if there's no breakfast."

Flora leaned her head back against his brawny shoulder, lulled into the odd languor that accompanied nursing.

"I don't think there's anything we have to do," she replied, casting her mind back to when Eamon had explained the day's arrangements. "Not until the afternoon. But I want to see Fergus and Finian. We ought all be together."

Leliana, already clad in exquisitely draped Orlesian mourning garb, arrived shortly afterwards to assist with the queen's dressing. New clothing had been cut for the occasion: a tunic for Alistair and a gown for Flora in identical inky navy. The blue was akin to the rich Cousland cobalt, but cast in darker hue to reflect the grave nature of the occasion. Flora, despite eyeing the dress with some misgivings, allowed herself to be laced into it without protest.

An even more dubious stare fell on the costly blankets for the twins, which had been dyed a similar shade of dark blue. Each blanket was woven from pure mohair and was worth a small fortune. Flora had a gloomy feeling that they would not survive the morning intact. She could only just see the pile of luxuriant fabric in the corner of her eye; she had been forbidden from moving her head while Leliana wove the last of the milky dawn lotus blooms into a loose fishtail braid.

"You're not allowed to puke on this blanket, Taron," Alistair intoned, bouncing his son gently in his arms. "It's probably worth more than a small village. What kind of wool is it again, Lel?"

"Antivan goat mohair," murmured Leliana through several pins gripped in her teeth. "Keep your head _still,_ Florence, I'm going to end up jabbing you in the skull again!"

"My head looks like a garden," the queen observed, eyeing her flower-woven braid in the mirror. "Bees will _love_ me."

"It does _not,_ it looks exquisite," retorted the bard, wrapping a thin wire around the end of the plump fishtail to keep a final dawn lotus in place. "There: _tu es la plus belle fille que j'ai jamais vue."_

"What if I get stung?"

"You look beautiful, my darling," chimes in Alistair, bouncing Taron a fraction too vigorously as he gazed, distracted, at his wife. "Oh, shit- "

Taron had just ejected the contents of his stomach over himself and the mohair blanket. The baby looked surprised for a moment, then yawned and settled back down into thoughtful contemplation.

"The water in the basin is still warm," Flora said helpfully, as a contrite Alistair discarded the blanket and headed over to fetch a washcloth. "At least the blankets aren't white!"

"I _knew_ that was going to happen," Leliana muttered darkly to herself, crushing the stem of one unfortunate lotus between finger and thumb.

By unspoken agreement, the Couslands and their companions gathered in the upper hall, clustering around a long table before the hearth. Fergus and Finian were also clad in the ink-navy hue; the contrast of the fabric against their russet hair was striking.

At first, nobody seemed to know what to do. Out of those present, only Teagan had attended Ferelden's last day of mourning; commemorating the loss of Maric at sea. The usual morning activities – administration, training in the yard, visiting the teyrnir – were not appropriate for _an official day of mourning,_ as Leliana had reminded them.

Wynne, who had quietly decided that knitting _was_ a permissible activity, sat at the end of the bench with a pile of wool before her. After shooting the Antivan mohair blankets a derisive glower, she turned her attention to the _far_ more robust baby garments rapidly taking shape at the end of her needles. Nearby Zevran, Teagan and Finian were playing a lacklustre game of Wicked Grace. The elf had won eighteen silver coins from each distracted opponent, before being struck by a rare bout of sympathy. He deliberately lost the next few rounds, ensuring that most of Finian's coin was returned to him.

Alistair, as promised, had stuck to his wife like a limpet to a rock. They sat side-by-side on the bench with their ankles woven together beneath the table; she cradled the sleeping twins while he curled an arm about her shoulders. Flora was grateful for the constant anchor of his fingers on her upper arm, strong and reassuring. Cod and Lobster lay at her feet, their ears pricking at every set of footsteps that echoed beyond the entrance.

Most of the queen's attention, however, was on Fergus, who sat opposite with an untouched tankard before him. The teyrn's mood was not as despairing as it had been the previous night, but the man still sat bowed with sadness. Lines of premature age had etched themselves across his brow and into the corners of his eyes; he seemed far older than his three decades.

Leliana had already contemplated her various options – she did not feel as though the company would appreciate a prayer session, considering the hours they were to spend in the crypt later that day. Nor did she feel that a song was appropriate in the current circumstances.

Instead, the bard made a judgement call that few would be brave enough to make; taking a deep breath and uttering a silent prayer to the Maker.

"Fergus," she murmured, pleased at the light evenness of her voice. "Florence has begun to collect tales for the twins to listen to when they get a little older."

Flora looked startled for the briefest of moments – she had not even _thought_ about this – but loyalty to Leliana prompted a solemn nod shortly afterwards.

"Yes," she agreed, earnestly. "I mean, I won't be able to _read_ them nursery stories from a book. I need to learn as many as possible."

Leliana nodded, darting her friend a swift, grateful glance.

"I thought it would be a nice idea if you and Finian could share a family story. Something personal that can be told to this _new_ generation."

The bard, skilful as ever, had phrased her request in a way that connected past with future; a subtle encouragement to look forward. Fergus' eyes went reflexively to the twins, nestled contentedly in their mother's arms. Finian too was looking at his little niece and nephew; the young arl perking up at the chance of some reprieve from the chamber's oppressive glumness. The game of Wicked Game paused, cards and coin motionless.

"We have a _lot_ of ancestral stories," Fergus said softly, lifting the tankard of ale to his lips. "When you're the third-oldest family in Ferelden, the archives tend to get filled rather quickly. What would you like to hear about, Floss?"

"Our father," Flora replied, her curiosity getting the better of her. "A story from when he was young."

Fergus thought for a moment, running a thumb around the rim of his tankard. After a few seconds of contemplation, his blue-grey eyes lit like elven lanterns, a half-smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

"You know a little about the Orlo-Fereldan war, don't you, Floss? When the Orlesians used to occupy Ferelden?"

When Flora nodded, the young teyrn continued; recanting the memory with a smile as would a child dusting off some favoured, long-lost toy.

"Our father was part of the rebellion – naturally, as you'd expect a Cousland to be. After a defeat in the north, he and Leonas Bryland needed to travel south to meet up with Maric's forces. Unfortunately, they also needed to pass through the Crossroads in the Hinterlands – where a large contingent of _chevaliers_ were posted. He and Leonas hid in the hills for several days, but there seemed to be no way past the Orlesian guard."

As though on cue, the twins had woken; peering up blearily with still-forming vision as their uncle's low voice rumbled overhead. Teagan was smiling – he had heard this story before; it was a rather _infamous_ tale that Bryce had revived frequently during ale-fuelled festivities.

"So one day, our father had an idea," Fergus continued, doing his best to keep a straight face. "He and Leonas stole laundry from nearby cottages, shaved off their beards, and dressed themselves up as a pair of farmers' wives. With baskets in hand, they set off through the town as though they were heading to market."

Flora's mouth formed a round _O_ of surprise as Alistair's eyebrows shot into his gilded hairline. Zevran, who approved of subterfuge in all its forms, cackled.

"They dressed up like _ladies?!"_ the queen breathed, unable to imagine the gruff and stubbled Leonas in a gown and bonnet. "Ooh, I wish I could have seen that!"

"Did the disguise work?" demanded the astonished king. "Maker's Breath, I'll never be able to look at the general again without thinking of him in a petticoat."

"It worked perfectly," Fergus replied, the half-smile now turned to a full grin. "Until they ran into a sharp-eyed scout to the south of the town. Fortunately, they had smuggled swords inside their skirts, and were able to make quick work of him."

Finian snickered, drumming his elegant fingers against the table as he leaned back.

"Remember when I dressed up as _Bryanna Cousland_ for Satinalia once? Our father was _not_ amused!"

"Maric loved it, though," replied Fergus, eyes dancing with long-buried humour. "He insisted on a full re-enactment."

"And I had one of the _Mabari_ playing the role of Leonas! I thought he was going to hurl his ale over us both."

Open-mouthed, Flora looked back and forth between her brothers as they traded anecdotes. It did not matter that these events took place long after her departure from the castle; she was fascinated by these glimpses into the family life that had eluded her, and relieved that the gloomy atmosphere had been somewhat alleviated.

 _Perhaps it's not what the Chantry would approve of, but I think it's better this way._

"Did you _hear_ those escapades that your grandfather got up to?" Zevran demanded of Taron, reaching out to stroke the sole of the baby's chubby foot with a tan finger. The tattoos on his knuckles were now so faded that they were little more than smudges.

"And," the elf continued, gleefully. "Such subterfuge runs in the family. Remember, _carina- "_

" _Madame du Poisson,"_ Flora finished, beaming back at her companion as Leliana flinched at the mangled Orlesian. "I remember!"

The queen had already made the connection between her own experience and that of her father.

 _I dressed up as an Orlesian courtesan to sneak into Denerim to avoid the attention of Howe._

 _My father dressed up as a farmer's wife to avoid the attention of the Orlesians._

She wove the coincidence into the braid of slender threads that connected her to her parents; each one strengthening what had once been severed.

 _My mother loved the Waking Sea and could sail it better than any man._

 _My colouring belongs to my father: the Cousland russet hair and rain-grey eyes._

 _My mother had black hair, just like Ted._

 _My father loved smoked salmon._

 _And… he once put on a disguise to escape his enemy's attention, just like me._

 _I have some things in common with them, after all._

Theodora let out a curious peep, staring up at her mother in vague confusion. Flora smiled back down at the baby in an effort to counteract her face's aloof haughtiness, before lifting her pale eyes to Finian with a question lodged in the grey irises.

Finian grinned back at her, the old insouciance flaring within his sole remaining eye.

"And who would the twins like to hear about next, duck?"

Flora obligingly lowered her head in a pretence of listening to the infants in her arms.

"Teddy wants to hear about her grandmother now," she said after a moment, eyeing the baby's crown of jet-black hair.

Finian downed his tankard of ale in several long gulps. The moment that he lowered it to the table, Zevran hastened to refill it; smiling encouragingly at his perennial lover.

"She sounds like a most _remarkable_ woman, _amor_. Is it true that there are songs written about her? It is my goal to have a song written about _me_ one day. Naturally, one that does not refer to me by _name_."

"Four," Finian replied, with an easy grin. "The last I checked. Including one of the most gruesome sea shanties I've ever heard, about the burning of an Orlesian warship. _The waters stained crimson with blood,_ that sort of thing. You'd probably like it, Flossie. Sounds like the sort of grim dirge they'd sing in Herring."

Flora's smile was tinged with sadness; for both she and Herring had changed during her long absence and never again would things be as they once had been.

"Tell me a story about our mother," she requested, feeling Alistair's thumb rub in comforting circles against her shoulder-blade.

"So then," began Finian, leaning back on the bench with the ease of one used to entertaining. "I'll ask you and your handsome husband a question first of all: what was your _proudest_ accomplishment during your fifteenth year?"

"I was at the monastery," said Alistair after a moment, wondering at how he could now look back upon those years without resentment. "When I was fifteen… well. I was promoted to the senior training class a year early. Though I think it was more because I was a foot taller than the other juniors."

"My proudest moment at fifteen was winning the _Tidiest Bunkbed_ award," added Flora, solemnly. "The only prize I ever won at the Circle. _Because I had no possessions to leave untidy."_

This last part was whispered to Alistair, who grinned and pressed a lingering kiss to her ear.

Having heard these two mundane achievements, Finian smiled with catlike slyness; looking distinctly piratical.

"Well," he said, deliberately slow. "When our _mother_ was a lass of fifteen, she sunk her first Orlesian warship."

Leliana, naturally aware of Eleanor Mac Tir's exploits, giggled at the expressions on both Flora and Alistair's faces.

" _Una dama peligrosa,"_ murmured Zevran admiringly, continuing to stroke the underside of Taron's plump foot with a finger. "Wasn't her father known as the _Sea Giant?"_

At the ensuing hugeness of Flora's eyes, Leliana hastened to clarify: "Just a nickname, _ma fleur._ He was not actually a sea giant. Merely exceptionally skilled at sailing."

"All of the Mac Eanraig children were exceptional sailors," murmured Finian, with the experienced air of one who had been wined and dined many times on these family anecdotes. "But Eleanor was the best of all. She grew up on the deck of a warship, and it was rumoured that she never even set foot on Ferelden soil until she was ten years old. But this was probably for the best, and do you know _why_ , nephew Taron?"

Playing along, the obliging Alistair pretended to 'listen' to his son, nodding solemnly before raising his head.

"Taron says that Ferelden's soil was not truly _Fereldan_ at that time. That it was occupied by the Orlesians."

"You are well versed in our nation's history, duckling," Finian said approvingly to his fifteen day old nephew, who yawned. "Indeed: the fulsome enemy – sorry, Leliana – had made a claim on Ferelden. Yet they were never able to occupy the _waves,_ and so the Mac Eanraigs chose to make the Waking Sea their battleground."

"The Waking Sea is always an ally to Ferelden," piped up its most dedicated daughter, gravely. "I know it goes into Orlais too but its _loyalties_ lie with us. That's why Orlesian ships always get into more trouble in the straits than Fereldan ships!"

She spoke with an assurance that came from a decade of experience; Herring's location on the coastline had provided ample opportunities for observation.

"Nobody rode the waves more skilfully than our mother," Finian continued, archly. "They parted before her like a knife through creamed cheese. The wind seemed to obey her every command. She was the youngest of Fearcher's children, but by far the most gifted behind the wheel. The _Mabari's Tooth –_ that was her first ship – took down the flagship of an Orlesian _comte_ by driving it into a spur of rock."

Both of the twins had now fallen asleep but Flora was listening, enthralled, to the exploits of her mother. She had offloaded Theodora to Wynne and Taron to Teagan; and was leaning forward with her elbows on the table.

Finian, who had once adored recanting this story to scandalised Val Royeaux audiences, found that he much preferred telling it to his fascinated long-lost sister.

" _Then,"_ he continued, warming to the subject. "Our mother saw the _comte_ clinging to the wreckage. She had him brought up to the deck – he was only perhaps a few years older than her – and forced him to apologise on behalf of his nation for the wrongs done to Ferelden. He was then ransomed back to his family for ten thousand gold coins, which Eleanor received personally – and used to furnish two more brand new warships for herself."

"Ooh," breathed Flora, at once impressed and slightly intimidated by this ferocious figure. "That's _amazing._ Is that why the stairwell of Cousland Tower is carved like a ship's mast?"

Finian nodded, reaching for a nearby vessel and refilling his ale, satisfied with another well-told rendition of a familiar story.

"Mm. She was an impressive woman."

The young arl took a gulp, then stretched out a hand in an opposite direction; brushing a thumb over Theodora's wisps of ink-black hair. There followed a silence for several minutes, during which more than one glance was directed to the portrait of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland above the hearth. Flora looked from Fergus to Finian, her pale eyes moving carefully over their contemplative expressions. She knew that it might just be her imagination, but each of her brothers seemed a little less despondent than they had been beforehand.

"I have a family story too," the queen said after a moment, the words emerging soft and shaped by her distinctive northern cadence. "To share."

This successfully drew the attention of the company; even Taron opened an eye and smacked his lips. Flora knew that most gathered about her would be somewhat confused, since by her own admission, she remembered very little of her babyhood in Highever. What tangible memory remained had already been revealed by Wynne at South Reach; leaving little other than scraps of disjointed faces and muffled voices.

 _They probably think I mean Herring. I don't mean Herring._

"You know that I didn't learn much in the classroom when I was in the Circle," she began, hearing Wynne's rueful snort. "Much – well, _anything_ , really. Most of what I learnt to do, I learnt when I was asleep – my spirits taught me how to shield and how to heal."

Everyone was listening especially attentively now, because it was a rarity for Flora to talk about her allies in the Fade. Those of magical persuasion had attempted on several occasions to enquire more deeply into the identity of her spirits – First Enchanter Irving had even written a pleading letter – but each time, Flora had gone very quiet and given little more than vagaries in response. Since it was clearly a sore subject and nobody wanted to incur the wrath of Alistair, few now dared to bring it up.

However, it had recently occurred to Flora that if she did not share memories of her spirits; there was a risk that their legacy would shrivel into a dusty relic of the past. She still found it difficult to accept that they were _truly_ gone, and defiantly clung to her habit of inner conversation, despite the fact that dialogue had become monologue.

"One night – it was just after I came to the Circle – my Valour spirit said that we were going to practice shielding against something stronger," the queen continued, quietly. Although she did not say the words _Sarim Cousland,_ they all knew the identity of her _silver knight_. "We'd been practising against Wrath demons and it wanted to test me against Pride. But – but I'd accidentally eaten two entire wheels of cheese before bedtime."

" _Accidentally,"_ repeated Wynne, her nostrils flaring. "I suspect this involved an illicit trip down to the kitchens? They don't serve _wheels of cheese_ at dinner."

"Shame," offered Alistair, coughing to disguise his rumbling stomach.

Flora managed to look simultaneously guilty and gleeful, her eyes darting from side to side. The senior enchanter let out a little huff, tucking the blanket more tightly around Theodora.

"That curly headed Templar let you get away with _all sorts_ of mischief _,"_ she said, without rancour. "That's the last time we post the juniors on the apprentice floor."

"So, I'd eaten two wheels of cheese," continued Flora, solemnly. "And I had _such_ bad indigestion, I kept waking up with stomach cramp. So, one minute I was shielding against the Pride demon in the Fade, and then I would wake up…. and then when I'd fall back asleep my Valour spirit would be holding up the shield and they'd growl at me to take over. I would… but then I'd wake up again with gut ache."

Her voice had taken on a distant quality as she recalled this memory from a half-decade prior. All listened intently, but Fergus and Finian listened closest of all; for Flora's Valour spirit had been their own several-times-great grandfather.

"Eventually, my spirit got so annoyed that it killed the Pride demon and yelled _Your gluttony BORES me!_ Then it made me spend a whole week dreaming that I was a piglet."

Flora beamed as Finian let out a startled chuckle, sharing an astonished glance with Fergus. Nestled in Teagan's arms, Taron let out a squeak and clamped a tiny fistful of the bann's tunic.

"Maker's Breath," said the equally astounded Fergus, fascinated with this insight into the temperament of the dynasty's most renowned ancestor. "It's incredible. Would you be willing – at some point – to talk to Seamus, our family archivist?"

Flora nodded, thinking _this is how to preserve their memory, not by keeping them in my mind, but by sharing them with my family, my friends._

"Mm," she agreed, leaning more closely into Alistair's arm. "I have a lot of stories. A lot of the things that my _Silver Knight_ said make more sense now that I know it was my great-great… _many times great_ – grandfather."

 _I should really have worked it out when it said "My bloodline does not breed cowards!" that one time._

 _Oh well. Finian is the smart one, not me._

Meanwhile Wynne was eyeing the queen, rocking Theodora in a gentle back-forth motion against her chest.

"Your shield could withstand the assault of a Pride demon at the age of _fifteen?"_ Then, when Flora gave a perfunctory nod, the mage let out a sigh. "For the love of Andraste, how were we so blind to you? I can't believe you spent your four years with us _washing the flagstones._ "

"Duncan spotted her straight away," Alistair said, his voice warming with the customary pride. "He could tell that she wasn't just _limited."_

"Your commander was from Rivain, where close relationships with the spirits are far more common," countered Wynne, coming to the instinctive defence of her fellow instructors. "There was no cause for Flora to display the range of her talents in the Circle. Though, of course, she could have just _told_ someone what she could do."

Flora let out a variation of the classic Herring grunt, pulling Alistair's arm more tightly around her shoulders and stroking his knuckles affectionately with her forefinger.

A servant came shortly with a tray of food for the queen: smoked salmon with a mash of potato and turnip, accompanied by a bowl of pear-halves in white wine. Flora, permitted to eat due to her position as a nursing mother, ate uncomfortably as everyone else stared covetously at the movement of fork from plate to mouth.

"Would that I had the ability to give succour to infants," Zevran murmured, wistfully. "I'd wager that you've never been more grateful for your breasts, _carina."_

The elf duly received a spectrum of expressions for this remark: ranging from outright glares to expressions of resigned despair.

"Can you _not_ talk about my sister's breasts when we're right _here?"_ grumbled Finian. "For the love of the Maker!"

"Hard to restrain myself, when they are _right there_ before me _,"_ replied Zevran, gesturing an elegant hand across the table. Flora had put down her fork and was attending to Taron's hungry squeak, cooing down at the baby as he suckled contentedly. _"Pomelos regordetes."_

"Alistair, will you not prevent this elf from _leering_ at your wife?" Finian demanded in response.

Yet, Alistair was too absorbed with the sight of his infant son; the little boy clinging determinedly to his mother as he fed. The king's tawny eyes were over-bright, the inner corners gleaming with sudden tender dampness.

"Good luck gaining his attention," Leliana murmured, the dulcet Orlesian tones made even richer by her approval. "He's in a different world."

* * *

OOC Author Note: It goes without saying that most of this stuff is headcanon, based on whatever loose fact I could gain from the DA Wikia, haha. For the sake of clarity:

Canon - Leonas and Bryce had to get from north to south Ferelden to meet up with Maric; Eleanor was known as the Sea Wolf and sunk her first Orlesian ship at fifteen.

Headcanon – The crossdressing subterfuge, the comte and the ransom.

You know how I work by now, I like to take a skeleton and put my own flesh on it, lol! I liked this chapter, it was nice to have the three Cousland siblings sharing their own stories of their relatives! I think this chapter has got a bit of everything, poignancy, humour, cute family moments and Zevran being the beloved pervert we know and love lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	209. The Cousland Crypt

Chapter 209: The Cousland Crypt

The memorial service was scheduled to take place at the third hour past midday, within the high-vaulted Cousland crypt that began on the eastern side of the castle. The ancient sanctum was cut into the cliff face, accessible only through a candlelit passage from the main body of the fortress. The crypt seemed more rabbit warren than church – it contained dozens of crumbling mausoleums and sepulchres, cut more deeply into the rock with each passing Age. As the Fereldan custom was to cremate the dead, these secreted crypts contained no _mortal_ remains. They held instead either a brass plaque or marble effigy indicating the soul to whom they were dedicated, along with a few personal possessions.

Since it was also custom to keep candles burning in memory of the dead, the floors of these cobwebbed sepulchres were covered in waxy residue, the product of centuries of slow melting. Due to its location within the sea cliff, the passage of the coastal wind through the crypts sounded like the hoarse exhalation of something ancient and subterranean. Oddly enough, this disturbance of air never succeeded in extinguishing the candles burning within the individual tombs.

Flora had never set foot inside this most macabre corner of Castle Cousland – or, if she _had_ wandered in there as an inquisitive child, had promptly suppressed the memory. Now, as she waited with her family at the rusting gate that led down to the crypts, she felt her heart throbbing an anxious pulse within her throat. The other nobles – and the rest of her companions – had been ushered in beforehand. Their destination was the small chapel at the heart of the crypts, where the memorial service would take place.

Flora was grateful for Alistair, standing tall and straight-backed at her side with a blanketed Taron in his arms. He was eyeing the rusted gate with some misgivings, tilting the sleepy baby gently back and forth. She was also grateful for the warm comfort of Theodora, curled placidly against her chest like a puppy. Cod and Lobster trotted at her heels, their tufted ears pricked and alert.

"Maker's Breath," muttered Alistair, as Fergus squinted into the shadows to look for their escort. "It looks like we're descending into the bloody Deep Roads. There aren't any _Darkspawn_ down there, I hope!"

"No Darkspawn," murmured Finian, shifting from foot to foot. He had been in the family crypt on several occasions; none of which had been particularly pleasant.

Flora was more worried about the possibility of manifesting apparitions _._ Even when she had possessed the capacity to shield herself, she had been terrified of ghosts; believing them more than capable of passing through her barrier. This was a theory that had never been tested, but the child of Herring had a strong superstitious streak – as did most fishermen. She could not stop herself from imagining various Cousland ancestors manifesting in faded and ghastly silhouette, watching in disapproval as this lost sheep daughter returned to the fold.

 _And what if the babies scream? Or cry during the memorial?_

 _Then I'll take them out. Fergus will understand; they're still so tiny and new to the world._

A sudden gust of wind blew through the tunnels; the entire crypt gave a hoarse and disconcertingly sentient groan. Alistair and Flora looked down at the sleeping infants, who had fortunately not been disturbed by the strange acoustics.

"Will they be warm enough?" he murmured, tucking in a fold of wool more tightly around Taron's cheek. "I don't want them to catch cold."

Flora nodded: the twins had their blankets and the body heat of their parents, they would be fine.

In the depths of the tunnel before them, a white-robed figure manifested with lantern in hand. Despite Flora's initial alarm, the apparition turned out to be the rotund and wholly corporal figure of Mother Daryl, senior priestess of the Highever Chantry. Mother Mallol, who had served as private chaplain for two generations of Couslands, had not survived Rendon Howe's bloody purge.

The sad-faced priestess did not speak as she came to a halt in the gateway. The light from the lantern in her hand threw itself in random array across the flagstones; all else was shadow surrounding her. She gave a single nod, then turned and began to make her way back down into the gloom.

Alistair glanced sideways to his wife's stoic face. He alone was able to see beyond the cool ambiguity of her features; detecting the hints of trepidation too subtle for others to detect. Shifting Taron to the crook of one elbow, he reached out to spread his palm across the small of Flora's back. She leaned back infinitesimally into the gesture, grateful for her husband's presence.

"Let's go," murmured Fergus, taking the first step into the passage that connected castle to crypt.

The passageway led deep into the cliff, curving at a gentle downwards angle. The rocky floor had been trodden smooth by countless soles over the years; rusting brackets held candles that leaked long trails of wax down the walls. From somewhere deep below, the muffled growl of the sea was faintly audible.

The priestess led the way, murmuring selected verses of the Chant to herself in sorrowful tones. The strange respiratory movement of air within the passage carried only fragments of her words to those further back; distorted by echo and the drum of footsteps.

" _Darkness comes… storm… shall endure… tear asunder."_

Flora followed in Finian's footsteps, his usual loping gait shortened to a shuffle. Both he and Alistair, at several inches over six foot in height, had to duck their heads on occasion to avoid the rusted remnants of a candelabra. Cod and Lobster, meanwhile, kept close to their mistress. They seemed wary but not afraid; intelligent enough to discern that Flora's apprehension was not based on any tangible threat.

There came a quiet peep from her arms; Theodora was awake, gazing soulfully up at her mother's chin. Flora smiled down at the little girl, hoping that the odd cadence of the air, the priestess's chant or the general _oppressiveness_ of the atmosphere would not frighten the newborn. But Theodora seemed content enough to nestle within her blanket, small fingers gripping the woollen fringe.

The passage widened as it reached the main complex of crypts, ending in a rough oval-shaped chamber with tunnels branching off like the spokes of a wheel. At the apex of the oval was a large recess, a hollow space carved into the bedrock. It contained two weeping candles and an antiquated shield bearing the Cousland laurel wreath. Despite the clear age of the shield, the metal gleamed bright and untarnished.

Taron gave a squeak, stretching a plump little arm above the blanket. Alistair reached down to tuck the arm back in, conscious of the subterranean chill. Immediately the baby flung it out again, waggling tiny fingers. Both parents felt a nervous sweat break out on their forehead; they had been hoping that the twins would sleep through the memorial.

Finian slowed his pace, aware that neither Flora nor Alistair had been within the crypt before. He inclined his head towards the hollow recess, pale eyes lingering on his sister.

"That's Sarim Cousland's mausoleum, Floss," he murmured, softly. "Thought you might be interested."

Even as he spoke, Flora recognised the distinctive etching on the shield's border. She gazed at it, feeling an odd, poignant mixture of sadness and curiosity. It was still hard for her to reconcile her _Silver Knight_ with this distant progenitor of the Cousland dynasty.

 _I know that shield. You had a blurred and intangible mirror of it in the Fade, although I think that version must have been far stronger, given what I saw it repel._

They followed the priestess down one of the wheel-spoke passageways, past a half-dozen more smaller sepulchres. Flora did not know whether to dart a quick glance into each – to get some _advance warning_ of any ghostly apparition – or if she would rather press on in determined ignorance. The queen decided on the latter, focusing her attention firmly on the back of Finian's rich indigo tunic.

The timbre of the priestess' low chant changed, her words snatched up and absorbed by a sudden expansion of air. They had reached the epicentre of the Cousland crypt; a chapel with such startlingly refined architecture that it could have been the pride of any above-ground city. A vaulted ceiling presided over a cavernous space, constructed from granite so polished that the walls reflected a sea of candlelight. The floor was set in a distinctive geometric pattern of basalt and limestone.

Resorting to academia to distract himself, Finian once again fell back to impart information to his grave-faced sister.

"This chapel was built in the Storm Age," he whispered, ducking his head to reach Flora's ear. "It took twelve years to finish the carving on the pillars. The architect was a Marcher man, and he designed a similar crypt for the Vaels of Starkhaven. Oh – Teddy is awake? Hello, sweetpea."

The black-haired baby peered up at her uncle, smacking her lips thoughtfully.

"They're _both_ awake," replied Flora, gloomily. She had already envisioned the acoustic repercussions of two newborns howling in such cavernous tunnels. "What if they scream during the service?"

"I've always said that your twins could wake the dead with their wails," replied Finian, evilly. "What a _perfect_ location to put that theory to the test!"

Flora fell into a traumatised silence; eyes bulging.

The core of Ferelden's nobility was already seated on wooden benches within the chapel; arls, banns and the occasional prominent knight all gathered to pay their respects to the murdered teyrn and teyrna. Flora could recognise many of them from the colours they wore – muted versions of their own livery – and from their presence at her wedding. She could see Leonas Bryland, tall and straight-backed, seated in prominent position near the front. Eamon and Teagan, physically disparate but made similar by their brick-red doublets, were on the same bench. Their companions were also present, save for Zevran. The elf hated formal memorials for the dead – he claimed to possess an irresistible desire to _giggle_ during them - and had instead promised to join them for the pyre.

This was the only formal occasion where the teyrn would precede the royal couple into a chamber. As Fergus set foot within the chapel, the occupants rose in dutiful unison. A cluster of be-robed Chantry officials hovered at the altar like white-winged bats; the flame of Andraste smouldering in a nearby brazier.

Flora had rather stupidly assumed that she and Alistair would be seated near the back, so that if one of the twins _did_ begin to bawl, she could make a quick retreat with it. Unfortunately, as they followed Fergus down the central aisle, it quickly became apparent that the very front bench – which had been left empty – was for them. The Mabari followed them in, nails clicking softly against the flagstones.

 _Be a good little lobster,_ Flora thought sternly, gazing down at Theodora's curious face as the baby blinked up at her. _These are your grandparents that we're honouring._

She darted a sideways glance at Alistair, whose face bore equal trepidation. The two shared a brief, unspoken conversation as they took their place before the bench.

 _We're right at the front!_

 _I know!_

 _What if they start screaming?_

 _I don't know!_

In an attempt to distract herself, Flora gazed up at the centrepiece before the altar. Much like a standard chapel, it was flanked by a brazier and several Chantry banners, the familiar symbol interspersed with the emblems of Cousland and Highever. There was also an unusual statue of Andraste; depicted not in her usual flowing robes, but in the fur-edged leathers of an Alamarri chieftain.

Flora gazed up at the basalt statue and decided that she liked _this_ version best of all the ones that she had seen: an Andraste who was neither garbed as a Chantry priestess nor as a sword-wielding warrior. The Lady looked neither sanctimonious, nor savage; she seemed instead solemn, and perhaps a little sad.

The Chantry Mother who had escorted them into the crypt proceeded to the altar and turned around, bringing her hands together in the gesture of worship. Those gathered before her repeated the gesture; save for the king and queen, who had their arms full. She then made a signal for them to be seated, and there was a shuffling of boots and clothing as they followed instruction.

" _Seven times seventy men of stone immense,"_ the priestess began, portentously. " _Rose up from the earth like sleepers waking at the dawn,_

 _Crossing the land with strides immeasurable. And in the hollows of their footprints_ _,_ _Paradise was stamped, indelible."_

Her words rang throughout the vaulted chapel, reverberating between the basalt pillars until they were swallowed by the damp air.

" _Stamped indelible,"_ repeated the congregation, dutifully.

Flora had no idea what the priestess was talking about. The Chantry at Herring doubled as a storage area for fishing nets; services were held only when the local lay-sister remembered that the village even _existed._ At the Circle, there had been a small chapel on the second floor, which nobody had felt welcome in save for the Templars. As a result, she was not accustomed to the rituals and responses that were standard to the service.

 _I wish Zevran was here,_ she thought to herself. _He wouldn't know when to stand up or sit down, either._

She did not know the words of the prayer of remembrance that the congregation murmured in ragged unison. Glancing out of the tail of her eye at Alistair, she saw him uttering the words without hesitation.

 _He did spend ten years in a monastery._

Candles were lit and placed reverently on the altar. The priestess then began a monologue that drew parallels between the treachery of Rendon Howe, and Andraste's betrayal by Maferath. This quickly turned into a fire-and-brimstone diatribe on the torments that Howe's soul was currently undergoing in the Fade.

" _His tongue pulled out by blistering tongs, his eyeballs gouged and molten lead poured into the sockets,"_ the priestess snarled, her Chantry hat quivering. _"The spirit of Justice wields the tools of righteous vengeance!"_

Flora looked down at Theodora, who yawned, utterly unbothered by the tirade echoing above her head. Alistair was patting Taron's back in response to a squeak for attention; the corners of her husband's mouth were pulled taut. Flora wondered whether he was grinding his teeth in instinctive reaction to Rendon Howe's name, or if he was trying not to laugh at the exaggerated invective.

" _That whoreson deserves everything he gets,"_ the king then muttered darkly in Flora's ear. _"Eternal torment isn't long enough for what he did to you."_

 _The former, then,_ Flora thought to herself, wide-eyed.

On the next bench, Leliana's eye was twitching. Fereldan Chantry services were more bloodthirsty than their refined Orlesian counterparts; created to entertain a Bannorn who had little patience for sitting in churches.

"The Maker's most gruesome tortures are reserved for those who deceive their lords and masters," finished the priestess, her flushed face almost the same shade as the scarlet trim on her robe. "And His highest regards for those who perish through unjust betrayal, as did His Lady."

She took a deep breath, then brought her hands together in prayer once again. The congregation followed, except for the king and queen.

"Aaah," grumbled Taron into the long silence that followed. Both parents froze, but the majority of those present were relieved at the easing of tension.

Leonas then rose to his feet and proceeded to the front of the church with an almost imperceptible limp; a souvenir from the final battle against the Darkspawn. He turned to face the chapel, clearing his throat decorously before speaking.

"I knew Bryce and Eleanor for almost forty years," he said; the low rumble of his voice carrying to the back of the vaulted chamber. "It pains me still that I must speak of them now only in the past tense. They were two of Ferelden's greatest scions, and the most loyal of its children."

Leonas then recounted, with military briskness, several of the pair's greatest contributions to the nation. This was a history lesson to Flora, who sat with her mouth open listening to the many feats of her parents. She had known about her father's part in Battle of White River but not his vital role in the defence of Redcliffe; likewise, she knew that her mother had been known as the _Sea Wolf_ for her command of the waves, but not that Eleanor had widely been considered the _better_ swordsman of the pair.

" _Your granny was good with a sword,"_ Flora whispered down to Theodora, who had begun to mouth hungrily at the front of her tunic. The queen was unsure if it was appropriate to partially unclothe herself within a Chantry; she was going to feed her baby regardless. After several futile tugs at the intricate lacing on the front of her gown, she ended up having to shrug her whole arm and shoulder out of the sleeve, inwardly cursing the elaborate garment.

 _I hate dresses, I hate dresses! I'm going to go back to wearing a bodice._

Theodora wasted no time in finding the nipple; her little cheeks flexing hungrily. The gloomy Flora hunched down in her seat, aware of the Chantry Mother's piercing disapproval. Alistair, feeling his wife slithering downwards beside him, looked sideways at her in puzzlement. Moments later, he felt the blistering scowl of the priestess; who did not approve of such _commoner practice_ within the chapel. The king glared at Mother Daryl with such Marician steeliness that the old woman quailed and darted her gaze away.

Leonas Bryland finished his dedication with a look of clear relief; the general was far more comfortable addressing the troops than making speeches. As he limped back to the bench, the priestess swept to the altar once more. She then announced that the service would be finished with the traditional hymn of remembrance.

 _The service is almost over,_ Flora thought to herself, wonderingly. _I would never say it out loud, but I felt closer to my parents' memory by listening to my brothers' stories about them._

The queen stayed seated as the rest of the congregation rose around her – Theodora was still hungrily suckling away, her little hand splayed across the breast. Flora _did_ know the words to this hymn, but was dissuaded from participating by Leliana catching her eye pointedly from across the chamber. The bard slowly shook her head from side to side, eyebrows raised to her hairline. Leliana remembered only too well the unfortunate nature of Flora's singing voice.

" _Though I am flesh, Your Light is ever present,  
And those I have called, they remember,  
And they shall endure.  
I shall sing with them the Chant, and all will know,  
We are Yours, and none shall stand before us."_

Scratching the ears of her Mabari, Flora mouthed the words instead; listening to the voices of her friends and family echo about the chamber. She could hear Leliana's crystalline voice, high and clear, soaring majestically above the gruff rumble of Leonas and Fergus, neither of whom were gifted singers. Teagan sang well, as did Alistair; the king's warm baritone was as clear and open as his handsome, honest features.

 _I hope you've inherited your father's singing ability and not mine,_ Flora mused, tucking the blanket more closely around Theodora as she fed. _What did Leliana say I sounded like when I sang?_

 _A pack of seagulls fighting over a slop-bucket._

 _I was so annoyed that I didn't speak to her for an entire half-day! Nothing that Rendon Howe – or Beraht for that matter – has called me, will ever compare to being called a SEAGULL._

Flora was so preoccupied with thinking on seagulls, and grinding her teeth, that she did not notice the chapel slowly starting to empty. The other members of the audience were filing out into the passageway, murmuring quietly to one another.

"Flo?"

Startled from her reverie, Flora looked up as Alistair dropped a gentle hand to her shoulder. The king smiled down at her, the candlelight picking out isolated strands of copper within his hair.

"You look deep in thought, my love," he observed, shifting the blinking Taron higher in his elbow. "What are you thinking about?"

"About how much I hate seagulls," Flora replied, solemn and utterly serious. "The _true_ Blight of Thedas."

Alistair bit back a laugh – he clearly thought that she was joking – and leaned down to press his lips against her forehead.

"When Teddy is done," he murmured, watching the baby yawn at Flora's breast. "We'll rejoin the others. They're just in the passage outside."

"I can feed and walk," she replied; the infant was still light enough to make this relatively easy. "Is the memorial not over?"

"Not quite," replied Alistair, with a grimace suggesting that he had just found this out himself. "Now you need to pay your respects in the teyrn's crypt."

"What? Argh!"

A short while later, Flora waited with great trepidation outside the newest-built sepulchre within the Cousland family crypts. Most of the audience had proceeded – with some relief – back up to the fresh air and waning light of afternoon. Only the Couslands, the king, the Chantry priestesses, Leonas Bryland and the Guerrins remained. Cod and Lobster settled themselves on the flagstones, their soulful eyes fixed on their mistress.

Fergus had vanished inside the crypt several minutes prior. Flora caught a brief glimpse of all-engulfing darkness and the pale, melancholic face of an effigy before the stone door was closed in his wake.

"How long do we stay in there?" Finian asked the priestess in a quiet undertone. "How many verses of the Chant are usually recited before the tomb?"

"You stay until the candle is extinguished," the Chantry Mother replied, softly. "Which depends on how long they choose to keep you. And the _number_ of verses is incidental – choose passages that hold _personal_ meaning for you."

The young arl nodded, nervous but determined to play his role. The dark leather eyepatch stood out in contrast against paler than usual skin; he lifted his chin to keep it steady.

Flora sighed to herself, adjusting her grip on her drowsy daughter. She did not know _any_ verses of the Chant, and was instead faced with the prospect of staring dumbly at the stone replicas of her parents. Around them the crypts exhaled in a long groan; the air passing through the tunnels like the vessels of a necrotic lung.

 _Shut in the dark, with only a candle._

 _Perfect conditions for a GHOST!_

Alistair, who had been watching his wife closely, shifted from one booted foot to another with increasing unhappiness. He had detected the anxiety that emanated in subtle waves from his former sister-warden. He also did not like the thought of Flora kneeling in a cold and isolated tomb, with only the effigies of her dead parents for company.

Since Fergus was unavailable, Alistair turned instead to the next most senior noble present, Eamon. Flora saw him open his mouth – obviously about to ask whether she could be excused from this particular custom – and stretched out her free hand, curling her fingers on his arm. His gaze fell on her, the green flecks in the hazel irises standing out bright with concern.

 _I can get you out of doing this, my darling, if you wish it._

 _I'll do it,_ she replied silently, squeezing the strong bulk of his forearm. _I want to do it._

Taron began to snuffle at the front of his father's tunic, mouth opening and closing in imperious demand. The king and queen swapped their bundles in a gesture that was now smooth and well-practised. Flora let the shoulder of her gown slide down once again, smiling reflexively at her son as he took his turn at the breast.

After several more minutes had passed, the stone door swung open. Fergus stood framed in the archway, weary-eyed but with a strange calmness settled across his hollowed features.

"It's done, then," he said softly, and it was not clear to whom – or about what – he was speaking.

Finian was the next Cousland child to pay their respects to the dead. After receiving the candle, he proceeded beneath the limestone archway with laudable composure, pointed chin raised. There was silence as the stone door swung slowly back into place, sealing the young arl in darkness.

The new teyrn took a deep breath, receiving a quiet pat on the arm from a sympathetic Eamon. Flora watched him closely in the half-light; feeling Cod's flank brush against her calf as the Mabari wove around her legs.

"There's nothing to be worried about, Flossie," Fergus said eventually, his voice soft and distant. "All you need to do is kneel before the statues and light the candle. Don't worry about saying any prayers, or reciting the Chant – none of that matters, really. Just say… whatever you would want to say to our parents, if they were there with you. When the candle goes out, then you can leave."

Despite the suggestion provoking a scowl from the Chantry Mother, Flora gazed across at her brother with gratitude in her eyes. Fergus smiled back, wistfully.

Alistair was not as perceptive as his wife when it came to reading the emotions of others, but the eldest Cousland's despondency was impossible to miss. The king cleared his throat, catching Fergus' eye.

"My… arms are getting a bit tired," he said, somewhat stiltedly. "Would you take Ted for a bit, Fergus?"

This was the greatest lie told in Castle Cousland since Rendon Howe's false conviviality: Alistair's brawny arms were capable of wielding a heavy shield for hours on end. Fergus half-smiled – more genuinely this time – at his brother-in-law's transparency, but reached out obligingly to take his fat-bellied little niece. Theodora gazed up thoughtfully at her uncle, one small fist waving. The teyrn tucked the blanket more tightly around her shoulder, conscious of the chill hanging in the air.

"This all must seem very strange to you, little one," Fergus murmured, letting his thumb nudge gently at the baby's fist. Theodora made a reflexive grab for it and missed, gripping her own tiny ear instead. Bryce Cousland's eldest son grinned, his face brightening as he took in the bemused expression on the princess' face.

Flora watched her brother with the baby, feeling another surge of gratitude towards her kind-hearted husband. She turned her head and pressed her face against his arm, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and sword-oil.

 _Thank you,_ the queen thought fervently into his sleeve, hoping he could sense the depth of her appreciation. _Family is the most important thing in the world to Fergus now; the boyish dreams of war and glory are tainted._

With Theodora in the charge of her uncle, Alistair was free to put his arm about his wife's shoulders. He ducked his chin and delivered three swift pecks to the top of Flora's head, the sound of his lips muffled by her hair.

Taron had just finished feeding when the stone door swung open to reveal Finian. Like his brother, the young arl was pale-faced but he did not have the accompanying veil of calm. His expression was grim and humourless; he made his way from the crypt with undue haste. Finian's candle had lasted about the same length of time as his elder brother's, before being extinguished by a breath of ephemeral air.

 _When the spirits are ready to say goodbye, they'll extinguish the candle._

While the priestess busied herself with removing a third candle from the elegant cedar case, Flora beckoned her brother over with a frantic flail of her fingers.

"Finian," she whispered, feeling her heart lurch nauseatingly within her ribs. "You're so pale. Did you… did you see a _ghost?"_

"No," replied Finian, a scowl embedding itself beneath the russet curls. "Look at the _state_ of my doeskin breeches. These were imported from Nevarra!"

He gestured down at his trousers, which were indeed smudged with the filmy dust that clung to subterranean surfaces.

"Lady Cousland?"

The priestess was now offering the candle to the queen, her eyebrows raised expectantly. Flora took a deep breath, sensing Alistair's concerned gaze boring between her shoulders. Cod and Lobster whimpered; turning imploring dark eyes up to her face.

The queen's mouth felt dry – ether from nervousness or the stale air in the crypt - and she ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them. With a final wistful glance at the twins, she accepted the candle and stepped forward into the all-engulfing blackness of her parents' tomb.

* * *

OOC Author Note: So lots of headcanon in here! I extended the little chapel in the game version of Castle Cousland into a whole underground crypt. The memorial service and pyre for the Couslands is symbolic only, since according to lore their bodies were burnt and thrown into a communal pit (so sad!)

I also headcanoned the candle ceremony within the tomb – the being shut in the dark, waiting for the spirits to blow out the candle and bid their farewell. I thought that Ferelden would have its own funeral customs, and decided to just make something up, haha.

Lol I have sympathy for the new parents stressing out about whether the babies would scream during the church service, haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	210. Inside The Sepulchre

Chapter 210: Inside The Sepulchre

As the queen stepped into the tomb, the stone door swung shut behind her. At once everything was muffled, as though an assassin's bag had been placed over her head. Flora came to an instinctive halt, lifting her hand before her. She was confused at the lack of illumination before remembering that she could no longer summon gilded light to her fingertips. Lowering her hand, she took several deep breaths to calm the panicked rhythm of her heart, waiting for her vision to become accustomed to the darkness.

 _You're supposed to keep one eye closed before stepping into a dark place,_ Flora remembered, suddenly. _Then you can see quicker. Zevran told me, once._

She wished that she had remembered that particular fact a little sooner. As the queen hovered, half-blind at the entrance, her other senses prickled in compensation. She could hear nothing save for her own shallow exhalations; the air had a strange, mouldering odour that clung to the back of her throat. The candle felt thick and weighty in her palm, her warm fingertips made small indentations in the wax. A waft of the Orlesian scent favoured by Finian, still lingering in his wake, proved oddly comforting.

Eventually, Flora found that she could make out the edges of things; the contour of the vaulted ceiling and the stern angle of an altar. The flagstones were fresh-laid and not yet settled into the earth. They shifted as she took a tentative step forwards, keeping her gaze angled down.

When Flora looked up, after several hesitant steps, she almost had a heart attack. Two pale figures loomed up at her through the gloom, their faces drawn and melancholy. It was the pair of stone effigies; carved from northern granite and bearing gilded bands upon their brows. The likeness to their deceased counterparts was remarkable, the craftsmanship exquisite. The old teyrn clasped a sword before him; his wife held a quiver of arrows.

Flora approached the figures with her heart thudding so loudly in her chest that she worried for the integrity of her ribs. The altar between the figures was decorated with the draped emblems of Cousland, Highever and Ferelden. The cloth was velvet and dyed in rich, expensive hues; Flora wondered how long the material would last before it began to rot.

She vaguely recognised the faces of the pale-eyed statues, though she did not know whether she knew them from childhood memory or from seeing their portrait in the upper hall. She could see the Cousland features she had inherited from her father: the high cheekbones, the wide-set eyes and the arrogant curl of the mouth. She thought perhaps that her nose was her mother's, apart from that, they had little of the physical in common.

Flora approached the foot of the altar, where she could see the waxen pillars of the two candles left by her brothers. Finian's had a thin wisp of smoke curling upwards from the extinguished wick; the air nearby had a faintly charred odour. As she knelt on the flagstones, tucking her navy skirts beneath her, the queen recalled the words of the priestess.

 _Light the candle. Say whatever you wish to say as farewell. Wait for the spirits to dismiss you. They will indicate that you can leave by extinguishing the candle._

Flora had a sinking feeling that her parents' spirits would not desire a lingering farewell with the daughter they had sent away. She looked about her for something to light the candle, and spotted a firesteel lying on the step nearby.

As one used to generating their own light, Flora was not very proficient with this spark-making tool. After several fumbling attempts – including one where she accidentally sent the firesteel ricocheting off her father's granite boot – she managed to light her own candle. Barely daring to breathe, Flora set it down beside those belonging to her brothers.

She took a deep breath, reassured by the flickering pool of amber cast out by the wick. It was a good quality candle – beeswax, not tallow – and had a faintly perfumed smell. One side was stamped with the Chantry sigil, the familiar sunburst embedded into the wax.

 _Now what?_

 _I need to… speak my parting words. The ones I want my parents to carry with them as they pass through the Veil._

Flora turned her face upwards, her gaze falling on the Cousland wreath emblazoned on her father's doublet.

 _Finian wore a similar tunic when he told me who my parents were, back at Redcliffe Castle all those months ago._

 _I remember how furious I was. How… betrayed I felt. I was as angry with my parents as I was with Loghain._

 _It hurt so badly, too. The truth took my Herringness away – or, diluted it in a way that couldn't be undone. I think part of the reason why I found going back to Herring so strange was that I knew I didn't really belong there._

Flora stared at her father's face, summoning the memory where she had been perched on Maric's knee as a child; the king and the teyrn discussing the advantages of a betrothal between herself and Cailan. She had no intact memory of her mother, her recollection of a stern, chiding female voice had apparently belonged to a nursemaid.

 _There's a lot I could say._

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the musty air of the tomb. Even new-built, the hollow had a strangely ancient feel about it; as though Bryce and Eleanor had already been woven into the ages-old Cousland tapestry.

 _Say what's in your heart, Flora. This is your chance._

"I forgive you," she said into the darkness, startled at the truth of the words. _"I forgive you."_

She bent at the waist, bowing her forehead until it pressed against the cold granite.

 _I forgive you._

As Flora rose upright, she felt the hairs begin to rise on the back of her neck. Goosebumps prickled the length of her forearms in response to a sudden drop in temperature; she was _sure_ that she had not been able to see her breath beforehand, but now it billowed before her in an ephemeral mist.

Moments later, the queen glimpsed a flicker in the tail of her eye; as though something had passed before the candle. At the same instant, she heard a voice giving a measured instruction from within her mind. This was no spirit's whisper, but Flora's own innate instinct.

 _Don't look behind you._

Flora knelt on the flagstones, caught between alarm and apprehension. She kept her gaze fixed on the candle, watching the flame grow and shrink. On occasion the flame would flicker as though caught in a draft, though the air was as breathless as a cadaver.

 _Don't look over your shoulder._

She felt something pass over her head, and then return to hover there; as though a palm was resting weightless atop her hair.

 _Don't move._

Flora stared at her father's granite boots, hardly daring to breathe. She lost track of how long she had been kneeling on the fresh-laid flagstones; the air coalescing before her with each exhalation. Her feet had gone numb beneath her rear, her palms felt unpleasantly clammy.

 _Goodbye,_ she thought suddenly, responding to a question that had not been asked.

The intangible touch on her hair lifted; the candle extinguished itself with a voiceless sigh. Flora blinked as though rudely awoken from a dream, the acrid smell of smoke prickling at the back of her throat. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, wondering at the dampness on her lashes, then clambered to her feet. Her legs felt like those of a newborn deer, wobbly and tentative; her skin itched as the blood returned to her extremities.

 _What just happened? I feel like I was asleep._

 _Did I… nap?_

As Flora made her way back over the new-placed flagstones to the entrance, the stone door swung open. Even the torchlight, dim and inconstant as it was, proved dazzling. She grimaced, putting a hand up to shield her eyes as she heard footsteps approach her.

"Floss?"

"Flossie- "

Flora blinked up into the anxious faces of her brother, slowly reclaiming the use of her sight. Fergus and Finian, their disparate features made identical with concern, crowded about her; reaching out to grip her arm, offering her a sip from a hip-flask. Cod and Lobster wove about her legs – they had been lying inches from the door, their noses pressed against the stone.

"Are you alright?" demanded Fergus, his brow creasing in three places with worry as a confused Flora turned down the offer of alcohol. "Maker's Breath."

"I'm fine," Flora replied, bemused by their anxiety. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She looked about the small torchlit chamber, there was no Alistair, Eamon or Teagan in sight. The Chantry Mother was seated on a seat that appeared to have been brought in from the adjacent chapel; her hat was nearly slipping from her forehead as she nodded off. Fergus and Finian glanced at one another before Finian spoke, his words echoing about the hollow walls of the passageway.

"You were in there for over an _hour,_ Floss."

Flora blinked at him in astonishment, her pale eyes widening in the gloom.

"Over an hour?" she repeated, stupidly. "It only felt like a few minutes. _Really?"_

Fergus nodded, his eyes searching her face closely.

"It makes sense that our parents might want to spend a little longer parting with you," he said eventually, a rueful smile curving the corner of his mouth. "After all, it…. it's been a while."

Flora reached down to pat each of her Mabari in turn, comforted by the soft velvet of their fur against her fingertips.

"Where's Alistair?" she asked, shivering as the tunnels exhaled another thoughtful breath. "Ooh, I miss my trousers. The draft is going right up this skirt."

"He took the twins into the chapel, where it's warmer," Finian replied, after a brief hesitation. "But – Flo- "

Flora narrowed her eyes at her brother, picking up on the warning note in his tone. _"But? But,_ what?"

"He got a little… _distressed_ while you were in the crypt," her slender brother continued, his sole eye focused earnestly on her. "At first, because you were in the tomb for so long – though we all tried to reassure him that no harm could come to you in there. He seemed to calm down for a bit – but then he got agitated again."

"It's the thought of his wife in a _tomb_ , I imagine. Not a cheery notion for anyone."

Leonas' dry voice filtered through the shadows and Flora jumped; she had not realised that he had been leaning against a roughly-hewn pillar in the corner.

 _Of course,_ she thought to herself, guiltily. _How many times have I put myself in danger over recent months?_

 _I've had more near-misses than cooked dinners._

Flora's heart lurched painfully in her chest at the thought of her beloved husband in distress. She turned towards the tunnel leading back to the Cousland chapel, with Finian's arch voice following in her wake.

"No _shenanigans_ in the family sanctum, please!"

The chapel was deserted, save for a sole bench in the back row. Flora caught sight of her husband immediately – golden-haired and olive-skinned, he stood out like a glowing brand against the dull backdrop of northern granite. He was hunched over miserably, the basket of twins resting beside his booted feet. She could not see his face, but as she watched, he brought up a hand to brush roughly at his eyes.

Horrified, Flora abandoned all decorum and scuttled towards the bench; straddling it with unladylike haste to better envelop her husband in her arms. He let out a half-groan of relief, returning the embrace with almost painful pressure.

"Alistair," she whispered, drawing his head down to her breast and nuzzling against his neck. "Alistair, I'm here. I'm here. I'm fine, there's nothing wrong."

Flora half-gasped, the air forced from her lungs as he gripped her back with even greater urgency; pressing his face against the warm skin of her collarbone.

"Shh, shh, shh," she whispered into his hair, feeling his breath ragged against her neck. "Husband. I'm _here."_

The queen kissed her husband's ear, cupping the side of his face in her palm.

 _He's hardened over the past year, but he's still sensitive when it comes to me, to our family,_ she thought to herself, loving him all the more for it. _My sweet and caring husband._

"Flo," Alistair said with some difficulty, the words painful as they emerged from his throat. "Maker's Breath. That… that was like my worst nightmare come to life. I couldn't stop thinking about it the whole time you were in there."

She pressed her lips gently to the freckles on his neck, knowing that he would continue without prompting.

"You – _you_ in a Cousland tomb, me left alone with the twins. It was as though what I've dreaded _most_ over the past few months had come to pass."

Flora knew only too well what terrible scenario he had envisioned.

 _Me, dead in childbirth. Him left with the twins and the memory of his wife, who had survived the Archdemon only to be betrayed by her own body._

It had skulked on the edges of Alistair's dreams, caused him to wake up shouting and distraught. She had lost count of the times she had held him, sweating and shaking; reassuring him that of _course_ she was not going to die in labour, that she was a _Herring girl,_ tough as a pair of Pel's salt-encrusted leather boots.

 _It must have all come back to him, waiting outside the Cousland tomb._

Flora clambered into his lap, not caring whether or not this was appropriate behaviour for a Chantry. She clung to him like a barnacle stuck to a rock, feeling him draw her thighs around his waist and drop his face against her shoulder. As he let out another unsteady exhalation, she ran a palm up and down the length of his spine in even, rhythmic strokes, like the pull of an oar through water.

"Husband," she whispered into his ear, crossing her ankles at the base of his spine. "I'm here. Feel me, I'm alive. Put your hands on me."

Alistair pressed his perspiring forehead to her breast, feeling the steady throb of her heart against his temples. His fingers stretched out and were anchored in hers; their palms clamping together. His other hand dropped to her thigh, pushing up the velvet of her skirt to feel the warmth of her flesh. The king closed his eyes, calming down in slow increments within his wife's familiar embrace.

When Alistair finally raised his head, Flora smiled hopefully at him; her pale eyes wide and earnest. He leaned in to claim her mouth with his and she readily yielded, parting her lips without hesitation.

"Sorry," he said, slightly breathless but with clearer voice once they had parted. "I know… I know it's silly. Just my overactive imagination."

"It's not silly at all," she whispered, passing her palm over the top of his head to flatten his rumpled hair. "If it were _you_ being shut in a tomb, I would be inconsolable. I'd howl the entire time."

"You wouldn't," he replied, half-smiling and half-unsteady. "You'd be all… _northern_ about it. Stoic."

"I would _not,"_ she said indignantly, eyeballing him beadily. "I'm not stoic at all when it comes to you. I'd be _hysterical."_

 _I would. I remember in the Deep Roads, when Alistair was crushed against the Broodmother and broke three ribs. I couldn't stop crying for an hour, even after I'd healed him. Sten was about to murder me, he was so enraged._

They stayed entwined in each other's arms for several more minutes, taking comfort in the familiarity of the embrace, hands still clasped tight.

"Were the twins alright?" she whispered eventually, tilting her head as he combed his free fingers through her hair. "I didn't hear them crying."

"They've been _so_ good," he replied, both new parents tilting their heads to look at the sleeping infants. Taron and Theodora lay peacefully curled together, their breathing in tandem; his plump fist clutching the blanket and hers flung across his chest.

Flora beamed, inordinately proud of the entirely clueless newborns.

"They'll probably scream all night," she whispered and he grinned, pressing his lips to her ear.

"You may be right there, my darling."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Flo's a compassionate girl at heart and she doesn't have it in her to stay bitter and resentful of her parents! Anyway, I made this ritual up - the candle thing - I think I mentioned that last chapter! And poor Alistair - he's already been slightly traumatised over his wife's hazardous behaviour for the past year! Now he has to wait outside a tomb with Flora inside and Cousland written on the front, it's p much tipped him over the edge lol.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	211. The Cousland Pyre

Chapter 211: The Cousland Pyre

Evening descended uncommonly quick upon Highever that evening; perhaps due to the encroaching autumn, but perhaps due to the solemnness of the occasion. The pyre had been built up on the headland overlooking Hagar's Bay, a spur of rock that jutted out into the Waking Sea like a skeletal finger. It was only a half-candle's ride from Castle Cousland, accessible down a gently sloping road lined with fir trees. The pyre itself was symbolic, since the bodies of the teyrn and teyrna had been burnt without ceremony in a communal pit a year prior.

Although the twins had been born on a gravelled beach beneath an autumnal drizzle, Flora found herself irrationally apprehensive about taking them beyond the squad and solid walls of the fortress. She had no _reason_ to be nervous – she was surrounded by heavily-armed friends and family – but there was something nerve-racking about taking their fifteen-day-old twins out into the world.

Alistair, recognising her nervousness, had helped her to wind the twins up into a long width of cloth; binding them up tight against her breast. Then, aware of the evening chill, he had retrieved his own cloak, woven from pure Fereldan lambswool and wrapped up his wife and children tightly. He lifted them up onto the saddle of his horse first – the same placid, unflappable mare that had once outpaced an Archdemon – and then clambered up behind them.

The nobility of Ferelden rode out of the castle in a long procession, a veritable spectrum of colour: Theirin crimson, Cousland cobalt, Guerrin sienna and Bryland green. Chantry priestesses accompanied them, sporting banners bearing the faith's emblem. Accompanying them were Flora's companions, who – despite never meeting her parents - had come to pay their respects regardless. They rode beneath the main portcullis, down the great stone ramp and between the pair of squat guard towers. Two dozen guardsmen, drawn from the elite of the town garrison and the Royal Army, provided a torchlit escort.

Several hundred townspeople had gathered on the road, clad in cloaks and huddled together against the evening chill. Although they were ostensibly standing there as a show of respect for the old teyrn and his wife, they also desired to catch a glimpse of the royal infants. Twins were rare enough in their own right, and these newborns already had a prodigious reputation.

The road to the headland was wide and well-lit, with braziers placed at regular intervals. Overhead, the light was rapidly fading from the sky, the stars emerging languidly like lanterns lit by a lazy lamp-boy. The coastline was almost as raggedly cut as its western counterpart, and the road skirted delicately over the corrugated terrain of the clifftop. As the road sloped down towards the spur of rock that jutted into the Waking Sea, Alistair leaned forward in the saddle and moved the cloak away from Flora's ear.

"How is my sweet wife?" he murmured, relieved to once again hold his whole family within his arms. "Are you all warm enough?"

Flora peered down at the twins, contentedly bound against her breast, their faces relaxed in the unique peacefulness of a sleeping baby. Although she had been nervous to venture beyond the walls of Castle Cousland, the sight of the Waking Sea had calmed her equal to any spoken reassurance. The dark, turbulent surface of the water was never still enough to mirror the emergent night sky; instead, it reflected fragments of moonlight and the occasional scattered star.

"I'm alright," she whispered, glancing down at the brooding vastness of the Waking Sea. "And we're all warm."

He nodded, resting his chin on the top of her head as she leaned back against his chest.

They followed the trail of braziers down to the spur of the rock, which reminded her a little of a flatter, less provocative Hag's Teeth reef. The pyre had been built up taller than a man's head, each wooden log cut in perfect uniformity for this most ceremonial of cremations. Instead of the teyrn and teyrna's bodies, their ceremonial gold coronets were placed amidst the kindling. These had been smuggled away by a loyal servant during the chaos of Howe's betrayal; hidden within a water-pipe until Fergus Cousland had returned to reclaim the family seat.

The horses were held back at the road by retainers, and the party continued the last quarter-mile on foot. It was a strange and dreamlike journey, venturing out onto the spur of rock as night fell around them and Highever's torches blazed away on the cliff overhead. The Waking Sea grumbled away at the foot of the headland, but – perhaps out of respect for the murdered teyrna, who had once sailed its seas like no other – made no attempt to thrash water over its visitors.

Soon, the group were gathered in a ragged semi-circle before the pyre; stood close together to shield against the coastal wind. Fergus and Finian were positioned at the apex of the crowd whereas Flora stood a little further back, not wanting the smoke to blow into the faces of the twins.

There was no formal service to preface the igniting of the pyre; the Chantry Mother murmured a lone prayer and made the gesture of faith. Fergus was then handed the torch to light the kindling. He took a deep breath and stepped forwards, touching the flame to the base of the pyre. Oil had been added to the wood to facilitate a rapid burn; as the new teyrn stepped back, the heart of the pyre began to pulse with a crimson glow. The crackling of wood and soft hiss of burning oil soon mingled with the grumble of the waves. Smoke rose towards the star-encrusted heavens as the golden crowns of Bryce and Eleanor were engulfed in the flame.

Flora was grateful for Alistair's steadying arm around her waist, which provided support in more ways than one. The twins, despite being only a fortnight old, were large babies; they were not easy to carry at the same time. A fine rain had begun to fall, and she drew the cloak over their heads to shield them from the misting drizzle.

The rain did not dampen the pyre, which blazed proudly at the end of the headland; visible along the coast for miles. A ship was sailing eastwards in the straits, silhouetted against the moonlit water. Flora wondered if the sailors had noticed the fire on the shore; realising that if they had, they probably assumed that it indicated some submerged hazard. She remembered how she had once served as a living warning to ships navigating past the Hag's Teeth; tied to the iron brazier at the end of the reef while her own preternatural light shone from her skin.

 _It seems like a lifetime ago now, but it was only five years. So much has happened between then and now._

Flora turned her gaze to her brothers, who stood straight-backed and carefully composed before her. Impulsively, she stepped forward and anchored their hands in hers; the three Cousland siblings roped together before their parents' pyre. The golden coronets had long since vanished, either melted away or fallen into the smouldering depths.

 _We'll be alright,_ Flora thought to herself, determinedly. _I know we will._

After the heart of the pyre had been consumed, the company turned away from the blackened logs and headed back towards the beach. The drizzle had waned – the weather fluctuated by the hour above this most temperamental of seas. Cousland retainers clad in navy brought round trays of spiced ale; the nobles and their companions gathered together on the coarse-grained sand. The queen sat on a nearby rock and fed both twins, who had woken up hungry.

Once they had finished, Flora promptly offloaded them both to their father. Her back was sore from bearing their plump little bodies for almost two hours. Now temporarily freed – she wanted to obey the urge that had struck her the moment she had noticed that the tide was in.

"Sweetheart," said Alistair, voice rising several pitches in alarm as he noticed his wife pulling off her boots. "Why are you taking your clothes off?"

Fifteen yards away, Zevran's head whipped around with an expression of delight.

" _Que?"_

"I'm not taking my _clothes_ off," said Flora indignantly. "I'm taking my _boots_ off."

" _Why,_ my love?" Alistair asked, somewhat plaintively. The king could _do_ nothing in response, since both arms were currently full.

"I'm going for a swim. A _paddle,"_ she amended hastily, seeing his eyes widen in dismay. "I just want to feel the water on my feet."

The corners of the king's mouth turned downwards but he could think of no reasonable excuse why she should not do it.

"Don't go out too far," he said at last, eyeballing the choppy line of surf at the far end of the bay.

Flora flashed him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, then turned her attention to the water's edge. The tide had crept almost up to the line of seaweed, white-foamed tongues licking higher with each incoming wave. The moonlit was dappled across the surface of the water; the silvered pattern shifting with each sigh of the waves. The ridges of sand pressed into the soles of Flora's feet as she ventured towards the foaming shallows. Hopping over the line of seaweed – wondering at how _light_ she felt now that the twins were out – she slowed as she approached the surf, breathless with anticipation.

 _I've missed you. I've missed you._

 _Herring might be different; but you're still the same._

The moment that the foam lapped over her toes, Flora felt the breath catch in her throat; part due to how _cold_ it was, but part due to the sudden rush of nostalgia. She had spent ten years of her life – _half_ of her life, if her arithmetic was correct – in an intimate relationship with the Waking Sea. Whether she had been harvesting shellfish from rockpools, wading out to collect the lobster pots, or dragging her dad's boat up beyond the seaweed line; every day had seen her make contact with its salty, deep green depths. She had breathed life into half-drowned men in its shallows, cast daring lines into its unknown depths; the people of Herring lived in a symbiotic and sometimes abusive relationship with Thedas' most volatile stretch of water.

The water hugged her ankles, caressing her feet even as it bit at her skin with cold and salty teeth. Flora waded out further, gathering her skirts about her thighs. She wondered if Leliana was having conniptions on the shore – probably – but the thought did not bother her.

 _Everyone knows I'm a bit peculiar._

She waded up to her knees, stifling a snort as the current tugged playfully at her legs. Her feet were firmly planted, the sand dribbling up between her toes.

 _You're trying to drag me out to my death!_ she thought, fondly. _Well, I won't let you. I know your game too well._

" _Mi sirenita. Ah,_ this is colder than the Divine's- _hm,_ I shall restrain myself."

Flora looked around to see Zevran, standing in the water with his charismatic expression rapidly turning into that of a suddenly-soaked cat. She beamed, waving her fingers to beckon him closer.

"Look at that clump of seaweed. Don't it look yum? I can make a _lovely soup out_ of seaweed."

"It _'don't look yum',_ it looks foul," observed the elf, casting a malevolent eye at the pungent clump. "I have been sent here on a mission, _carina._ Do you want to guess what that mission might be?"

"Alistair sent you to make sure that I don't drown," guessed Flora, immediately. It was not the first time that her husband had sent their elven friend to keep watch over her. "Because he's got his hands full."

"Absolutely correct, _carina,"_ purred Zevran, avoiding the tendrils of seaweed as though they were the tentacles of a poisonous jellyfish. _"Unfortunately,_ what our king does not realise is that I am not a particularly strong swimmer. It may be _you_ who has to rescue _me, amor."_

"I'd always rescue you," Flora replied kindly, flashing him a toothy smile. "No matter the circumstance. Look, I found a nice shell."

She held it up: a pink conch which tapered to a delicate point.

"I used to have a big shell like this as a toy when I was little," Flora continued, a note of reminiscence creeping into her tone. "Back in Herring. I called it _Shelly._ And I had a toy rock, called _Rocky._ And a stick, called- "

Zevran shot her a sly, sideways smile, scooping up a shell of his own from the sand at his feet.

"Let me guess: _Roberto_?"

"No," she frowned, solemn-faced, not perceiving the humour in his tone. "It was called _Sticky."_

He laughed, inspecting the shell he had plucked from the seabed. The next moment, something gelatinous oozed out of it; the elf hastily hurled the shell back into the waves.

"I also lacked what you might call _proper toys_ as a child. I played with the trinkets and cosmetics of the ladies in the brothel. I did not think to _name_ them, which was careless of me. Your fat babies will have more toys than they know what to do with, _carina._ Already, there is a chamber in Denerim Castle stacked high with amusements sent from all over Thedas."

Flora wrinkled her nose; her Herring sensibilities rebelled against such excess.

"There must be a middle ground," she said at last, tucking the pink conch into her pocket. "Between _Rocky_ and a room-full."

A clump of seaweed tangled itself around the queen's legs. She bent over, freeing the tendrils of muted green and watching them drift away atop the sea-foam. The leather strap around her knee was coming loose, pulled sideways by the deceptively gentle tug of the tide. Flora reached down to retrieve a handful of milk-white scallop shells, letting them rest within her fingers.

"You can tie these to a string and put them around your wrists," she said, showing her palm to Zevran. "And your ankles. They make a noise when you dance."

She closed her fingers loosely and shook her hand, listening to the shells rustle. The elf shifted from foot to foot, trying to retain his suaveness despite the increasing frequency of his shivers.

"Are we going to be rewarded with the sight of you _dancing_ then, _amor?_ " he murmured, teeth clattering together as the water seeped beyond the confines of damp-resistant leather. "A rare t-t-treat."

Flora let the shells tumble back into the water, turning back towards the coarse sand of the beach. She could see Alistair, the twins still in his arms, talking to Eamon. Her husband's head kept swivelling in her direction, ensuring that she had not wandered too far into the temperamental surf.

"I couldn't dance during the _Blight,"_ she retorted, shooting him a grave look over her shoulder. "It wouldn't be _appropriate_ for a Grey Warden. And then I was the shape of a ball for months. No dancing for me then; only rolling."

The elf giggled, relieved that their late-night dip appeared to be over.

Together, they made their way back through the foaming shallows towards where the others were waiting. The horses had been readied, servants held up torches to aid the nobles' ascent up to the saddles. The wind sighed around the huddle of men and dogs, pulling experimentally at cloaks and loose strapping.

Alistair was waiting beside the rock, the sleeping twins now contentedly resting within the arms of Leliana and Teagan. The king strode forward, his boots sinking with a crunch into the coarse sand. He was trying his best not to look _overly_ concerned, but he had almost lost his wife on several occasions within the past six months, and he was now taking no chances.

Flora was more than happy to indulge her husband's concern; she knew that her own past recklessness had contributed to his paranoia. She trotted straight into his arms, pressing her face into the soft leather of his tunic. Alistair exhaled, cupping the back of her head with a broad palm.

"I half-thought that you'd be swept off by the current and we'd need to send the royal fleet after you," he said, only part joking. "With all the horror stories I've heard about this sea. It sounds like its got a malevolent spirit of its own."

Flora kissed the underside of his jaw, remembering that her beloved Waking Sea had once claimed the old king – Alistair's estranged father - as prey. Alistair ran his hand down her arm, then noticed the dangling strap around her knee. Dropping to the sand, he reached up to tighten the slack leather band with well-practised fingers.

"Your legs are _freezing,_ my love," he complained after a few moments, rubbing her calves briskly between his palms. "Your _feet_ – here, baby."

Alistair led Flora over to the rock, gesturing for her to sit. Crouching on the sand before her, he reached out to lift a small foot onto his knee. His fingers now set to work rubbing warmth back into her toes, massaging the soles of her sandy feet with strong and capable thumbs. At one point he paused just long enough to press an affectionate kiss to her unbound knee, tasting the sea salt residue on her skin.

Flora stared down at the crown of his head, the gold clumped into darker tufts from the earlier drizzle, and felt a surge of overwhelming adoration for her kind and anxious husband. She reached out to spread her palm over the top of Alistair's skull, tracing her thumb around his hairline. He raised his eyes to her and grinned; Flora smiled down at him, suddenly somewhat emotional.

"I love you," she breathed, and Alistair's grin widened into a beam. He leaned up and she bent forward to meet him, their mouths joining in swift and tender union.

"My turn," said Zevran, descending onto the rock beside Flora and sticking out his own cold feet.

* * *

OOC Author Note: I love it when Flora's old Herring speech patterns slip through – "don't it look yum", lol. I don't know if seaweed soup is actually a real thing? OK so apparently it IS! I just googled it! It's a Korean delicacy. Now I kind of want to try it, haha. Anyway, I thought there was a nice bit of closure in this chapter. And I always love a cute Flo-Zev bonding moment! Poor Alistair, momentarily terrified that his wife was going for a swim XD

Going to aim to update again before the end of the week – we are flying out to Seattle on Wednesday so I will probably be jet lagged and ew for a bit. 8 hour time difference!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	212. But What Are They Doing Here?

Chapter 212: But What Are They Doing Here?

The company that returned along the headland path to Castle Cousland was a very different group to the solemn procession that had passed earlier beneath its banners. An indescribable weight had been lifted with the burning of the pyre; it was both a farewell and a herald of a more hopeful future. The nobles talked and laughed amongst themselves, Leliana was her usual sparkling self within a harem of attentive well-bred sons. Zevran told a particularly ribald story that made Finian giggle so hard that he almost fell from his saddle. Even Fergus grinned, and countered with a similarly scandalous tale from his long-past bachelorhood. Eamon suggested a feast before they departed for Denerim the next week; a popular suggestion with all.

Flora had bound the twins against her breast once more, and was sat in the saddle with Alistair at her back. She, struggling to keep a straight face, was gamely attempting to persuade him to teach her to ride her own horse; he was stubbornly refusing.

"I can't always ride with you," she whispered, biting back a giggle as he nuzzled his face into her shoulder. "I ought to learn how to do it again. I _used_ to be able to, Duncan showed me when he chose me from the Circle."

"You fell off every time the horse went into a trot, my darling," he reminded her, curling his arm more tightly around her belly. "By the time we reached the Hinterlands, Duncan put you on the back of his saddle because he'd had enough. Remember?"

"Hm," said Flora vaguely, remembering very well indeed. "Dunno."

"Besides, I like having you next to me," Alistair breathed, sounding far more like a young man with a pretty wife than the ruler of a nation. "You know. In case I get… _chilly."_

He brushed a strand of dark red hair away from Flora's neck, and – after a surreptitious glance around – bit desirously at her ear.

"More like in case you get _hungry,"_ she whispered, tilting her head obligingly towards him as he continued to use his teeth gently on her lobe. "Are you trying to eat me?"

"Oh, I intend to," he replied, perfectly serious. "As soon as I get you to myself, my darling."

Unable to restraint herself, Flora let out a squeal of delight that drew attention in a three-noble radius.

"What are you so excited about, sweet sister?" demanded Finian at once, nudging his bay mare closer. "Why don't you _share_ with the company?"

"I'm... happy because tomorrow is Friday," Flora said, after a moment of long deliberation. "It's my favourite day of the week."

"Nice try, _carina_ ," chimed in Zevran, who had been eavesdropping. "Tomorrow is _Thursday."_

A deceptively light sea mist descended on the coastal path as they made their way back up to the castle; despite its thinness, all ended up soaked. All, save for Taron and Theodora, who were still snuggled warm and dry against their mother's chest. On feeling the soft breath of drizzle on her cheek, Flora had unlaced the front of her dress to tuck the twins next to her skin. They nestled sleepily together like Mabari pups, their heads bowed together in a contrast of ebon and gilt. Both Fergus and Teagan had loaned their own cloaks to the queen to provide an additional guarantee of warmth.

 _You've been so good today,_ Flora thought fondly as they passed between the bastion towers at the base of the slope. _You haven't cried or screamed at inappropriate moments. It's almost as though you understand the significance of the day._

The banners hanging above the battlements had been changed during their absence. Now, instead of the funereal dark navy of the memorial pennants, the brilliant cobalt of the Couslands blazed out into the darkness; rich and lustrous as the depths of the Waking Sea. It was a proud and defiant colour, the unmistakeable arc of the wreath picked out in cloth-of-gold.

However, the attention of the company was not focused on the banners hanging from the crenellated stone. Instead, the eyes of all were drawn to a small – and somewhat bedraggled – cluster of standards gathered at the portcullis. They had clearly not been granted access to the castle without the permission of the absent teyrn, and had taken shelter at the foot of the solid fortress wall. Despite their dampness and the general gloom, the distinctive blue and silver colouring of the banners was visible.

Eamon and Teagan shared a swift, wary glance. Leliana shifted irritably, perturbed at finding herself in the same ignorance as those around her. A low rumble of surprise sounded deep in Leonas Bryland's throat.

"What in the- " Fergus breathed, the astonishment naked in his tone. "Finn, these aren't _university acquaintances_ of yours, I'm assuming?"

Finian shook his head in the negative, his sole grey eye widening.

Alistair, meanwhile, sat up a little straighter in the saddle. With a gaze fixed keen and unblinking on the small party huddled before the portcullis, he nudged his horse forwards. He kept one arm tight around Flora's waist; the other hand stole downwards to check that his sword was still strapped to his horse's flank.

 _Those are Orlesian banners,_ Flora realised suddenly, at once understanding the consternation of her companions. _What are they doing here?_

The bedraggled party had noticed the arrival of the torchlit company, and scrambled to get themselves into order. Standards were hastily retrieved from the wall, armed servants sprung to attention. A man, clad in what once had been cream-coloured silk, rose from where he had been sulking atop an ornately carved travel-chest. The feather on his hat was so saturated that it clung to a clean-shaven, well-padded cheek.

The company's horses approached with a clatter of hooves against the cobbles. Torchlight spilled over the wet stone; the servants of the various Fereldan nobles held up lanterns to aid their descent. Alistair was the first to slide down from the saddle, the movement carefully deliberate and unhurried. He reached up next to lift Flora down; the moment that her booted feet met the cobbles, he drew her to his side, positioning himself slightly before her so that she was visible but still protected. Royal Guard were already fanning out, their gazes trained on the unexpected arrivals. The Mabari had stationed themselves about the king and queen, including their junior counterparts, Cod and Lobster. By the time that the king turned to face the Orlesian guests, the others had also dismounted. Fergus – who had more cause to be wary than most – stood at his sister's elbow, his fingers wandering over the hilt of his blade.

The Orlesian lord, to his credit, did not quail before this group of heavily armed Fereldan nobility. He swept himself into a well-practised bow, hastily sweeping the damp feather from his face as he did so.

"Your Majesty, King Alistair," he murmured, his accent shaped with an ornate Val Royeaux edge. "I offer a humble greeting. And- "

There sprang up excitable murmurs from the Orlesian's company; he waved an irritable hand for them to be silent, his eyes trained on Flora. Although she was draped in several cloaks, the bundles bound to her breast were visible in the torchlight. A chubby arm had worked it's way free, small fingers wandering over their mother's throat.

" _L'Héroïne de Ferelden,"_ he declared in typically grand manner, sweeping into a second bow. _"Et les Jumeaux._ The most skilled bard would be hard-pressed to describe your beauty, Queen _Florence."_

Flora fixed her infamous stare upon him; the cold, Waking Sea eyes boring into the bedraggled noble as he returned upright.

 _I slew an Archdemon,_ she thought to herself, inwardly amused. _And still the way I look is the first thing they praise._

"Or your _bravery,"_ the noble continued, redeeming himself a fraction. "Forgive me for descending upon your company at such an inhospitable hour. I am _Duc Germain,_ uncle to the _Grand-Duc Gaspard de Chalons."_

This reminder of a man who had once proposed marriage to Flora did not put the king in any more amenable a mood. Alistair paused before responding, letting the words emerge at slow and carefully measured pace.

"Welcome," he said, his tone entirely neutral and not particularly welcoming. "What business do you have at Highever?"

The _duc's_ eyes slid once more over to Flora, for a second time in as many minutes. He then visibly quailed, for Zevran had manifested in the shadows behind Flora's shoulder; the Crow markings etched plain on the elf's unsmiling cheeks.

"The trial of the Carta and of the younger Howe is tomorrow, _oui?"_ Germain enquired, returning his gaze hastily to Alistair. "I understand also that it is an _open_ procedural. I was merely curious to see Fereldan justice meted out, since I – ah – happened to be passing."

Alistair paused for a moment, one eyebrow lifting to a gilded hairline.

"You're free to witness how Ferelden deals with those that pose a threat," he said at last, faintly amused; unconsciously drawing on his father's easy assurance. "If it interests you, and whoever you report to. Teyrn?"

Fergus duly stepped forward, clearing the astonishment from his throat.

"My man will stable your horses and show you to a chamber," he offered bluntly, thinking _one on the draughty side of the castle._ "I'm afraid there's little hot food available, but I'll have some whiskey and smoked fish sent up."

" _Merci beaucoup, mon seigneur,"_ murmured the Orlesian, with carefully allocated deference.

Fergus gave a stiff nod, gesturing to the guards in the gatehouse. The portcullis began to roll slowly upwards, the iron crank protesting loudly with each foot of spiked metal raised. Alistair put his arm about Flora's shoulders, watching the bedraggled _duc_ and his party retrieve their standards and make their way within the castle. The moment that they had passed out of earshot, a rumble of astonished conversation broke out amongst the king's company. Leliana began to whisper in Finian's ear, gesticulating. Zevran sidled off to find out _which_ chamber the Orlesians had been assigned.

"What do you make of this, my love?" Alistair murmured into his wife's hair, tucking Theodora's flailing arm back into the cloak. "It's a bit _peculiar,_ having Orlesians pop up out of nowhere. Like seeing a cow appear in the middle of the Landsmeet chamber."

"Hm," said Flora vaguely, hearing a muffled grizzle drifting up from her breast. "Taron's not very impressed. He's crying for the first time today."

Alistair unfolded the corner of the blanket, peering down at the pink, tearful face of his son.

"Almost bedtime, little chap," he murmured, stroking a wisp of golden hair away from the baby's face with a gentle thumb. "You've had a long day, haven't you pup?"

Taron snuffled dejectedly; he was both hungry _and_ tired. Alistair tucked the blanket back into place, kissing the top of his wife's head.

"Let's get them inside."

Domestic responsibility and political necessity came together in the hour after their return to Castle Cousland. An unofficial meeting of the King's Council was convened within the royal bedchamber, the discussions taking place around the twins' night-time routine. There were no convenient meeting tables – or even enough chairs – so the members propped themselves up against whatever surface they could find. Flora knelt on the floor in the midst of their discussion; patting the yawning Theodora with a sea-sponge dipped into a nearby basin.

"There are several possible explanations for the Orlesian presence," Eamon began, leaning against the side of the hearth with brow furrowed in thought. "I don't believe that they have any _subversive_ intention in mind."

"Aye," agreed Teagan, taking one freshly bathed twin from Flora and passing it to Alistair. "The _duc_ Germain is on favourable terms with Celene at the moment, and she's publicly announced her support of the Fereldan throne."

"And _privately,"_ Leliana added, her sharp bard's mind working twice as fast. "Don't forget: the gift to Flora."

She canted her head towards the dresser, where the polished aurum of the descaling blade and fishing hook glinted like twin stars within the evening gloom.

Alistair grunted, placing the sleepy Theodora gently down within the crib. Despite this assurance, he had still requested the presence of additional guards in the passageway outside. The king was taking no chances with the safety of his family, especially in light of recent events.

"So, they're not here to commit any dire act," he said, hastily picking his daughter up again as her face contorted in rage. "Why _are_ they here, then? They weren't just _passing through_ Highever by chance."

"Maybe they were visiting Herring," Flora offered; a suggestion so ludicrous that it was ignored.

"Pure curiosity, perhaps," Leonas said after a moment, limping about the confines of the chamber with Taron in his arm. The baby found the uneven cadence of the general's gait oddly soothing; he was quickly settling down to sleep. "A desire to see this second Marician son and the Hero of Ferelden in person? Or to gain a glimpse of the twins? You know how Orlesians love their _gossip._ They probably want to see if either of them has an extra eye or six fingers."

The derision in his tone was somewhat hypocritical, since the arl himself was half-Orlesian.

"Germain will certainly be the centre of attention at many _salons_ in Val Royeaux after having met you," confirmed Leliana, nodding sagely. "There is a great deal of _fascination_ within Orlais on the nature of Ferelden's new rulers. Long- lost scions of great houses, once-Wardens, unifying a broken nation- "

The bard broke off abruptly, her eyes narrowing in sudden realisation.

Eamon, who had not noticed this timely pause, continued on:

"The _duc_ has brought a scribe with him – I assume you noticed all those soggy rolls of parchment falling out of his satchel – so he clearly intends on reporting back to someone."

"Reporting _what?"_ Fergus interrupted, having sat quiet beside the hearth until this point, lost in thought. "The outcome of tomorrow is obvious. The Carta and the would-be _purchasers_ of my sister will be found guilty by the Landsmeet. They'll receive punishment such as Alistair decides. It's a foregone conclusion. Why come all the way from Val Royeaux to witness it?"

Theodora had finally settled down against Alistair's chest, her tiny fingers curled in a fist. The king placed her back down in the crib for a second time, holding his breath. The little princess seemed more amenable to the cot this time, turning her head to the side and yawning.

Alistair sat on the edge of the bed and sighed; the sound emerging heavier than he had intended. During the day, he had focused so intently on his queen's emotional well-being that he had temporarily forgotten tomorrow's significance. He would be confronted not only with the dwarves who had drugged and abducted his new wife, but with the person who had inadvertently orchestrated the scheme, _and_ the men who had travelled hundreds of miles to make bids on said 'prize'. The trial was sure to include accounts of what had been done to Flora during her confinement, which Alistair was not entirely sure he would be able to sit through.

Flora heard him sigh, her pale gaze settling anxiously on her husband. He was perched on the edge of the mattress, his broad shoulders hunched and his head bowed. She crossed to the bed and climbed onto the furs, tucking her legs beneath her. Alistair reached back to pat her thigh, just about able to summon a wan half-smile.

"You're as knotted up as old netting," Flora breathed in his ear, letting her fingers wander over the wide span of his shoulders. The bulky muscle was stiff with tension; it felt hard and unyielding against her touch. "I'm going to untangle you."

She began to work the taut flesh with her fingertips, having learnt from him how best to ease the ache of sore muscles. Alistair leaned back into her kneading palms, letting his eyes close for a moment in relief.

"Thank you, darling. So what _do_ the Orlesians want?"

"They want to see how Ferelden stands after its civil war."

Leliana, who had spent the past few minutes mulling the situation over, spoke up low and certain. The others in the chamber turned their gazes on her, ale tankards motionless halfway to their mouths. Leonas stopped his limping course around the room, only to resume as Taron let out a disgruntled squeak and flailed a fist against his tunic.

"Ferelden was troubled by more than just the Blight last year," the bard continued in her melodic tones, pale blue eyes standing out in earnest. "There was division within the Landsmeet. The nobility were fractured when they should have stood united."

"But that was _months_ ago," Alistair replied, tilting his neck to the side gratefully as Flora dug capable thumbs into a knot of tension. "I publicly forgave Mac Tir in order to heal the wounds in this nation."

Leliana let out a distinctly Orlesian noise, tapping her fingertips together.

"And now the son of the House of Howe contracts the Carta to gain revenge on the queen. It appears – at least to other nations - as though the wounds are not yet mended. I imagine that Orlais is curious as to how _unified_ Ferelden's nobility appear at the trial. For all the support that Celene Valmont has shown, let us not forget the history of our nations."

Flora sighed to herself, sliding her palms down Alistair's shoulders and using the heels of her hands to work the taut muscle. She could feel the firm bulk of his flesh beneath the thin cambric cloth, warm and vital. Slowly, but surely, the knots beneath the skin were smoothing out; the king relaxing under the familiar touch of his wife. The queen found herself admiring the swathe of olive skin on display between his hairline and the collar, the colour maintaining its richness despite the anaemic autumnal sun.

Eamon gave a slow nod, stroking his fingers idly through the greying strands of his beard. Likewise, Teagan made a low sound of agreement, shooting Leliana an approving glance.

"Good instinct, sister. We'll have to ensure that we present a united front tomorrow."

The bann snorted, wry and humourless, one shoulder rising in a shrug.

"As united as we can seem when putting the son of a Howe on trial. They're one of the oldest families in Ferelden."

"Mm," said Flora vaguely, aware that she was not contributing hugely to the discussion. "I think we'll come across as united."

She gave Alistair's shoulders a final squeeze and then ruffled the top of his head, satisfied with the new looseness of the muscle. He reached out to anchor her with an arm, drawing her against his side and pressing a kiss to the side of her nose.

"It's definitely a boon to have the Couslands and Theirins bonded in marriage," Eamon offered, although this had not been what Flora meant. "The two houses have never been allied so directly before."

Flora felt Alistair bridle beneath her; not liking the unintentional insinuation that the main purpose of their marriage was political expediency. She turned her face sideways into his neck, brushing her lips tenderly over the skin. He eased beneath her caress, exhaling a long lungful of air.

"He's asleep, at last," observed Leonas into the ensuing silence, peering closely down at Taron's small, thoughtful face. "Ready to join your sister, son?"

The little prince was placed into the crib beside Theodora, his mouth slightly open and fists flung up beside his head.

"They've both got something of the Theirin about them already," the general remarked, adjusting the blanket over their plump, curled-up bodies. "Theo looks the spit of Moira."

It took Flora a moment to recall who Moira _was:_ the Rebel Queen, Alistair's grandmother.

"The _petite princesse_ certainly has a belligerent streak," grumbled Leliana, eyeing the drowsy baby with a somewhat baleful expression. "She dribbled all over my Nevarran silk cape earlier today. It's _ruined!"_

" _Mrrrr,"_ agreed a half-asleep Theodora, unapologetically.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooooooh a bit of political intrigue before our Landsmeet trial! I loved writing this chapter, especially the bit in the royal bedchamber where the political discussion is occurring simultaneously with the domesticity of putting the twins to bed. This is not very historically accurate in the slightest, but I wanted to make all the main noble characters interact with the twins – like Leonas soothing Taron, and Teagan passing Theo to Alistair. Because they all (apart from Fergus and Alistair) knew that Flora was pregnant for months leading up to the final battle, they've all been involved in the twins' existence. Lol that reminds me of the midwife they smuggled into Eamon's Denerim manor to confirm Flora's pregnancy, and when she asked Flora who the father was – with Finian, Leonas, Teagan and Eamon standing right there – Flora panicked and said IT COULD BE ANY OF THEM! Hahahaha.

I'm in Seattle at the moment with husbo visiting my mother-in-law! Lol every time I go into an America supermarket I literally just want to eat EVERYTHING haha the food selection is unreal! I swear I'll be twice the size by the time we go back to Britain D: D:

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	213. Together In All Ways

Chapter 213: Together in All Ways

Eventually, one by one, the others drifted out of the royal bedchamber; Leliana promising in her wake that she would return early the next morning to help Flora 'dress for the occasion'. The queen felt a twinge of trepidation-tinged sadness, aware that this would be the last time – at least for a while – that the bard would assist her in _looking_ the part of 'queen'. She gave Leliana an impulsive hug as she left, squeezing the tightly-muscled waist within her arms.

"See you tomorrow, _mon chérie,"_ the bard replied, blinking a fraction quicker and turning her face towards the door.

As Flora gazed mournfully at her friend's departing back, Alistair began to unfasten the myriad laces and buttons that kept his garments fastened. He stood before the mirror, working free a row of particularly stubborn buttons with an impatient thumb.

"The more expensive the garment, the more difficult it is to manage," he complained, muttering a mild curse under his breath as the edge of a button dug beneath his nail. "Blast it – what's the least complicated outfit I can wear tomorrow, sweetheart?"

"The huge nightgown I wore before the twins arrived," Flora replied, trotting over to her husband and reaching for the fiddly row of buttons. "It's a sheet with a headhole."

Her deft fingers, used to teasing out knots in tangled fishing-line, made quick work of the complex fastenings. After loosening the buttons, she took his wrist and guided his hand to her mouth, kissing away the redness on his thumb.

"I can't mend it anymore," she observed wistfully, tasting something metallic on the tip of her tongue.

Alistair reached out in turn, pressing his thumb against the plush fullness of her lower lip.

"I can't think of any problem that this lovely mouth couldn't solve," he said softly, his voice warm with appreciation. "My darling."

Flora gazed up at him, seeing tendrils of heat flaring within the cider-hued irises. The flecks of green in her husband's eyes always stood out more sharply whenever passion of any sort inflamed his tempers. Now they glinted like fragments of sea glass; bright with covetous desire.

She smiled up at him from beneath her eyelashes, deceptively demure, then turned away and wandered across the chamber. Her fishers worked at the lacings of her own dress; idly, she wondered if he would last until she reached the bed.

Two paces away, Flora felt strong arms wrap around her stomach; enveloping her in an embrace as a hot, half-panted exhalation ruffled the hair against her neck. She felt her husband press himself into her from behind, every inch of finely-hewn bulk moulding itself to the gentle curves of her body. It was as though they were crafted to fit seamlessly together; the roundness of her rump settling against the broad muscle of his thigh. Their difference in height was such that he could bend his head over her shoulder, nuzzling a desirous face into her neck.

"I want to undress my beautiful wife," Alistair breathed in her ear; voice throbbing with promise. "My _queen._ I want you bare in my arms."

Flora reached down to wrap slender fingers about his wrists, bringing his hands up to the lacing at the front of her dress. Fortunately, she had already done the lion's share of unknotting the thin leather strands; her husband was made clumsy with anticipation and eagerness. Alistair tugged breathlessly at the laces with the impatience of a small child unwrapping a Satinalia gift. The laces dangled loose, she shrugged her arms; the navy silk fell about her ankles with a soft sigh of expensive fabric and then she was naked before him.

The king turned his queen around with the air held on tenterhooks in his lungs, like a scholar unveiling some lost treasure from the Black Age. She raised her eyes to his face, the irises as wide and pale as silvered coins. His gaze ran covetously over her, from the pale hollow of her throat to the upturned thrust of her breasts, the gentle undulation from waist, to hip, to thigh. Then his eyes, made raw and rich with desire, returned unblinking to her face. He reached forward to loosen the band from Flora's hair, his fingers pulling the leather free with restrained impatience.

The thick mass of hair fell loose about her shoulders, and kept on tumbling down past her hips, unruly as an untamed pony or spilled port-wine. Between the cows' milk of her skin, the peach flush of her cheeks and the pomegranate-crimson hair; she resembled some particularly delectable dessert brought out at the end of a feast. She smiled up at him, the white teeth neat and square as tiny cubes of sugar. Alistair let out a breath that he had not realised he had been holding; the air escaping from his lungs in a great rush.

"Maker's Breath," he said, hoarse and almost despairing. "You're _so_ gorgeous, the Chantry ought to declare it a sin. My… my brain feels like it's melting out of my ears."

He cradled Flora's head in his hands, framing her features with long and admiring fingertips. Then he lowered his lips to her mouth and she tilted her face up expectantly to receive his affection. Their kiss was passionate from the first meeting of their lips; she gasped into his mouth and he greedily inhaled the strangled sound. Their tongues tussled like Mabari pups, half-playful and yet with an edge of primal roughness. It was breathless and heady; intoxicating as Antivan spiced gin.

Flora had never been drunk before, but she imagined that the dizzy light-headedness that now enveloped her must be a similar experience. She wound her arms around Alistair's neck, hoping that the tall bulk of his frame would provide some stability. Unfortunately, Alistair had lost most of his ability to breathe - along with his capacity to maintain equilibrium – when the navy silk of her gown had pooled on the flagstones at her feet.

Together they half-fell onto the furs piled on the bed, still wound in each other's arms. Now that legs were not required for balance, they tangled together in an effort to press together every possible inch of skin. His strong thigh slid between hers; she wrapped her legs around his waist, crossing them at the ankles to keep him clamped to her.

Alistair was already fumbling at the waistband of his breeches; aware that they had only scant time before parental obligations resumed. He unfastened the three buttons in record time, thrusting the leather down around his thighs. His head hung low, he was half-panting with need; it had been a whole day since he had made love to his wife and the young king was beyond impatient.

Flora was already conveniently sprawled on the furs beneath him. She was naked as a babe, flushed with anticipation; he did not need to check her arousal because he _knew_ she would be ready for him. Despite the haughty implacability of her features, her body had always responded to the touch of her best friend with unambiguous ardour. In a heartbeat Alistair had mounted her, gripping the root of his shaft in a clumsy fist in preparation. He was all heat, and mass, and sweaty muscle; beads of perspiration forming on the small of his back and rolling downwards within the cleft of his buttocks.

Then, at the critical moment she put up her palm against the broad bulk of his chest. The pressure was negligible but it was enough to halt the downwards thrust in its tracks; he blinked at her with part-despair and part-confusion.

"Baby," he croaked, barely able to form coherent words. "Baby, I need- "

"Lie down," she whispered entreatingly, her eyes as huge and solemn as a child. "Let _me."_

He rolled over in an instant, feeling the soft tufts of wolfskin against his shoulderblades. Flora clambered on top of him, slightly hesitant at first – it had been a long time since she had done _this_. For the past four months she had been too self-conscious of her unwieldy size and the constraints of her expanded belly. Now she had regained her former body, she hoped that _instinct_ would guide her; or the muscle memory ingrained from the countless times she had ridden him before it became physically impossible.

Then, during this brief moment of uncertainty, Flora caught sight of her husband's face. The mask of sweat and tousled hair could not hide the adoration that glowed from every pore, his eyes bright with unadulterated wonder. He gazed up at her as though he were a scholar of ancient lore and some lost sermon of Andraste was scribed in gilded ink across her breasts.

Fuelled with new assurance, every shred of nervousness drained away and Flora reached down with confident fingers; guiding him between her thighs. A moment later – _more_ than a moment, since it took some time for him to sheathe himself to the hilt – she felt an achingly familiar fullness within her. Alistair's palms came to rest on her thighs, his desirous fingertips curving into the ripe peach-flesh.

She leaned forwards, strands of hair slipping over her shoulders to pool like coiled rope on his chest. He thrust himself upwards to meet her, their mouths colliding for a brief and heated second; and then she began to move above him. Her hips moved a ship coursing the rolling waves of an incoming tide, rocking back and forth in a lazy, undulating cadence.

What began as a languid rhythm soon became more frenzied; the tempo of their lovemaking quickening as both became lost in the overwhelming rawness of pleasure. He responded to her rolling hips with movement of his own; broad thighs fuelling each forceful thrust. She half-fell forward, bracing herself against his shoulders as he assisted the fevered bounce of her buttocks. The protest of the wooden bed frame had escalated to a relentless, rapid creak; the joints and fixings never so enthusiastically tested.

Both occupants were long past moaning, ragged grunts slipped from his throat while she gasped like a fish plucked from the water. Her climax arrived unexpectedly, coaxed forth by the coordinated workings of a calloused thumb and sly finger; a helpless wail broke free from her haughty Cousland mouth as she convulsed atop him. He grinned in incoherent delight, but his triumph was short-lived as he found himself in similar position shortly afterwards. A hastily-muffled shout and a violent contortion against the mattress followed; the room temporarily darkened as his vision contracted.

They collapsed together in a tangle of furs and blankets; bodies melded with perspiration. Alistair drew her against his chest, reaching up to comb fingers through ropes of sweaty hair. She curled herself tight against him like a limpet, feeling the rapid staccato of his heartbeat against her cheek. For several minutes they lay in silence, breathing and other bodily cadences slowly easing out into their normal rhythm.

"Maker's Breath," he croaked after a while, still half-breathless and utterly astounded. " _Maker._ "

Flora nuzzled her face into his sweaty neck, her limbs stiff and her body aching from the vigour of their activities. Yet she was simultaneously utterly content; reaching up to grip his shoulder with possessive fingers. He caught her wrist and kissed her palm, lips lingering against the flushed pink skin.

"I love you," she whispered and Alistair returned the sentiment immediately, tightening his grip on his naked wife.

They lay in silence for several minutes, still tangled in the animal furs and bathed in the afterglow of lovemaking. Alistair had leaned across the bed to check on the twins; both were still fast asleep in the crib, Theodora's hand flung across her brother's plump stomach. In the warmth of the fire, with the usual castle noises stifled around them, it was easy to slip into sleep's coaxing embrace.

Flora was on the verge of slumber when her husband's voice pulled her inexorably back to the waking world; filtering low through the ember-lit darkness.

"Flo?"

"Mm," she mumbled, pulling his arm more tightly around her shoulders.

"About tomorrow."

This got Flora's attention; she propped herself up on an elbow and peered at the shadowed lines of Alistair's face in the darkness. He was expressionless, his eyes fixed on her face like a ship following a cliff-top beacon.

"Yes," she replied, tracing an old scar across his clavicle with her fingertip.

"If it… if it all gets too much for you," he said, concern thrumming through each word. "The trial. Just tell me, and I'll stop it, or excuse you, or – anything you want, baby."

"Thank you," Flora said with her usual solemnity, reasonably sure that she would be alright but appreciative of his consideration. "I'll let you know."

Alistair nodded, narrowing his eyes up at her as she drew a heart over his breastbone.

"Remember: that Herring stoicism doesn't work on me, sweetheart," he reminded her, sternly. "I can see through it."

"I know!"

They settled down to sleep shortly afterwards, wound in each other's arms with their fingers tightly clasped. The last thing that Flora saw before she sunk into slumber was Alistair's hazel gaze boring through the darkness, fixed unblinkingly on her face.

Theodora woke up with a hungry yowl just after midnight; the moment that she had been fed and settled, Taron woke up with a similar demand. As Flora sat in the armchair, clad in her familiar mustard yellow dressing gown, there came a low rap at the door. She looked up in surprise; the nipple popped out of the startled baby's mouth. As Taron squeaked, his mother guided it hastily back in; her brow furrowing.

Alistair, who had been stoking more life into the dying embers, immediately abandoned the poker. Slinging a tunic around his waist, he crossed to the door; where his sword was propped near the threshold.

"Your Majesty?" came filtering through a crack between door and frame.

"Yes," said Alistair, eyes narrowed and half-considering whether to take sword in hand.

"Sorry, ah- " babbled the Cousland steward, his flushing face visible in the two inches of space. "I mean _Her_ Majesty. The queen. She has visitors."

The king's wary expression immediately deepened into a scowl, thinking _dwarves, Howe, that damned Orlesian duc._

Flora, meanwhile, had risen from the armchair with Taron still suckling at her breast. In direct contrast to Alistair's suspicion, she was smiling; her face bright with expectation.

"Oh good," she said, providing no further explanation. "I was worried that they might not arrive in time."

Alistair's head rotated back to his wife, eyebrows now lodged in his hairline.

"Darling," he said, trying not to sound too plaintive. "My love, what's all this about?"

"I'll show you," Flora replied, smiling vaguely. "Put some breeches on and grab Teddy."

As the king followed his queen down the corridor with his sleeping son in his arms, a baggage train of increasingly depressing thoughts ran through his head. A nightmarish vision reared up like some grotesque: the entire population of Herring secreted away in a corner of Castle Cousland.

"Is it your dad, my love?" he asked, with some trepidation.

"No!" she replied, casting him a solemn look over her shoulder. "It's not my dad."

"Is it… your Herring mother?" the king suggested next with some dread, recalling the terrifying Gerda.

Wide-eyed, Flora shook her head in denial. They were headed down a side-passage lined with mouldering portraits; towards a section of the castle which housed guest chambers. The steady _tramp_ of the Royal Guard footsteps followed in their wake; along with the silent padding of Cod and Lobster.

They came to a halt outside a wooden doorway, framed with squat pillars and a crumbling family crest. Flora glanced towards Alistair, flashed him a somewhat mysterious smile; then knocked quiet and decisively against the panel.

A candle-length later, the king and queen emerged from the room; merging once more with the medley of guards and Mabari. Alistair, still wide-eyed and astonished, turned to his wife with a yawning Taron in his arms.

"Maker's Breath," he remarked, for a second time that evening. "Tomorrow is going to be _eventful."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Aahhhh who doesn't love a good sex scene to start off a chapter? Lol! Anyway, we've not had many of them in the last part of the story for a variety of reasons :P And whoooo do we think the mysterious visitors are?! Ten points to anyone who successfully guesses! Also, well done Flo for bringing Alistair and not just charging blindly off alone into the depths of the castle, haha. She's learning!

The next update might be out a little slower because I'm staying at my mother in law's place in Seattle and it's hard to get much writing done here!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	214. Crafting A Queen

Chapter 214: Crafting A Queen

Flora awoke the morning of the trial to a military rap on the front door; followed shortly by the high and increasingly indignant voice of Leliana.

" _Excuse me,_ but I have been rousing the royal couple since _he_ was an unknown bastard and _she_ was a Herring peasant! I have woken them in tents, taverns, caverns and castles-"

At that point a Royal Guard intervened, murmuring quietly to the flustered Cousland steward. A pink-cheeked Leliana entered shortly afterwards, with several servants lugging a precariously full bathtub in her wake. The bard was already dressed for the occasion; resplendent in pale blue silks and with her hair twisted up around the crown of her head. She pranced lightly across the chamber, wrenching apart the heavy drapes to allow the anaemic dawn light to spill across the tiles. Her lip then curled in displeasure as she surveyed the weak efforts of the northern sun to battle through the perpetual veil of cloud.

" _Un autre jour gris,"_ the bard murmured, more used to western mornings where sunrise lit up the skies with celestial brilliance.

Flora yawned, digging her knuckles into her eyes to rub away the sleep. She reached out blindly to feel for Alistair; her fingers groping only a tangle of blankets and a hollow in the mattress. Yawning, she cast her gaze around the chamber until her eyes settled on the broad-shouldered and long-limbed frame of her husband. Alistair had already been up for an hour; having woken prior to sunrise and too preoccupied with thoughts of the day to cross the Veil once again.

To distract himself from descending into a mire of brooding – this was a day he had simultaneously anticipated and dreaded – the king had picked up the recently-awoken Taron, carrying him across to the armchair and sitting down. The little boy gazed thoughtfully up at his father with increasingly clear vision, his grey eyes as bright and round as silver pennies. The sight of his infant son, who was utterly unaware of the trials undergone by his mother before his birth, son crystallised the incoherent mist of Alistair's anger; sharpening it to a deadly point that could be used with precision.

The drowsy Flora propped herself up on the cushions as Leliana busied herself about the chamber, pointing the bath into one corner and the breakfast tray towards another. Alistair, on seeing his wife awake, flashed her a rather wan smile; heading across to give her a kiss. Flora put her arm around his neck as he bent down, greedily inhaling Taron's warm, clean scent.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" he murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Fine," said Flora, after a moment's contemplation. "Ready to look the bottom-feeders who tried to buy me in the eye."

"That's the spirit," purred Leliana, placing a variety of perfumed unguents in glass bottles beside the bathtub. "Right, Florence – you're in here first of all. This is the most important public audience since your wedding day, and you need to be _adequately prepared."_

"Like a fish," the queen intoned, rising naked from the furs and clamping a squalling Theodora to her breast. "Descaled, gutted and filleted."

Flora fed the little girl in the bath, relieved that Leliana had chosen a Fereldan scent reminiscent of moss and pine trees. She let the bard brush through her streaming hair, grimacing as Leliana wielded the enamelled comb with brutal efficiency. Alistair, meanwhile, was shaving one-handed with the curious Taron still staring at him. A mirror was balanced atop the dresser, and the king was wielding the small blade before it to the best of his ability.

"First blood of the day," he muttered darkly to himself, after nicking his jaw with the razor-sharp edge.

A dollop of Antivan soap fell onto the baby's head and it squeaked; Alistair hastily wiped the white smear away.

The king and queen exchanged places in the bathtub. She sat on a bearskin before the hearth, with Taron taking his turn at the breast as the bard held out ropes of wet hair as close to the fire as she dared. It always took the best part of an hour to dry out the mass of wet hair, and Leliana was determined to make a good start. Servants orbited discretely about the chamber like helpful celestial bodies; bearing trays of food, weak ale and well-water in jugs, fresh linens and blankets for the twins. A blacksmith sat on a stool in the corner, sliding a whetstone up and down the length of Alistair's sword. Although he was clearly trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, the purpose of the blade was clear and kept drawing furtive looks.

The only one who did _not_ glancesideways at the sword was Alistair himself, who was more than prepared to lay waste to the men who had possessed such unforgivable intentions towards his wife. In fact, the king had a hearty appetite after the previous day of deprivation; devouring several thick slices of bread and salted butter, a wedge of sharp cheddar and two plump, rose-hued apples fresh from the Bannorn.

Flora muncher her way methodically through a bunch of grapes, tilting her head in accordance with Leliana's instruction. There came a brittle _snap_ as the heavy ropes of her hair won out against the fragile comb.

" _Mince!"_ snarled the bard, tossing the two halves of the broken implement into the embers and reaching for a spare. "I just combed this mane out in the bath. _How_ is it so be-tangled once again?"

Flora shrugged mildly: her hair had always defied attempts to tame it.

"You should use a horse brush," called Alistair from across the chamber, entirely serious. "Nothing like it for working out knots."

"I may need to procure one," replied Leliana darkly, resorting to using her manicured fingers to rake through the knotted curls.

"Ow!"

Eventually, the hair was dried and brushed, and the queen stood before the full-length mirror with Leliana at her side. Flora eyed the span of Orlesian glass, more interested in the craftsmanship than her own unclothed reflection. She reached out and pressed a finger to a warping in the glass, just beside the gilded frame.

"Now," murmured Leliana, her voice low and reverent. "We must think on how we wish to _appear_ as queen. It is, after all, your first _official_ appearance since your wedding day. What do we wish to _convey_ to the Landsmeet – and our Orlesian guests, _hm?_ It must be unmistakably _Fereldan_ – and remind those present of your _Alamarri heritage."_

Since Leliana appeared to be talking to herself, Flora let her attention wander. She could see the reflection of Alistair just over her left shoulder, pulling the laces on his linen undershirt taut.

 _He's so handsome,_ she thought to herself, admiring the chiselled definition of the musculature on his abdomen. _Mm._

"Catching flies with that open mouth?" Leliana commented, not unkindly, handing her a clean pair of smalls.

As Flora clambered into them, the queen informed Leliana of the two conditions she had devised to dictate her public garb.

"No dresses," she said, bluntly. "I hate them. And I need to be able to feed the twins without getting half-naked. I mean, _I_ wouldn'tcare, but it might give Arl Eamon a _fit of the conniptions."_

Leliana nodded slowly, pursing her lips as she ran her eyes up and down the stubborn-faced Flora, then darted her gaze towards Alistair. He was already mostly clad, with the expediency afforded to men's clothing, in the usual fur-trimmed leather.

"You're the _Hero of Ferelden,"_ the bard said, an idea forming in her clever mind. "A Cousland who speaks like a commoner, raised in the hardest of circumstances. _Unique._ What a waste to put you in velvet, like Anora; or silks, like Celene."

Once again, Flora had stopped listening. She was peering at the marks on her body, the milk-white brands that shone silver in the hearth-light. Each one was the size of her spread palm; one on her collarbone, another on her hip, two more across her shoulder-blades and upper thigh. Her palms were similarly emblazoned, thin tendrils snaking up the slender undersides of her fingers.

 _For nineteen years I had no scars or blemishes on me,_ she thought amusedly, her eyes dropping to the strap around her knee. _Any small wound melted away in seconds._

 _Now I'm covered in them. The farewell touches of my spirits as they left me._

Flora was aware that the markings were more likely to have been caused by the Archdemon's soul frantically trying to seek purchase in her already-possessed body, but defiantly thrust this thought from her mind. She focused once more on what Leliana was saying, curling her fingers absentmindedly into her mottled palms.

"I'll put you in leather and fur," the bard murmured, her clever blue eyes darting sideways to where Alistair was buttoning the front of his tunic. "You need to start dressing like a grown woman, you are not a girl any longer – stop crossing your eyes at me, _Florence –_ and yes, I will put you in garb that you can recreate easily when I am in Orlais. Nothing complicated."

Alistair, once he had finished buttoning his tunic, cleared his throat.

"I'm just going to… grab something from Finn," he said, evasively. "I'll be back in a short while. Lel, will you – will you stay here until I get back?"

"Of course," Leliana replied, astonished. "My work is not yet done here."

 _He's still so worried,_ Flora thought, blowing her husband a kiss as he headed to the door. _Hopefully the trial today will put some of his demons to rest._

Alistair was away from the bedchamber for longer than he had intended. The journey down to Finian's chamber took twice the time – each noble he passed offered something along the lines of _at last, the day of reckoning!_ or _I'd wager you'll get your vengeance by nightfall, your majesty!_ The king was obligated to comment something appropriate in return; though in truth he wanted nothing more at that moment than to return to his wife and children. Once Alistair had retrieved the item he sought from Finian's chamber, he turned around and bumped promptly into Eamon.

The Chancellor then waylaid him for nearly a quarter-candle, once again going over various procedure and protocol. Alistair, who had spent an hour being tested on them by Finian the previous evening, listened with one ear; his eyes focused on the passageway ahead. After a while, the king indicated that they should walk and talk, turning his face pointedly forwards.

For perhaps the third time in twenty-four hours, Eamon reminded Alistair that he should _not_ take out his sword and lay waste to all prisoners on sight; no matter his _personal_ inclinations _._ Alistair nodded, somewhat reluctantly, quickening his step as the guard-flanked doorway to the royal bedchamber came into view.

"Right," he said distractedly, eyes focused ahead. "I'll… be sure not to do that, then."

"Hm," replied Eamon, not entirely convinced. "I'll meet you and Florence-"

"And the twins."

" _And_ the twins," repeated Eamon patiently, thinking that perhaps the infants were a little young for such an introduction to Fereldan legislature. "At the tenth bell, outside the largest assize chamber."

Alistair had no idea where this largest assize chamber was, but assumed that somebody would show them. He nodded, stepping forward as the guards opened the door.

"Flo, sweetheart," he began, half-amused and half-deadly serious. "Everyone keeps warning me not to kill every-"

The king broke off part through his sentence, eyebrows shooting upwards into his gilded hairline. His fingers groped for something to seek purchase on; they found the doorframe, where they clung like a drowning sailor affixed to a rock.

" _Maker's Breath,"_ he said, slightly breathless and wholly astounded.

The Alamarri chieftess turned to face him; leather clinging to her like something liquid, boots with two inches of heel, a bodice lined with tawny fur. The hair was caught up atop the head, falling down with a volcanic exuberance that served as counterpoint to the glacial, pale-eyed beauty of the face. Crimson _kaddis_ was daubed on a high-boned cheek; the Ages-old symbol marking _one who achieves victory._ Emblazoned across the exposed breastbone and the shoulder-blades were the silvered brands of her survival.

"I present," announced Leliana, her pride gleaming like a lantern. "Your queen."

Alistair let out a half-shocked gape of laughter; his eyes forge-welded to his wife.

"Maker's Breath, Flora," he croaked, taking a step. "I don't know what I want to do _more:_ kneel before you or- or _rip your clothes off."_

Flora beamed and held out her arms as Leliana scowled, her nostrils flaring.

" _Not_ the latter!"

Alistair went to embrace her, inhaling the pine-scent of her skin as he ran a greedy palm over her bare shoulders. Flora leaned into the familiar warmth, tilting her face so not to smudge the _kaddis_ against his tunic.

"I didn't want to wear it at first," she breathed, flailing her fingers towards her painted cheek. "You know how I hate _cos-meticks._ But Leliana told me that the symbol means _fish-lover."_

"Oh, _did_ she now?" remarked Alistair, eyeing the bard beadily as he withdrew. "Fish-lover, eh?"

Leliana replied with a non-committal, and very Orlesian, sniff.

" _Vite, vite!"_ she instructed, clapping her scented palms together briskly. "We must get the twins dressed without delay."

Flora turned to the chest containing the babies' woollens; as always, admiring the intricate carving decorating the oak-panelled sides. It had been crafted for them by the Chasind carpenter, who was rapidly proving to be the most talented wood-worker in Fergus' service. Then, she felt her hand snared, fingers wrapping tight around hers and pulling her back towards her husband.

Alistair was half-grinning, half-bashful; his eyes darting between her face and her feet. His other hand was held behind his back, fingers curled purposefully. Flora peered up at him in bemusement, her eyes searching his furtive expression.

"I have a gift for you," he began, shy in a way that he had not been since the early days of their friendship. "My sweet wife."

Flora blinked, visibly confused; as far as she knew, it had just been Solace a few months prior.

"Is it my name-day again?" she asked and Alistair shook his head, shifting from foot to foot with one hand still clasped behind his back.

"No, darling."

Flora's brow furrowed, her dark red brows drawing together.

"I – I wanted to give you a present to say thank you," Alistair continued, twin points of colour flaring in his cheeks. "I commissioned it from a blacksmith in the town – Fergus recommended her to me."

"Thank you for what?"

"For – for making our family," he replied, not quite knowing how to phrase it. "For being so brave when the twins arrived. You're the best mother they could ever hope to have, sweetheart."

Flora stared speechless up at him, her eyes suddenly swimming. Alistair reached out and caught the tear with a thumb before it could smudge the _kaddis_. He then brought his hidden hand forwards, opening his fingers to reveal a polished wooden box.

"For you, Flo."

She reached out and touched the gleaming wood, which was so brilliantly waxed that she could see the reflection of her finger. It was constructed from a dark vein, perhaps mahogany or Antivan cedar.

"What a beautiful box," Flora breathed, reverently. "Thank you. I'll keep it forever."

Alistair bit back a grin, the green flecks in his eyes standing out like chips of glass.

"Open the box, baby. Your present is inside."

Flora shot him a startled look, but slid her finger obediently to the indent on the front of the box. Tentatively, she pushed the lid upwards, revealing a plush crimson interior and a glint of brushed gilt. Inside lay a bangle, sculpted from the purest old gold; a fish that curled around with an open mouth and a flared tail. Each scale was meticulously crafted; the gills and fins were picked out, the eye marked by a tiny red ruby.

"It's a fish," she breathed, rather stupidly; in awe of the beauty and craftsmanship of the piece. _"Oh."_

"For you, my Herring queen," Alistair replied, reaching into the box and retrieving the weighty bangle. Gently, he slid it over his wife's wrist and onto her slender arm, where it gleamed bright and warm against her skin. They both stared at it; the ouroboros fish chasing its own tail in infinite cycle.

"Do you… do you like it?" he asked, a clear note of hope ringing through his question.

"I _love_ it," Flora whispered back, lifting his hand with both of hers and clasping it tightly to her breast. "I love it, I love it. You're so kind to me. Thank you."

She kissed his knuckles, the tears rising once again. He nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak; his eyes fixed unblinking on her face.

"I love _you,"_ he managed, eventually. "My beautiful queen."

"Come, come," interjected Leliana, not unkindly. "We need to get these twins dressed, and you two down to the trial."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Hahaha I do love describing outfits! I really like the concept of Flo's queen outfit – she's not the type to embrace fancy dresses, lol. Also I liked Leliana telling Flora that the symbol means FISH-LOVER. Not quite!

In other news, I went to my first ever baseball game last night! It was an experience haha, I really enjoyed the whole atmosphere of it, even if I couldn't do any of the baseball bingo card we were given. I don't know what infield outfield anything is haha.

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	215. Zevran's Oath

Chapter 215: Zevran's Oath

The twins were dressed in cream woollens, complete with mittens and tiny socks that Taron kept kicking off. While Flora tried to persuade the sixteen-day old baby to keep his clothing _on,_ Alistair went to the top drawer of the dresser. Pulling it out, he retrieved two polished walnut cases each one engraved with the distinctive Theirin emblem of the snarling Mabari.

Astonished at how quickly he had become used to placing the golden loop atop his head, the king positioned the single-spiked band until it sat comfortably. Glancing briefly at the mirror to check it was not askew, he opened the second box to reveal a second coronet. This one twisted itself in an array of tangled gold; like the serpentine branch of a briar thorn. Lifting it carefully – though its delicacy was deceptive – he carried it over to his queen.

Flora had replaced Taron's sock for the third time, and was pulling faces down at him as he squeaked.

"Kicking your feet like a little frog," she observed, solemnly. "You're going to be an excellent swimmer when you're older, tadpole."

"Darling, are you ready?"

There were many possible interpretations of Alistair's question: _are you ready to put on the crown? Are you ready to be queen in public once again? Are you ready to face the men who tried to barter you for coin?_

"Yes," replied Flora, returning upright. "I'm ready."

She felt the weight of the crown rest above her ears, and lifted her chin to counter its pressure. Alistair adjusted the angle until it sat evenly, then – with a soft exhalation – stepped back.

"My brave and beautiful queen," he breathed, unable to resist curving his palm over her naked shoulder. "I could face the united armies of Tevinter and Orlais with you at my side."

 _Not literally at my side,_ he thought grimly to himself a moment later. _You're not going within a mile of a battlefield ever again, my darling._

There came a rap at the door, followed shortly by a creak of wood as it swung open.

"Ready to go?" came Teagan's wry enquiry. "Eamon sent me to make sure that you don't get lost on the- "

There followed a clatter, and the bann broke off his sentence so abruptly that both Flora and Alistair turned their dissimilar gazes on him. Teagan, coughing to disguise some other emotion, bent to retrieve a hunter's knife from the flagstones. It was a small blade that the younger Guerrin was used to passing idly from one hand to another; it had been dropped in a moment of sheer astonishment. There was nothing casual about the bann's movement now as he hastened to pick it up; rare spots of colour flaring in his cheeks. He caught the blade between his fingertips, glanced upwards, and promptly dropped it again. Teagan muttered a curse beneath his breath, successfully retrieving the knife on this second attempt.

"Uncle?" asked Alistair, perplexed at the older man's uncharacteristic distractedness. "Are you… alright?"

"Yes," the bann replied, then let out a rueful bark of laughter as Leliana shot him an arch look. "Ah, don't give me that sharp stare, my lady. Fine, fine. Flora, pet – you look, ah- _older_ than I'm accustomed to."

"Older?" repeated Flora, mildly confused. "Oh, you mean – more _motherly._ Hm, yes."

This had _not_ been what Teagan meant. The bann let out a slightly strangulated laugh, his green Guerrin eyes following Flora as she scuttled across the room towards the bedside cabinet.

Leliana lowered her voice, directing a pointed whisper towards Teagan's ear.

"Did you think she would garb herself in girlish tunics and Alistair's shirts forever, _mon ami_?"

"It was easier when she did," the bann muttered back darkly, eyeing the queen as she hung Celene's fish-hook and descaling blade from her waist.

"But, she's not a girl," replied Leliana, in gentle and chiding tones. "Not any longer."

"Maker help us!" Teagan replied, then raised his voice so that Flora could hear. "You look like an Alamarri princess, petal. If an Avvar tribesman set eyes on you, you'd be whisked off to the mountains in a heartbeat."

Flora shot him a somewhat vacant smile in response; having no idea what an _Avvar_ was.

Meanwhile, the bemused Alistair had been looking back and forth between Leliana and his uncle; understanding finally dawning. He eyeballed Teagan beadily, adjusting the collar of his furred tunic.

"Using your bachelor's charm on my wife, eh, uncle? We need to get _you_ married off."

Teagan gave an easy laugh in response, having regained the composure lost after seeing the queen in leathers and bodice.

"Let's get you both down to the assize chamber. Are you putting the babes in their basket?"

Alistair shook his head; a grim cloud settling over his countenance as he focused once more on the task at hand.

"We'll carry the twins. I won't have them out of our sight for an instant, not when we'll be surrounded by whoresons who intended to – to _sell_ them like cattle at market."

Flora lifted Theodora, and Alistair took Taron, who had successfully managed to kick off his sock for a third time. The baby's naked foot batted against his father's arm as he was cradled in the strong crook of an elbow; waving small fingers idly through the air. Alistair pressed his lips to his son's downy head, his gut twisting with sudden nausea as he thought on what had almost been stolen from him. The anger from earlier returned, sharp and purposeful as a surgeon's needle; the king raised his face towards the door and took a deep, steadying breath.

"Let's go."

The Mabari met them at the chamber door; the pack now included Cod and Lobster. At six months old, the bitches were three-quarters of their adult size, still rangy in build but easily as strong as a grown man. Fergus had trained them well, they trotted in practised unison at their mistress' heels. Alistair glanced down at Flora, who was peering straight ahead with the customary ambiguity of expression. Only a faint wrinkle in her nose betrayed any apprehension; with Taron tucked in his left elbow, the king reached out his hand. His queen took it gratefully, twining their fingers tightly together.

Teagan led the way to the assize chamber; which lay in the state rooms on the far side of the castle. It was a blustery autumnal day; rain pattered against the windows that were filled with glass, and blew gleefully in through those that were not. Flora could feel the teasing breeze plucking up strands of her hair and tossing them askew, and despite Leliana's quiet tutting, she felt oddly pleased.

 _I want to arrive windswept and tousled; like something risen from the waters of the Waking Sea._

Despite the mournful howl of the wind and the clamour of the rain against the fortress walls, the twins slumbered peacefully in their parents' arms. After all, they had been born on the beach during an autumnal storm; and the sounds of inclement weather never disturbed them. They crossed the courtyard, the grass shadowed by the vast, looming structure of Fereldan Tower. The servants withdrew to the edges of the passages as they passed, bowing down with reverence while also sneaking glances at king and queen in full regalia.

Fergus, Finian and Zevran met them at the entrance to the state quarters; a double-height passageway from which a half-dozen impressive chambers branched. Both Cousland brothers were clad in the familial livery, the rich cobalt blue in stark contrast to their russet locks. Fergus wore the teyrn's slender golden band, and Finian the badge of Amarathine. Zevran lounged, with feigned languor against the doorframe; lean and sleek as a blade.

"Everyone's inside," Fergus said abruptly, dispensing with pleasantries. "The Landsmeet are assembled, the prisoners are in the dock- "

"Which had to be 'specially extended," chimed in Finian, portentously. "To accommodate the sheer _number_ of prisoners. Highever's court is more used to accommodating pairs of swindlers or the occasional half-dozen thieves. Our Orlesian _duc_ has taken a most prominent seat."

"From where he can observe the division within our land to his satisfaction, I'm sure," Fergus added, with a wry and humourless twist of his mouth. "I had him under guard all night, Alistair, and he made no attempt to leave his chambers."

"Who's being tried first?" Alistair asked, conscious of the heavy weight of his blade hanging against his thigh. "I assume they aren't all taking the stand at once."

The teyrn opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by the door swinging open several inches. A steward dressed in Cousland finery bowed his head, before darting deferential eyes towards Finian.

"My lord, it's time for you to make your entrance."

"Like a blushing bride," the young arl replied, rolling his sole remaining eye before adjusting the dark leather patch that sat over the other. "I've been practising my best hateful glares to use on the prisoners. Time to put them to the test."

Settling into the relaxed, latently powerful stance that the Couslands were renowned for, Finian slipped through the gap in the door and into the small antechamber beyond. The door closed; moments later, they heard the herald announcing the _Arl of Amaranthine!_ in loud and portentous voice.

"The Carta will be tried first," replied Fergus, answering Alistair's earlier question. "The two dozen members that still live are in the dock at the moment. Four were found dead in their cell, without a mark on them."

 _Poison_ was the unspoken coda to the teyrn's response; his gaze sliding sideways to where the elf had been lounging.

But Zevran was no longer in a state of replete languor against the pillar. He had been circling the queen, feline in both movement and focus; jet-black eyes unashamedly trawling up and down her leather-clad figure.

" _Carina,"_ he murmured as Alistair conversed with Flora's brothers, the cadence of his throat more strongly accented with his admiration. "I have always thought you beautiful, and I have seen your strength proven time and time again. Now you _look_ as dangerous as I know you to be. I am enthralled. I am _stupefied._ My loins are wholly inflamed and – dare I say - _engorged."_

Flora did not know what _enthralled, engorged_ or _stupefied_ meant, but she smiled at him regardless. The elf reached out to pat Theodora gently on her chubby cheek, the earlier desire in his gaze softening to familial affection.

"Good morning to you, _niña._ I hope you allowed your _mama_ sufficient sleep last night; she has a big day ahead of her."

Zevran's gaze returned to Flora's face, concern creasing itself into a fine line across his richly tanned brow.

"And how are you feeling, _mi pequeñita?"_

"Fine," replied Flora automatically, then – noticing that Alistair was still deep in conversation with Fergus – lowered her voice a fraction. The elf leaned in to hear, his crease on his brow deepening to a furrow.

"I'm… I'm a bit nervous," the queen confessed, peering down at Theodora as the baby yawned and turned her face against her mother's warm breast. "Not about seeing the dwarves again. But…"

She did not have to elaborate further; her clever friend discerned her meaning well enough.

 _The dwarves I bested, with the help of Morrigan, Sten – and Nathaniel._

 _But the men who wanted to purchase me – to pay coin for me and my children as though we were cattle at market –_

 _I was never so afraid of Darkspawn. These men are worse, somehow._

 _To be sold into slavery is living death; almost worse than being Tranquilised._

The queen blinked rapidly, casting her solemn grey gaze down to her own feet. The corner of Zevran's mouth twisted, several emotions passing in rapid succession across his tattooed face.

"Don't say anything to Alistair," she whispered, a note of pleading in her tone. "This day is blighted for him already. I don't want to worry him even more about me."

The elf gave a half-nod, resolution settling on him like a lay-sister's mantle. He reached out and clasped her fingers in his long and dexterous ones; his tattooed knuckles entwined alongside hers. He ran a thumb over the plump pearl of her betrothal ring, as though touching something sacred.

"I've made several oaths in my life," he said, each word emerging calm and purposeful. "And I've broken many of them. But – I swear to you, _mi sirenita,_ I shall not break this one. I swear on your little daughter."

He touched the baby's dusky head and Theodora blinked, yawning sleepily.

Flora gazed at him, her pale eyes wide and curious. She knew well the solemnness that lay beneath the elf's surface irreverence; those who knew only the lusty jester did not know Zevran at all.

"The Carta will be dismantled in Ferelden after today, but they are not the only band of miscreants in the East. The Crows kill for coin, _sí,_ but they also _enslave_ – they procure flesh for body-markets across Thedas. I swear, _carina,_ I will take them down. I will gut each House like a fish and let their remains rot in the sun. This will be my new purpose, _amor."_

She was still staring, the full Cousland mouth slightly open; the little princess gurgling softly in her arms. Zevran smiled at her – a touch wistfully – and released her fingers, after a final gentle squeeze.

"Your abduction was the final straw, _mi florita_ ," he murmured, so low that Flora could barely hear him. "I cannot have the good things that are in this world stolen and debauched."

The queen put her free arm around his shoulders in a spontaneous and clumsy embrace, made awkward by the squirming baby. Still, she managed to get close enough to his ear to whisper; low but fierce.

" _You_ are a good thing in this world," Flora told him, with utter certainty in her throaty peasant's cadence. "I'm so proud of you."

He smiled at her very widely to hide the sudden brightness in his eyes, a sheen across the coal-dark irises that had not been there a moment prior.

Then the steward was ducking his head around the door to request Fergus' presence. The teyrn straightened the gilded band of authority, taking a deep breath and lifting his chin before striding into the assize chamber. The door shut in his wake with a soft wooden thud, muffling the herald's announcement of _the Teyrn of Highever!_

Zevran, who had swiftly regained his composure, darted a quick glance towards Alistair. The two men shared a nod before the elf took his leave; it had been prearranged that the former Crow would take up a secret position in a hidden balcony. From this advantageous and elevated spot, he would be within throwing-blade's reach of anyone standing at the prisoner's dock. If any miscreant attempted further treachery, they would swiftly find themselves with a knife sunk deep between the eyes.

Then Alistair, Flora and the twins were left alone outside the assize chamber; standing before the vast double doors with the Mabari gathered about them. Cod and Lobster had their noses to the wood, their hackles raised as though they could sense the presence of the villains beyond the thick cedarwood.

Taron was slumbering soundly against his father's chest, but Theodora was on the verge of waking up. One little arm broke free of the blanket and delivered a regal wave. Flora tucked it gently back in, then blinked as the defiant babe thrust it out once again.

"You definitely have your great-granny's rebellious streak," she told the infant, thinking of Moira Theirin. "Actually, there's rebellion on _both_ sides of your family tree. Oh dear!"

In any other circumstance Alistair would have smiled and made a light-hearted comment; but his mind was too focused on the morning's upcoming events. He stretched out his hand and Flora took it, gripping his fingers tightly within her own as she felt their wedding rings _clink_ softly together.

"Remember, my love," the king said softly, his eyes fixed on the door as though he could see the faces of the men lined up on the wooden stand beyond. _"Anything_ you need – a halt in the proceedings, a break, the chance to speak or not to speak – just say the word. You will, won't you, sweetheart? I can't bear the thought of you suffering at their hands a moment more."

Flora squeezed his fingers, hard and certain.

"I will. I promise, husband."

"Sweet wife."

He brought their clasped hands up to his mouth and brushed his lips over her knuckles; pressing a kiss to the twisted gold rope of her wedding band.

The door opened for a third and final time, both halves of the entrance opening up to reveal the stark, basalt severity of the assize chamber within. Flora caught a glimpse of packed stone stands; a rainbow of liveries arranged in ascending rows on both sides of the chamber. The herald played a short, triumphal flurry of notes; then lowered the bugle from his mouth and drew upon the impressive vocal powers of his throat.

" _His Majesty, King Alistair of Ferelden and Her Majesty, Queen Florence, Hero of Ferelden. His Highness, Prince Taron and Her Highness, Princess Theodora."_

Flora was grateful for the convoluted announcement, since it both made her want to giggle and gave her a moment to compose herself. She clutched Alistair's hand tight, feeling him grip her fingers back with equal pressure. There was a great rustling of clothing from within as the members of the Landsmeet – and assorted spectators – hastened to stand.

Then the steward was gesturing them inwards, head bowed deferentially. Both king and queen lifted their chins, inwardly willing the little twins to remain quiet and compliant. They took the first step inside the assize chamber with their hands linked in customary fashion; booted feet resonating against the ancient tiles.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Poor old Flo, despite her attempts to be stoic, she can't help but be a little afraid of facing the men who would have bid on her like she was chattel. I thought that this would be a realistic reaction - she can't always be brave, no matter how hard she tries.

I also thought this would be a nice way to introduce Zevran's character arc beyond the events of Origins - how he goes off and begins to dismantle the Crows.

It was my birthday yesterday so apologies for no update! It's a lot harder to write when I'm at my mother-in-law's haha XD


	216. The Landsmeet I

Chapter 216: The Landsmeet I

The assize chamber was a large chamber with a double-height ceiling and vast windows that held glass imported – at great expense – from Serault. Despite the loftiness of the rafters, the room seemed cramped due to the sheer number of people housed within it. The several dozen members of the Landsmeet were positioned on ascending stands to one side; various retainers, members of the public and the Orlesian _duc_ were positioned on the other. They were all on their feet – even the _duc,_ who was not required to bow – and clad in a riot of velvet, fur and silk in an medley of colours. A raised platform at the far end held the teyrn's seat, which had been joined by several other hastily-brought chairs.

Before the platform stood the prisoner's dock; a pitiful wooden structure surrounded by railings and studded with manacles. A cluster of dwarves, their clothing little more than rags and their guts hollow pouches of skin, were chained to the stand like beasts ready for slaughter. They bore no resemblance to the brash collection of gangsters that had gloated over their royal prisoners only a few weeks prior. The stench from unwashed bodies rose to the ceiling; several lords and ladies held handkerchiefs clamped across their mouths.

There was a ripple of excitement as the king and queen made their entrance, clutching the first royal babes born in a generation. A rumble of approval followed; the nobles appreciated the fine-looking pair clad in their matching leathers, the stern-eyed haughtiness of her pallid beauty the perfect foil for the Theirin's gilded leonine presence. A few shouts rang out to acknowledge the presence of the Hero of Ferelden, whose service to the nation was still fresh in the memory – _Blight-ender! Dragon-slayer!_ but a new hail soon drowned out even this:

" _The twins! The twins of Ferelden!"_

The babies who had survived dragons, demons, Darkspawn and dwarves had clearly garnered quite the ferocious reputation, despite their tender years.

Theodora blinked, waving her small fingers in reflexive response to the cheering. Still, the baby was not unsettled by the calls as she had been a week prior; quickly growing accustomed to such sounds of acclaim. Instead, the princess peered up at her mother's face with rapidly improving vision, just about able to pick out the crimson _kaddis_ on the cheek.

Some of the dwarves shuffled around as best as they were able, their expressions ranging from trepidation, to resignation to sour-faced resentment. The last time they had seen Flora, she had been heavy with babe, unwashed, dishevelled and clad in a grubby nightshirt; yet the haughty beauty and cold-eyed disdain was unmistakeable. The regal garb she wore now was merely a decorative mantle to the northern grit within; the crown a manifestation of some inner authority.

The queen did not look overlong at the dwarves. Flora had caught a glimpse of the prisoners' dock as they entered, and – to her dismay – had felt an involuntary twinge of sympathy for the bedraggled and starving dwarves. It glinted like a tiny seed-pearl amongst the tangled seaweed strands of fury and anger; a winking eye that caught her attention.

 _You fool,_ she thought fiercely to herself, forcing her gaze above their heads. _Idiot, Flora! They abducted you. They were going to sell you and the twins._

 _It's worse than what Howe was planning to do, and you didn't feel a shred of pity for him. You broke his head apart like an egg without a second thought._

Alistair's fingers convulsed on hers; there was no mistaking the purity of his anger. The king surveyed the dwarves with raw and naked fury; lip curling into a snarl of barely suppressed rage. Only his wife's anchoring hand - and the slumbering pressure of his son against his chest - prevented him from ignoring court protocol and descending upon the dock with sword bared. The Landsmeet murmured in approval; after all, the Theirin dynasty had dragonsblood in their veins, and familial likeness manifested in anger as well as joviality.

The king and queen took their places on the wooden platform before the dock; receiving the bowed deference of those gathered before them. The Mabari settled at their feet, eyes fixed with hunter's focus on the cluster of dwarves. The ring of Royal Guard surrounding the prisoners tugged on their chains until they knelt; staggering with a clatter of iron fetters. One was too weak to get up, and was hauled forcibly to his feet by a snarling guard.

Flora still kept her eyes firmly away from the forlorn group; determined not to let her instinctual compassion betray her once again. She let her gaze sweep over the rest of the audience: her brothers, seated with Teagan, Leonas and the rest of the Landsmeet on one side of the chamber; her companions, the Orlesian _duc_ and assorted officials on the other. Her attention was drawn to a splash of blue and silver in one corner: the visiting Wardens had grouped themselves on a lower bench. Loghain caught her eye and nodded wryly, recalling the moment during the previous Landsmeet when the scales of fortune had tipped in her favour.

Flora sighed inwardly to herself; she knew that Duncan would most likely be amused to see his former nemesis clad in the garb of a Warden, yet she wished more than anything that her former commander was still alive to bear the mantle himself.

Then Eamon, the chancellor's golden chain draped about his shoulders, cleared his throat and rose to his feet.

"Scribe, keep good record," he began, using the customary formalities. "Let the words spoken today he recorded faithfully so that they may become the deeds of tomorrow. The Landsmeet has been summoned to ascertain the guilt of those who stand accused of treason- "

There was a dark and ominous rumble from the audience; Eamon raised his voice slightly.

"In a trial which will prove to Thedas that Fereldan justice is as robust as the law in any other land," he continued pointedly, reminding them of the unspoken purpose of the meeting.

 _To show that normalcy has returned in the wake of Blight and civil war. That the cracks in our nation have been sealed._

"Those of age to vote in the proceedings will now receive their token," the steward announced; directing a bevy of attendants forwards.

These clerks began to make their way around the benches, marking off the names of those eligible on parchment as they distributed grey pebbles gathered from the beach. One attendant made their way deferentially up to the royal platform, awarded Alistair his token with head bowed, and then hesitated. His eyes scanned the parchment, fingers frozen above the next pebble – a cold sweat broke out on his brow.

 _The Queen of Ferelden –_ at only twenty – _was not on the list!_

Eamon realised this at the same time as the clerk, and berated himself for this oversight. Bending to murmur in Alistair's ear; the arl made a proposal that the king approved with a swift nod. Eamon straightened once again, directing his words to the Landsmeet.

"All those in favour of granting Queen Florence permission to vote in today's trial, say _aye!"_

The _ayes_ immediately rang out in unanimous chorus. Finian, who could not stop himself from snickering, caught his sister's attention and rolled his remaining eye.

Flora duly received her pebble, weighing its smooth, angular coolness against her palm. It reminded her of the rocky beach upon which she had spent her childhood – there were few sandy stretches along the northern coast – and was oddly comforting.

"Dwarves of the so-called Carta," Eamon announced, contempt running through each word. "You stand accused of the following: seditious communication, conspiracy to commit treason, the abduction and imprisonment of the queen, and the endangerment of the royal heirs. Each one of these actions constitutes treason of the _highest_ degree."

Flora could feel Alistair quivering with barely suppressed fury as he sat beside her, inches of space between his rigid spine and the back of the chair. His gaze was fixed on the gaggle of motley prisoners, the fingers of his free hand still creeping over the hilt of his blade. His anger was brittle as parched bark; potentially broken with a single word.

Suddenly, a soft snuffle caught their attention. Taron had woken up, and was gumming hungrily at Alistair's tunic. The king looked down, diverted from his rage by the needs of his son. In a movement now well-practised, the two parents swapped their children; Theodora clutching a fistful of her father's furred collar as she was shifted. Flora took Taron, peering down at the little boy as he flailed a foot.

"You've lost both socks now," she whispered solemnly, tugging loose the laces of her bodice. "We'll have to hunt them down later."

It did not even occur to Flora to feel trepidation about baring her breast before the four hundred present in the assembly chamber; she had never once in her life possessed anything resembling privacy. She felt the baby draw hungrily from her, his small brow furrowed in focus and a chubby hand splayed across her skin. In fact there _was_ some precedent for suckling one's child in official capacity, though Flora would not have known it. Moira, the Rebel Queen, had fed Maric without pause before her commanders and generals; daring them to voice protest.

"Your leader has already paid the price for his crimes," Eamon continued, gesturing as a straight-faced steward brought forth the pickled head of Beraht on a silvered platter. "Slain by the hand of the queen herself."

There was another murmur of approval from the audience; a few scattered cheers broke out. A rustling of clothing followed as the nobles shuffled to see the severed head, which had been the subject of the realm's gossip for weeks.

Flora at last took some interest in the proceedings, sitting up and eyeing Beraht's contorted features.

 _He looks as shocked as he did when I stuck the descaling blade through his neck,_ she thought, fondly. _The tip poked out through his beard and split it in two._

At last, she let her gaze settle on the dwarves; her pale eyes wandering from one to the other. Some dared to look back at her, their faces shuttered like cornered prey; others directed their stares to the floor.

"Do you have no second in command?" spoke up Alistair; the first he had uttered since entering the chamber. "Your leader must have had a lieutenant. Who will speak in your defence?"

The last word was spoken in contemptuous tones; the king's lip curled in undisguised derision. Nobody replied. The dwarves squirmed like rats caught in a trap, none would look Alistair in the eye.

Flora lifted her free arm and pointed her finger towards the dwarf with the brand below his left eye.

"You," she said, summoning the name from her illiterate's bank of memory. "Leske. You're Beraht's second in command. He named you so."

As if the queen's testimony was not enough, the branded dwarf flinched as though struck; guilt writ across his face. He then babbled out a half-dozen others as Carta officers, inviting a flurry of curses from his fellow prisoners.

" _Enough,"_ commanded Eamon, impatiently. "Guards, bring them forward."

Leske and his officers were hassled and harried to the foot of the platform, their gait hampered by the heavy fetters around their wrists and ankles. The Mabari formed a wall of fur, flesh and muscle between the prisoners and the royal family; Cod and Lobster not quite able to stop low growls escaping their throats. Nobody minded this lack of discipline, since many members of the audience also felt like snarling at the dwarves.

Flora cast her eye over the pathetic gaggle gathered before her, a myriad of emotions tangling within her like fish caught in a dragnet. She was grateful that she was not required to speak; returning her attention to the babe suckling greedily at her breast.

"You've heard the crimes that you stand accused of," Eamon said, staring with disdain down at the dwarves. "Do you have anything to say for yourselves in your defence?"

Immediately, a flurry of accusations broke out amongst the gang of captured rogues; iron clanking as manacled hands pointed in all directions.

" _He_ unleashed the toxic fumes on the queen!"

" _Leske_ had her bound with metal chains – _I_ pleaded for rope for the lass, but he _insisted."_

"Yer dirty nug-humpin' liar! You were the one that give her only stale biscuits to eat."

"Milord, _he_ was Beraht's right-hand man! Practically up his arse he were, they were so close. The blame should be his!"

" _Enough,"_ snarled Eamon, seeing Alistair's face pale with each recantation of the torments administered to his wife. "The old adage is true: _no honour amongst thieves._ Fortunately, we have a witness to testify to your actions."

Alistair's nostrils flared; he had agreed previously with the Chancellor that his wife would not be asked to recant her ordeal. Eamon, sensing the king's rising protest, hastily lifted a hand in a summons.

"Bring out the witness!"

The doors at the far end were opened; four guards escorted Nathaniel Howe down the central aisle. To his credit, the man kept his gaze forward and steps even, barely flinching as murmured vitriol assaulted him from all sides. His gait was hampered by the chains on wrists and ankles; with his new gauntness, the additional burden was a struggle to bear. He was unshaven, and his dark hair fell in anaemic strands to his shoulders. In the far corner, seated amidst the gathered group of Wardens, Loghain sat up a little straighter and took notice.

Flora felt Alistair tense beside her, his eyes now focused on this new arrival. Fortunately, the king's anger was tempered by the little girl in his arms. Theodora demanded constant rocking, or else her contented gurgles would quickly become a snarl.

 _They've not been feeding him enough,_ the queen thought to herself, noticing the knifelike cut of Howe's cheekbones and the papery appearance of his skin. _I knew Fergus wouldn't. I'll have to get him some porridge._

The dwarves muttered and shot Nathaniel Howe malevolent looks as they huddled beside the dock. The disgraced elder son of Ferelden's most despised dynasty took his place before the royal platform, ducking his head in a bow.

"Your Majesties," he said, the usual dryness of his voice augmented with the hoarse raps of a parched throat. "Nice to see you both again."

Alistair scowled; the feeling was not mutual. Howe's eyebrows rose as he took in the queen in her leather garb, then the children in their arms.

"You should look happier, King Alistair," he commented, in the tones of a man already resigned to the gallows. "You're married to the most beautiful woman in Thedas, and your babes look fat and healthy."

"Yes, all of whom _you_ put in jeopardy with your actions," retorted Alistair, immediately. "Remember?"

Eamon cleared his throat delicately, interjecting before Nathaniel could offer a response that incensed the king further.

"Alistair," he murmured in an undertone. "Howe's trial will come. Will you let him speak of what the dwarves did to the queen?"

Alistair gave a short nod, folding his lips together tightly as he settled back against his chair. Theodora, momentarily stationary, gave a demanding squeak; her huge, grey eyes staring up accusatorially at her father. The king brought her up to his shoulder, patting her rear gently with the broad palm of his hand.

Nathaniel paused for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. When he spoke, the audience had to lean forward to hear; for he addressed the royal couple directly, his gaze open and clear.

"I'd been a captive on the Carta's stolen ship for – almost a fortnight, I'd wager."

" _Not long enough!"_ bellowed Bann Reginalda from the stands. She had somehow managed to smuggle in a bottle of Antivan brandy; possibly courtesy of a grinning Zevran, perched on the stand nearby.

After the bann had been silenced with a glower from Eamon, Nathaniel continued at measured pace.

"They brought in the girl – sorry, _the queen –_ one night, and she looked as though she'd been drugged with something. I didn't realise… I hadn't realised _how_ great with child she was."

The man flinched, and it did not seem an act. Eamon waved a hand for him to continue, impatient.

"Anyway, she was bound with chains, though I don't know where they expected her to go. Then a few days passed- "

" _How_ many?"

"Three or four," Nathaniel replied after a moment, quietly. "I gave her my water, since they didn't realise that humans needed to be watered each day. Guess dwarves can go without for a while."

Flora blinked, she had not known this. Alistair narrowed his eyes, leaping to the conclusion that Nathaniel was saying this merely to curry favour. Yet the dwarves did not contradict him; they merely muttered darkly amongst themselves.

"The alchemist came frequently to check – I don't know. Whether she was still alive, I suppose. He's the one that ordered for me to be chained up. Apparently, the water brought her out of the drugged sleep early."

Alistair stood up then, holding a hand out to prevent the whole chamber from rising. The attention of the room now focused on the king; all six feet and three inches of leonine Theirin bulk, his child in one arm while the other rested near his sword. Flora - although she was aware of him rising - kept her gaze fixed forward, aligned with his own.

"Before you go any further," he said, low and purposeful. "You mentioned the alchemist – the one responsible for brewing up the poison that drugged my wife. Well, I want to share with the Carta what _happened_ to that alchemist."

The dwarves looked up; wariness writ across their haggard faces. They had feared and resented the alchemist in equal measure, envious of the status awarded to him by Beraht. Alistair paused before continuing, the green flecks in his eyes glinting like shards of bottle-glass.

"My queen cut off his genitals," the king said, steadily. "Two days after birthing our twins. Then, the beast was slain by my hand."

There was another ripple of approval from the audience; they were naturally familiar with the alchemist's bloody end, but enjoyed hearing it once again. The Carta dwarves shot the leather-clad, painted-cheeked figure before them a look of appalled apprehension.

"How much more proof do you require that my wife is a formidable opponent?" Alistair enquired, ice cutting through his tone. "You made a grave mistake by underestimating her."

Flora felt her heart swell in her chest; it took all of her renowned stoicism to keep a straight face.

 _He still thinks I'm a formidable opponent. Even though he's been so paranoid over me._

Taron had finished feeding; he smacked his lips and eyeballed his mother. Flora lifted him to her shoulder and began to pat his back gently, inhaling the warm, clean scent of his baby-flesh. Beside her, Alistair took his seat and exhaled heavily, waving a hand for Nathaniel to continue.

"Anyway," the Howe said, reclaiming the attention of the chamber. "The Carta planned to take the queen to a small isle they had scouted and provisioned. They had already contacted those in the underground flesh-markets who might be interested in bidding on the _Flower of Ferelden,_ and two Theirin babes."

As though able to understand the man's spoken words, Cod and Lobster bared their teeth and growled; ears lying flat against their furred skulls. Alistair bristled in similar manner, rage simmering in his veins like something incendiary. Shifting Theodora to his other elbow, he reached out and put a hand on Flora's bare shoulder; fingers curling protectively against her skin.

"I heard this plan spoken by Beraht, and repeated by several others," Nathaniel continued, quietly. "Including the lieutenant Leske. Once we reached the isle, the queen and I were taken to a stone cell and locked there without sustenance."

Flora heard Alistair inhale unsteadily beside her, his fingers tightening on her shoulder. She reached up with her free hand, placing her palm atop his callused knuckles. She felt him relax a fraction, resignation settling across his face as he prepared to listen to the rest of Howe's testimony.

* * *

OOC Author Note: A bit annoyed that I didn't get to finish the Carta section of the Landsmeet, but my husband and I are flying back from Seattle to London tomorrow (or at least *I* will be... the husbo as I type this is frantically rooting around his things for his passport, lol. I DON'T NEED THIS STRESS!) and I still need to pack everything. Anyway, it's nice to see the Carta squirm, bearing in mind the crap they put poor old Flo through!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	217. The Landsmeet II: Howe's Testimony

Chapter 217: The Landsmeet II: Howe's Testimony

"Anyway," the Howe said, reclaiming the attention of the chamber. "The Carta planned to take the queen to a small isle they had scouted and provisioned. They had already contacted those in the underground flesh-markets who might be interested in bidding on the _Flower of Ferelden,_ and two Theirin babes."

As though able to understand the man's spoken words, Cod and Lobster bared their teeth and growled; ears lying flat against their furred skulls. Alistair bristled in similar manner, rage simmering in his veins like something incendiary. Shifting Theodora to his other elbow, he reached out and put a hand on Flora's bare shoulder; fingers curling protectively against her skin.

"I heard this plan spoken by Beraht, and repeated by several others," Nathaniel continued, quietly. "Including the lieutenant Leske. Once we reached the isle, the queen and I were taken to a stone cell and locked there without sustenance."

Flora heard Alistair inhale unsteadily beside her, his fingers digging into her shoulder. She reached up with her free hand, placing her palm atop his callused knuckles. She felt him relax a fraction, resignation settling across his face.

"Beraht came in on several occasions and threatened to cut the babes from the queen's belly if she misbehaved," Howe continued, his voice clear and deliberately even. The man was aware that each word spoken was a nail hammered into a Carta dwarf's coffin.

Alistair's fingers now clamped down so hard on Flora's shoulder that she had to bite back a gasp, eyes widening. He turned to her with a face that did not look like his own; grim and terrible, the pupils chips of flint. Nathaniel Howe fell silent, as did Eamon, noticing the king's sudden diversion of attention.

"Flora," he said, a strange resolution in his tone. "I know Beraht is dead. But did any dwarf standing before us also make that threat to you? That – that he would _cut_ \- "

Alistair could not complete the sentence; his face creasing in a flinch of pain.

"No," she whispered back honestly, her eyes moving across his contorted features.

"Because if they did, I would kill them right now; trial be damned."

"No," Flora said again, low and earnest. "Only Beraht and the alchemist made comments… like that."

Both Beraht and the alchemist lay dead. Alistair stared at her for a long moment, then gave a half-nod, the unhappiness a cloud across his handsome Theirin face. As he settled back in the chair, he held his daughter close against his chest; his broad palm large enough to wholly cradle her infant body. Her dark head nestled against his furred collar and she gave a yawn. The king lifted his other hand in a gesture that was an unconscious mirror of Maric: continue.

"There's not much more to it," Nathaniel Howe said steadily, shifting from one manacled ankle to the other. "The dwarves were all complicit in the plan to sell the queen and the children off in the eastern flesh-markets. Fortunately – well. Beraht ended up with a blade through his neck, courtesy of her majesty."

He canted his head towards the severed trophy, displayed prominently on its silvered platter. There was a long silence, during which Alistair reached a hand to rub wearily at his temples. The Landsmeet shifted impatiently in their seats; more than one longing hand lingered at the blade. The audacity of the Carta's plan to abduct a queen of Ferelden – albeit a very new one – was outrageous enough. When the crime was augmented by the queen's heavy belly and her recent acclaim as Hero of Ferelden, the fury was multiplied threefold.

Eamon cleared his throat, sensing the ripple of disquiet in the court. He withdrew a sheet of creamy vellum from his tunic, unfolding it with enough gravity that it drew the attention of all.

"This is a letter from King Pyral Harrowmont of Orzammar," he said, eyes scanning the neatly inked text. "After the Carta's other ringleader – Jarvia – was slain by the Hero of Ferelden and her companions, the commanding structure of the mob has been gutted. A purge of the undercity has driven out the last of the criminal population."

 _Hm,_ thought Flora, recalling the desperate poverty she had witnessed in Orzammar's abandoned subterranean. _We'll see._

"The king of Orzammar calls for the king of Ferelden to do the same, so that both above and below might be free of gang violence."

Eamon lowered the letter, amidst a murmuring of interest. Alistair's brow furrowed as he thought; one of his swordsman's fingers caught in Theodora's chubby fist.

Then it was time for the vote to be cast, a moment which all had been looking forward to. This would be a process repeated three times throughout the day; when judging the guilt of the dwarves, the bidders, and Howe.

A Chantry sister brought out the brass bowls of judgement, placing them on a wooden stand before the dock.

" _And the Maker will judge those who are worthy to kneel at Hs side in the Eternal City,"_ she intoned, portentous as any cleric tended to be in official capacity. _"And those who defy Him will howl like wolves for the loss of His light."_

She held high a phial of clear, crystalline water, then poured a small amount into the base of one bowl.

" _Behold water from the spring of Andraste: who died innocent as a lamb!"_

Next came another vial, this one filled with an ominous crimson liquid.

" _Behold the guilt-stained blood of Maferath: the life-force of a traitor!"_

 _It's just water from the pond outside, and an Orlesian claret_ , murmured Finian to the gawping wide-eyed rural bann beside him. _Symbolic, you see?_

Once again, the priestess poured the crimson liquid into the second bowl. After making the gesture of worship, she tucked the phials away and took a step back. Eamon came forward to take her place, raising his voice so that it echoed about the lofty rafters.

"Cast your votes, men and women of the Landsmeet."

Following age-old precedent, the lowest ranking members of the assembly would vote first: banns, then arls, then the last teyrn, then members of the royal family, and finally the king. This was to avoid the senior nobility from influencing the decisions of the lesser lords. Teagan led the row of banns forward past the dock; one by one, each noble dropped their pebble into the bloodied bowl. Soon a rhythm of small splashes and metallic clinks was established; steady and unbroken. Bann Reginalda, who had imbibed nearly the entire bottle of Antivan brandy, snarled a slurring reproach towards the dock as she passed it.

" _Shame on you… hic!_ You _desherve_ to be – _hic!_ – torn apart by rampaging brontos!"

The bann had to be gently steered back to her seat by Teagan, who could not hide the grim agreement on his face.

Next came the row of arls and arlessas, led by an equally stern Leonas. Yet again, a steady stream of pebbles landed in the bloodied bowl; the liquid displacement so great that dark splashes were beginning to splatter the flagstones. Eamon was the last to cast his vote, dropping his pebble onto the top of the growing pile.

The dwarves remained silent during the vote, the fight leaving them for the first time since they joined the Carta. A pall of sullen resignation had settled over them; several wore expressions similar to the corpse-markings of the Legion of the Dead. Their lives had been built on unstable foundations – larceny, theft, smuggling and slavery – and now all had come crashing down in spectacular fashion.

Ferelden's only surviving teyrn – Fergus Cousland – rose once the last arl had taken his seat. All eyes were on Bryce's eldest son as he strode purposefully up to the pair of bowls. Before he dropped his pebble, Fergus turned to the dock; scorn blazing across his prematurely-lined face.

"Be grateful that your souls won't enter the Fade when you die," he said, the words cut with a harsh blade. "My parents' spirits wouldn't allow you a single moment of peace."

With that, the teyrn let his pebble fall into the bloodied bowl; turning his back on the dock as he returned to his seat.

Then Flora, responding to a nod from Eamon, rose to her feet with Taron slumbering against her breast. Her heart was pounding irrationally loudly; the pebble felt smooth and cold against the palm of her hand. She was about to step forward when Alistair rose too, unfolding himself to the full six feet and three inches at her side.

"The queen and I will go together," he said, low and resolute. "She's my equal; not my subject."

In addition to this, Alistair was not about to allow his wife and son near the prisoners' dock – chained though the occupants were – without his presence.

Together, the king and queen of Ferelden made their way across the flagstones, their children asleep in their arms. They moved with the fluidity of a pair who had learned synchrony in battle; who had lived and fought and slept as a pair during one of the most intense years in Ferelden's history. The Mabari accompanied them, forming a protective barrier around the pair as they headed towards the bowls.

In unison and without hesitation, their hands stretched out over the bloodied bowl and dropped their pebbles. The pile of small stones now rose above the lip of the bowl; each one crimson and slick. The hands, now empty, reached out in wordless coordination and wove together; the king and queen proceeded back to their seats with their fingers linked tightly.

The judgement was clear: all stones sat in the _guilty_ bowl, the clear water in the _innocent_ counterpart remained still and flat as a mirror. Eamon rose to his feet, expanding his voice once more so that it filled the chamber.

"The will of the Landsmeet has been made known," he announced, in sibilant ringing tones. "Dwarves of the Carta, you are found unanimously _guilty_ of the following charges: sedition, conspiracy, abduction, illegal imprisonment, endangerment of the royal heirs, and _treason of the highest degree._ The king will now decide your sentence."

The Landsmeet fell quiet, all eyes moving towards the Theirin as he sat motionless on his elevated chair. Theodora's small hand formed a fist around his finger once again; he was so deep in thought that he did not notice.

Flora sat quietly beside her husband, peering at his handsome, furrow-browed profile from the corner of her eye. She could not see his expression from the angle she was at, yet she could sense a myriad of emotions emanating from his rigid frame. The heat from the braziers reflected off the gold band wrapped about his forehead; fracturing into fragments of brilliant light.

Finally, he lifted his chin and the Landsmeet held their breaths; waiting for the king to deliver the sentence. The bedraggled remnants of the Carta did not look up, their gazes fixed to the flagstones.

"The officers of the Carta will go to the gallows this afternoon," he said, the words emerging slow and deliberate. "Since you bear the most culpability for this… this _atrocity_ against my family. Your scheme to broker my wife's body and pawn off my children. The rest of you will be stripped of all possessions and cast adrift at sea. You and your guild are exiled from my country – and woe betide you if you try and return. The gallows will seem like a mercy if you dare try it."

The sentence was thus delivered; a rumble of satisfaction went through the audience, anticipating the afternoon's entertainment. Alistair turned to Flora, sensing that the guards were keen to remove the prisoners from the dock.

"Do you have anything you want to say to them, my love?" he asked, quiet enough so that only she could hear.

Up until that moment Flora could not think of a single thing that she wished to say to her dwarven abductors; save for some choice Herring curses that were most likely unsuitable for a Landsmeet. Yet when Alistair asked her if she had any parting words for the Carta, she was surprised to find herself nodding. She had nothing prepared, no scathing witticism or jubilant comment; despite this, she wet her lips with her tongue in preparation to speak.

The Landsmeet chamber went silent, waiting with baited breath to hear the distinctive, lowborn accent of their queen, the words shaped by the soft and throaty husk of the northern coast. Flora did not look at the rest of the audience, she looked at the pathetic huddle of dwarves before her, unwashed, half-starved and resigned to their fate.

"I've been to Dust Town," she said; her words soft and yet distinct enough to carry to the very back of the chamber. "I understand that it was poverty and squalor that set you on this ill-chosen path. But poverty can shape you for good as well as for ill."

 _Herring taught me more lessons about bravery and determination than Highever ever did._

"If the Waking Sea spares you, and takes you to some distant shore," she continued, rocking Taron as he squirmed grumpily against her breast. "I hope you try another path. Learn a craft, try out a trade. Barter goods instead of flesh. You live a long life; men have changed in less time."

Then her voice sharpened; the pale grey eyes hardening and cooling to chips of ice.

"And – one more thing. You were wary of me because of _these-"_ she leaned forwards, showing the Archdemon's marking scrawled in silver across her naked collarbone, recalling how they had cringed from these arcane remnants.

"But you _ought_ to have been wary of me because I was a mother defending her children. And there is _nothing_ more dangerous than that."

Two high points of colour flared in her cheeks; the only hint of the emotion behind the glacial stare.

"Hear, hear!" said Finian loudly from the audience, unable to restrain himself. Bann Reginalda let out a slurred cheer of agreement.

The dwarves were led from the dock, the chains striking up their irregular metallic accompaniment once again. The Landsmeet shifted, conversations breaking out in different spots as the nobility eagerly poured over what had just transpired. Zevran sidled along the benches towards Finian, perching beside him with a white-toothed grin at the alarmed neighbouring arl.

"Did anyone advise Alistair on the sentence, or did he devise it himself?" the elf murmured, watching Eamon approach the royal couple. "It was well-delivered. The boy is holding himself together well, considering."

"Himself, as far as I know," Finian replied, blowing a kiss towards his niece as she waved a sleepy arm above her blanket. "It's a good sentence – ticks all the boxes, you know. Death to those most responsible, the 'mercy' of exile for the underlings. I wish someone would exile _me_ from this damp and depressing coastline. See there? That's a _leak_ in the ceiling. The blasted castle is full of them; Fergus thinks it's more important to repair walls than roofs. Talk to me about Antivan summers, Zev, while we wait for part two."

While Zevran described humid, perfumed evenings and the smell of a clay-baked wall in the sun, Eamon stood before the king and queen and waited patiently for an answer. The arl had asked Flora whether she needed a brief respite from the trial before they brought out the men who had planned to bid on her.

Flora, with slight surprise, realised that she did not feel as though she needed a break _._ In contrast to her earlier trepidation, she felt reasonably _calm_ – ready to stare down her would-be purchasers with her unique mixture of Cousland haughtiness, Herring bluntness and post-adolescent scorn.

 _I'm surrounded by my friends, by my family. Alistair is with me. I have no reason to be afraid: I'm not alone._

However, out of the corner of Flora's eye she could see her husband's composure beginning to falter, cracks appearing in the carefully arranged sternness like a porcelain vase on the verge of shattering. He was gazing ahead, unblinking and yet focused on nothing but the air; she could almost _feel_ the increasing tempo of his pulse.

"I need a respite," Flora said impulsively, her hand stretching out to anchor Alistair's with strong, slender fingers. "A quarter-candle."

"Aye, lass. Take what time you need."

Eamon was more than happy to call for a pause in proceedings; he was well aware of the political currency in having the young queen maintain her renowned stoicism in public.

The audience stood up as the royal couple made their exit; not through the main entrance to the chamber, but via a small side-door that Flora half-remembered. She wondered if perhaps she had hidden there as a child, or used it as an escape route from some pesky caregiver in hot pursuit.

They were accompanied by a pair of Royal Guard and several Mabari. Cod and Lobster had been temporarily removed in order to receive a stern talking-to from Fergus. In a puppyish lapse of discipline, they had both lunged for Leske's crotch with fangs bared as the dwarf was led out.

The side-door led to a servant's corridor, one of the many narrow vessels that woven around the main arteries of the castle. It was cramped and poorly lit; this particular passage appeared to have been designated as an unofficial storage area. A pair of benches rested against one wall, along with a three-legged dresser, a cracked mirror and a dusty suit of arms that bore long-lost heraldry.

The door swung shut behind them, blotting out the sound and light from the gathered Landsmeet. Flora stared up at her increasingly pale-faced husband; his chiselled jaw made hollow by a tallow-stuffed candelabra. The cracks in his composure were widening like fault lines, he brought up his free hand to brush roughly at his eyes. It was a shift in expression that she had seen more than once during those dark weeks after Duncan's death.

Flora acted swiftly; handing a gurgling Taron to one startled Royal Guard before reaching into Alistair's arms to retrieve Theodora. The second guard promptly received the little princess, breaking into a mild sweat beneath his closed face helm. In a few months' time the twins would be distraught at any separation from their parents; for now, they peered blearily up at the guards with bemused, intensive focus.

The queen, having deposited both of their children with the guards, then turned her attention to her husband. She guided him down to the bench, then put her arms around his neck and drew his head to her naked shoulder. He clung to her like a drowning sailor would grasp at a crag jutting above the waves; inhaling unsteady lungfuls of air. Flora could feel dampness against her skin, and her heart gave a lurch of sympathy.

"Alistair," she whispered and he gripped her tighter, his response slipping out between gasping breaths.

"They _drugged_ you, Flo," he croaked into her collarbone, the words painful as they emerged. "They chained you like a dog. They threatened to cut – to _cut- "_

"Shh," she whispered, pressing his face into the warm skin of her neck so that he could not speak. "They didn't."

"I – I – can't _bear- "_

"Don't speak," she instructed, letting her palm stroke an oar-length up and down his spine. "Just breathe."

Alistair obeyed wordlessly; seeking comfort in his wife as he had once found in his sister-warden during the darkest nights of the Fifth Blight. He let his fingers run through the crimson ropes of her ponytail; inhaled the clean and simple scent of the plain soap she favoured. Her body felt sturdy despite its slenderness; the delicate bone of her wrist and collar sculpted from marble rather than eggshell. The place where Taron had nestled was still warm; he bowed his forehead to the swell of her breast and inhaled the lingering baby-scent of his son.

"I…I failed in my marriage vow to protect you," he said, so soft that she had to strain to hear. "And our children."

"You've protected me for months, Alistair. But this time, _I_ protected me," Flora replied, soft and firm. "And I protected them, too."

Alistair lifted his face; her clear, rainwater eyes caught his gaze and kept it, unblinking. He stared into the pale irises which he had never found cold, or haughty, or any of the other adjectives that bards tended to use.

"I can't lose you, Flo," he said, raw and honest. "That, above all, would drive me mad."

"Well, you won't," his adamant queen said, with northern bluntness. "I promise. Let's stay here for a bit longer before we go back."

* * *

OOC Author Note: OH NOOOO the jet lag is so real. Had a loooong journey back, left Seattle on Friday morning and got back into London at about 3pm on Saturday (though with an 8 hour time difference.) Yes my husband managed to find his passport and British settlement card, lol.

Anyway, I love a good trial and I liked the idea of Howe testifying against the Carta. I also thought that Alistair – despite being hardened – is still sensitive enough when it comes to his family that hearing about the Carta's threats to Flora would make him distraught.

In my headcanon, despite Flora willing the exiled dwarves to make a new start for themselves, many go off to Kirkwall and resume their nefarious activities there!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	218. The Landsmeet III: The Flesh-Buyers

Chapter 218: The Landsmeet III: The Would-Be Flesh-Purchasers

They stayed within the servant's passage for several more minutes; Alistair taking deep gulps of air to calm himself. Flora continued to nestle herself against his side, wishing that she could spend the rest of the day cuddling with her husband instead of facing the next set of villains. The two Royal Guard held the twins in the background, neither man entirely comfortable with the squirms and squeaks of a newborn. Theodora flailed her hand close to a ridged silverite gorget; the guard gingerly nudged her chubby arm away as though it were the more dangerous half of a snake.

"Right," the king said eventually, once his breathing had settled into a somewhat normal rhythm. "We ought to get back in there, my darling. I'm eager to pass judgment on these half-dozen whoresons. How do I look?"

He gestured self-consciously to his face; so recently twisted in guilt-laced anguish.

"Like the shiniest fish in the ocean," she breathed, reaching up to brush away the stale remnant of a tear from his cheek. "The fattest octopus on the beach. The plumpest maggot in the bucket."

Alistair laughed, unfolding himself from the bench to reach his full six feet and three inches. Ducking his head to meet her expectant upturned face; their mouths pressed together for a few tantalising seconds, lips brushing with reluctant briefness.

"Let's go back in, my love."

They proceeded back inside the assize chamber, where many of the Landsmeet were milling around in conversation. Fereldan nobility did not follow the same amount of strict protocols as their Orlesian counterparts; who would have been required to behave with meticulous decorum. The Orlesian _duc_ was mostly ignored by everybody; mask-clad, he made for a splash of bright turquoise within the sea of less gaudy Fereldan liveries.

As king and queen re-entered through the side door, the chamber gave them the more informal hail of greeting, much to the sweating alarm of the herald. Alistair, Taron clutched tightly in an arm, ventured across to speak with Eamon; Flora went to her companions. Wynne, Zevran and Leliana were seated on a lower bench within range of the prisoners' dock. None of them trusted entirely in the strength of fetters – and knew how wily the Carta could be – and so they were taking no chances. Zevran flipped a throwing-blade idly between his fingers; Leliana was armed to the teeth beneath her demure fuchsia gown. Wynne, in deference to her position as senior enchanter and Hero's companion, had even been permitted to bring her staff into the Landsmeet chamber.

" _Carina,"_ Zevran murmured, the first to notice Flora's approach. "And the even littler _carinina._ Are you fuelled with the fires of vengeance?"

Flora gave an ambiguous grunt, still mildly annoyed with herself for the twinges of sympathy she had felt towards the bedraggled prisoners.

"I think their lives must have been very hard," she said, shifting Theodora from one arm to another as the baby squeaked. "But I'm glad that an example is being made. I think being abducted three times in a year is enough to last a _lifetime."_

"I whole-heartedly agree, child," interjected Wynne, with familiar sternness. "Think of the health of your poor husband. I'm not sure that Alistair's constitution could handle you placed in any more peril."

"I think my days of peril are over," Flora replied, letting Theodora slither into Leliana's arms as the bard cooed down at her. "I don't want to cause Alistair any more stress. I've retired from putting myself in danger."

 _At least, until Ferelden needs me again. I might not be a mage any longer, but I can help in other ways._

" _Sí,_ your gilded cage has strong and sturdy bars to keep out threats," purred the elf, wickedly. He then received chiding stares from both Wynne and Leliana, the latter letting out a most Orlesian _huff_ of air from her throat.

Flora darted a smile at her former Crow in response, reaching out to adjust an uneven lacing on his collar.

"I've not been free for most of my life," she replied simply, glancing over her shoulder as the Landsmeet began to retake their seats around her. "Highever, Herring and the Circle were all prisons in their own way, weren't they? Ooh, I think I have to go and sit back down at the front."

She took back Theodora, who had been lulled into sleep by the heady scent of Leliana's perfume Flora's companions watched her return to the platform; the crowds parting before the girl's leather-clad figure with a murmur of deference.

"She's not wrong," Zevran observed, leaning back in his seat and testing the sharpness of the blade's edge with a finger. "Now, let us see this gallery of fiends who tried to barter coin for flesh."

The atmosphere in the chamber had begun to shift; subtle and yet somehow perceptible, like the muffling of the sky before a storm. The air seemed to cool several degrees, conversations trailed off and the audience turned their faces expectantly towards the doorway. Hands crept towards the hilts of blades; anticipation hung in the air like the split-second of silence before a scream.

During the earlier trial of the dwarves, the members of the Landsmeet had openly taunted them; their derision writ naked across their faces. Yet, for all their terrible intentions, the dwarven guild had been the _brokers_ of the sale, not the buyers. The men who had sailed for days – in some cases, _weeks –_ in the confidence that the Carta would procure this most lofty of prizes, were somehow even _more_ worthy of contempt. The Landsmeet thus prepared themselves to look upon this most reprehensible and audacious assortment with the greatest degree of scorn that they could manifest.

Alistair was already standing at his chair, Taron cradled in one arm and the other stretched out towards her. Although the prisoners had not yet been brought in, he needed to have his wife close to his side. The memory of a cold bed and an empty spot on the saddle was still too near; it did not take much effort to recall the terrible rawness of Flora's absence. Without her he had become a man scraped hollow, nothing but empty skin slung over aimless bone.

Flora came dutifully across the chamber towards him, her high-pulled hair swinging behind her like a horse's tail. There was no trace of his earlier emotion on Alistair's face; he gazed outwards with stony Marician coolness. Only once she had taken her seat beside him did he relax a fraction. She heard Alistair exhale a long breath, then signal a brief nod towards Eamon. The queen raised her chin to parallel the proud, contemptuous stare of the king; grateful, for a thousandth time, for the natural imperiousness of her face. The Mabari gathered about them pricked their ears in the direction of the wall, their hackles rising.

The arl made a swift gesture, and the servants at the far end of the chamber hastened to open the doors. There was a soft rustle of fur and leather as the Landsmeet angled themselves towards the entrance; grim as a band of martyrs from a Chantry doom-painting. The Mabari bristled, their ears pricked and haunches tensed.

Flora felt her heart lurch; not from _fear_ , but from a sudden storm-surge of anger. Whatever modicum of sympathy she had reluctantly possessed for the dwarves – who had turned to criminality after years of poverty – had utterly drained in the face of these wealthy slavers.

 _I don't even care about what they wanted to do to me._

 _They wanted to exchange our twins for coin._

She could feel her full lip curling; the timbre of her pale eyes turning cold and hard. The apprehension from earlier had melted away like surface frost, leaving a glacial disdain that complemented the smouldering wildfire of her husband's anger.

At first, the queen was surprised at how _normal_ the prisoners appeared; manacled together in the tattered and torn remnants of their fine garb. She had always imagined them as possessing some sort of bestial feature – demonic horns, the razored teeth of Darkspawn – but this gaggle of men appeared utterly pathetic. A half-dozen had survived the capture led by Fergus Cousland: four humans and two dwarves. A grotesquely overweight Rivaini led the way, his once meticulously-groomed facial hair now run rampant over his cheeks; followed by a limping man with the tatters of an Orlesian mask clinging to his features. The next prisoner had been beaten so badly at some point during his capture that his features were swollen and unrecognisable. The final human was of indeterminate origin, his sallow skin the unhealthy shade of curdled milk. The two dwarfs had the indentations of fine jewellery pressed into their flesh – holes in the earlobes, the imprinted ghosts of rings and headbands – but now wore only the ragged remnants of velvet, their gold stripped from them.

Flora stared at them, utterly incredulous at the audacity of this random gaggle of strangers. Each man had set sail for a tiny isle in the Waking Sea, ships laden with gold; their intent to trade coin for flesh. The thought of being _purchased_ by anyone – let alone this motley band – made the queen feel both disgusted and vaguely nauseous. The fact that they had also intended to enslave her children made her incandescent with rage. The queen clutched the sleeping Theodora a little more tightly to her chest; her daughter entirely unaware of the fate that had almost befallen her.

Flora could also feel Alistair's fury blazing from him in waves; crashing out into the chamber like the wrath of the sea in storm. Neither one of the royal couple had risen from their seats at the prisoners' entrance, though the king appeared to be barely restraining himself. The fingers of his free hand wandered compulsively over the hilt of his blade; eyes dark and feverish as he sat on the very edge of his chair.

The prisoners shuffled into the dock, prodded ungently by the sword-tips of the guards. They stood there in a clump of bodies, unwashed and foul-smelling; their expressions unreadable. The Rivaini was so grotesquely overweight that his bulk pressed the scrawny Orlesian into the wooden railing. The Orlesian _duc_ in the audience spotted this disgraced counterpart and grimaced; eyes narrowing in disgust behind his elaborate mask.

Cod and Lobster had retreated to their mistress' feet, lying one before the other in an improvised barrier. Flora wished that she could reach down and pat them. Instead, she let the toe of her boot nudge gently against each pup in turn. Cod shot Flora a mournful look from dark, limpid eyes; unable to understand _why_ her mistress insisted on sharing a space with this gang of deviants.

"Before we begin," Eamon said, his voice colder than Flora had ever heard. "You ought to know that we have received correspondence from the ruling families of each of your respective nations. All condemn your crime in the very strongest words, and abandon any regional claim to your sorry beings. You are, effectively, _nationless;_ and should expect no diplomatic protec-"

"Take your eyes _off_ my wife, or I'll have them _taken_ out."

The king had spoken in low and ominous tones; the attention of the chamber duly swivelled from the Chancellor to the man seated nearby. Alistair was staring at the bloated Rivaini, who had dared to sneak subtle glances at the prize he had attempted to purchase. The man hastily dropped his oiled gaze to his feet; fury mingling with resentment across his meaty cheeks. Zevran gave an excited wriggle from where he was seated beside Finian; hoping that he would be called upon to perform the aforementioned ocular extraction.

Flora, conversely. had not felt the heat of the prisoner's covetous stare. She was still taken aback by the audacity of this pathetic collection of miscreants.

 _I'd take a fish-hook to all of your manhoods if you dared lay a finger on me,_ she thought to herself, fiercely.

 _What a group of bottom-feeding sea-slugs._

Theodora yawned in agreement, clutching the dangling lace of her mother's bodice in a chubby fist.

"Ademaro of Stone Fist, Eduoard du Eldwin of Pierreglas, Padan Sekah of the Upper Fels, Adalberto of House Natale, Maleus Naisha of Dairsmuid and Angsgar Pike-thrust," Eamon intoned, reciting the names from a sheet of vellum held before him. "You are charged with the following crimes: conspiracy to enslave, seditious behaviour, conspiracy to rape, attempted abduction and participation in the illegal flesh-sale. If your plan had come to fruition, you would have taken part in such abominable practices that the Maker Himself would revile you with especial hatred."

Flora could feel Alistair beside her, quivering with the effort of restraint. Eamon's graphic accusation had driven him almost to the point of no return; only the warm pressure of his son against his chest brought a small measure of calm. She did not need to look at her brothers, nor across to her companions, to know that they appeared similarly livid. A dangerous tension prickled between the ancient walls like the soft vibration of the air before a summer storm. Quite suddenly, the queen realised that none of the prisoners would be leaving the chamber alive.

"The evidence is overwhelming," Eamon continued, although no prisoner had attempted to exonerate themselves. "We have plentiful correspondence to prove it. The Carta meticulously keeps all letters that it receives – most likely for the purpose of blackmail - and each of you wrote to confirm your attendance at the auction of Florence Cousland."

An ominous ripple moved throughout the chamber; fingers moved to the hilts of blades and more than one noble shifted restlessly in their seat. Fergus, his face made puce with rage, had to be gripped at the elbow by Finian.

" _My_ aim was to rescuethe lady Cousland," ventured one of the dwarves, voice stilted and eyes flickering to the left. "I… intended to return her safely to your side, King Alistair."

" _Bollocksh you did!"_ bellowed the half-drunk Bann Reginalda from the stand.

Alistair's lip curled; he did not indulge such a ludicrous claim with a response.

Eamon continued hastily, sensing the mutinous atmosphere in the Landsmeet chamber growing. Although the trial had been convened for the purpose of displaying Fereldan justice, it was quickly becoming apparent that the men and the Bannorn desired a different sort of justice for these deviants.

"Ademaro of Stone Fist, I have correspondence from you here, in which you enquire about the possibility of _testing out the merchandise_ before purchase."

The Landsmeet erupted in outrage, a wave of shared indignation rolling out into the centre of the chamber. Calls for immediate execution tangled with cries of derision, while in one corner Leliana was hanging onto Zevran's arm to halt the throwing blade clasped in his fingers.

Flora, who had never been very adept at interpreting metaphor, did not know exactly what the dwarf had meant by his comment. She guessed – based on the outrage of her peers – that it was nothing pleasant, and let out a little sigh under her breath. Letting her gaze wander about the chamber, she caught sight of Loghain perched in the corner, in the midst of his small clump of Wardens. The former teyrn's expression was caught somewhere between a scowl and a grimace of disgust.

 _Tomorrow, I want to do nothing but spend time with you, and your brother, and your papa,_ Flora thought to herself, gazing down at her daughter's sleeping face. _And our friends. I hope that's possible, and we don't have any other obligations. Or, I hope that our duties for the day end early._

 _You're growing up so quickly. I don't want to miss anything._

Meanwhile, the Landsmeet chamber had fallen into silence, neither hushed by Eamon, nor chided into compliance by the Cousland stewards. Instead, their eyes fell on their king, who had risen measuredly to his feet. Alistair gazed forward, unblinking as a Mabari on the hunt; suddenly seeming far older than a man of one-and-twenty.

"Maker only knows what twisted demons will emerge from your shattered souls after you die," he said in a low voice, with a certainty that was chilling. "I've spent the past two years of my life fighting Darkspawn that possess more humanity than you."

It was at that pivotal moment that the trial altered itself; metamorphosed into something new and different, though still clad in the faded markings of its previous iteration. Perhaps, the dwarf's declaration was prompted by the blade hanging at the king's waist. Conversely, perhaps Ademaro of Stone Fist had realised the inevitability of a traitor's death, if his trial was conducted in the standard fashion.

"I want a trial-by-combat!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ahhhh a bit of drama! Of course a trial by combat is what ends up going down in the Landsmeet in Origins. But anyway, what a load of creeps! I don't blame Flora for blanking them and focusing on her daughter instead. Awww she's so into her duty, lol, she's like MAYBE TOMORROW WE'LL GET TO SPEND MORE TIME WITH THE TWINS AFTER OUR DUTIES AND OBLIGATIONS ARE DONE!

Poor Alistair is just about keeping it together! Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	219. The Trial-By-Combat

Chapter 219: The Trial-By-Combat

The atmosphere in the Landsmeet was electrified; caught in the split-second between the lightning and the thunder. This was followed shortly by a ripple of excitement, whispers tangling together into an anticipatory hum. Teagan shot a swift glance at Eamon, who was grim-faced but unable to protest. Any prisoner brought to trial in Ferelden had the right to request a trial by combat, although their petitions could be turned down by the most senior noble turned.

It was evident that no denial would take place. A half-smile flickered at the corner of Alistair's lips; it was cold and utterly humourless. He stared at the dwarf for a long, appraising moment, then turned to where Flora was seated at his side. His queen was already reaching out her spare arm to take Taron, and he let the sleeping baby slither down gently against her chest. Husband and wife shared a swift and potent glance; his hazel eyes fixing themselves unblinking on her pale irises.

 _Be careful,_ she implored him silently; letting the veil of stoicism slip for him alone. _Please._

Alistair replied with an imperceptible nod, face softening as his gaze dropped to the sleeping infants nestled in her arms. He leaned across and kissed her on the forehead; a gentle brush of lips against skin. Then he was rising to his feet, unfolding the full length of his six foot and three inch frame, one hand settling the hilt of his blade.

"I accept," he said, and the chamber let out their anticipatory breath in a low exhalation. _"Gladly."_

The Mabari, hugely reluctant, were removed from the area; as well-trained and intelligent as they were, they would not be able to resist leaping to the defence of their master.

Flora had tremendous faith in her husband's combat ability. She had seen him face off against the worst enemies that Ferelden could conjure and come off triumphant. She also knew that, even now, he still spent several hours a day practising with shield and blade in the training-grounds. Yet, she could not help but feel a twist of apprehension in her gut as she watched him loosen the neck of his tunic.

 _He's very good with a sword. Don't panic. You have to look stoic and unruffled, remember? That's what Leliana said._

 _Even though I can't shield him any more._

Fortunately, the daughter of Herring had spent ten years watching her dad sail out into the capricious shallows of the Waking Sea. The fishermen of the northern coast wagered their lives on the temperament of the tide; the families left on the beach learnt to bear their fear with grit and grace. The queen of Ferelden lifted her chin and watched her husband with a steady, steely nonchalance as he stepped from the platform.

 _He doesn't need me to shield him._

The prisoner would be armed with a single blade, but would bear no armour. The king would be similarly under-equipped, as per the ancient rules of trial-by-combat. Alistair loosened the neck of his leather tunic, pulling out the laces until he could remove the constricting outer layer. Underneath he wore a linen undershirt, which allowed for far greater freedom of movement. The king rolled his shoulders; the muscle rippled leisurely against the linen.

"Do any of you others wish a trial by combat?" Eamon demanded of the groups of prisoners, his face pale and stern. "Speak now, or hold your tongues."

The arl was torn: caught between the propaganda benefits of the king's victory, and the possibility that Alistair might be injured – or worse. Eamon's fears were confirmed when _all_ of the prisoners declared their wish to have a trial by combat. They had realised that this would be their only slim chance of survival; the Landsmeet had already quite clearly decided on their guilt.

Alistair bowed his head in acquiescence, his eyes flashing with subtle triumph. Despite the Chancellor's visible nervousness, the king gripped his blade with a calm confidence. The nobility murmured amongst themselves, shifting excitedly in their seats.

Flora darted a swift glance towards her companions: Wynne bore Eamon's apprehension, whereas Zevran was grinning with unabashed delight. Leliana met her gaze and gave a small nod of approval, pleased with the impression that Flora's unruffled composure gave.

The guards stepped forward to unshackle the dwarf, Ademaro. Nobody – understandably – wished to loan him their sword, and so one was procured from the armoury. Several pikes pointed in the dwarf's direction as he shook out his stiff arms, taking several practise swings in the centre of the chamber. Alistair watched his opponent warm up his limbs, eyes narrowed, his own weapon held loosely at his thigh. The sword itself had once been crafted for Maric. The blade ran for a metre of double-edged silverite, and weighed almost four pounds. The hilt was engraved with seams of volcanic aurum, gleaming where the light hit them.

At last Ademaro of Stone Fist professed himself ready, a lone figure standing in the centre between the stands. He was fidgeting on the spot, nervous energy coursing through the channels of his body. In contrast, the king was as still as a watchful predator; the green flecks in his eyes as sharp as shards of broken glass.

An anticipatory hush fell over the chamber, accompanied by a rustle of fabric as those seated shifted to gain a better view. The _duc_ was caught somewhere between fascination and alarm. Although violence did break out on occasion in an Orlesian trial, it was more often than not the result of unexpected assassination. This state-sanctioned bloodshed was something foreign – and unmistakably _Fereldan_ \- to the _Duc_ Germain.

Alistair stepped forwards, his path followed by the eyes of the chamber. Flora stared at her husband's strong shoulders; his tall and brawny frame could have been sculpted by some Ancient Tevene scholar.

 _He'll be fine,_ she thought to herself, tasting the bitter tang of fear at the back of her throat as she clasped the sleeping twins a fraction more tightly to her chest. _He will be fine. Of course he will._

The queen could feel the eyes of the chamber passing over her, and steeled herself to receive their scrutiny. Taron, utterly oblivious to what was transpiring only metres before him, yawned and turned his face against the warmth of his mother's breast.

The king and the dwarf faced one another in the centre of the chamber; thin beams of sunlight filtering in through the high windows. The dwarf's face bore an expression of ugly resolution, his eyes small and sharp as a fox. There was an air of desperation that hung about him, raw and perspiring. Alistair had assumed a guarded stance, his blade held at a diagonal before his chest. The king's shoulders were low and relaxed; he exuded the confident stillness of an apex predator.

The dwarf struck first, lunging forward like a poorly-trained Mabari. The king, with a fleetness that belied his stature, side-stepped the blow with ease. Ademaro almost lost his balance, stumbling forwards with a choked snarl. He swung his blade around in a reckless arc, hoping that it would meet flesh at some point on its journey.

Unfortunately for the dwarf, Alistair had spent nearly two years dodging the far more dexterous attacks of Genlocks. Once more, with an ease that almost seemed insulting to the dwarf, he stepped to the side. The dwarf did not stumble this time, lifting his blade and launching a wild array of blows.

The king countered each one; his swordsmanship a strange, yet potent combination of Templar stances and battlefield guile. The clash of metal rang out; a clatter of silverite against steel. Ademaro fell back with a curse, his arm jarred by the collision of their blades.

Alistair had not yet made any offensive move, waiting for the dwarf to exhaust himself with attack after futile attack. The less-experienced fighter increased the speed and desperation of his attacks; barely pausing between each desperate flurry of blows. With each failure, Ademaro's face grew redder and more contorted, his sweaty fingers losing their grip on the hilt of his blade.

Flora, in slight disbelief that both Taron and Theodora were still sound asleep, watched her husband duck and counter each flailing blow.

 _This reminds me of watching him at the Proving,_ she thought suddenly, swallowing to disguise the nausea.

 _He's going to be fine, just like he was then._

Finally, the young monarch unleashed his strength, unleashing a volley of calculated strikes that drove the dwarf stumbling backwards. He drew blood from a half-dozen places on the gasping creature, each blow struck with cool deliberate precision. Eamon's words from earlier – _this dwarf had requested to test out the merchandise –_ fuelled this meticulous assault.

"You-!" gasped out his opponent, wild-eyed and furious. _"You- "_

"For my _wife,"_ replied the king, thrusting the blade forward with sudden savagery.

The tip of the sword plunged straight through the dwarf's chest; sliding forwards with gruesome ease. The power of the thrust saw the blade emerging between Ademaro's shoulder-blades; slick, crimson, and decorated with scraps of tattered cardiac muscle. The dwarf, already dead, swayed for the briefest of moments. Then, he crashed to the floor like a sack of something shapeless; blood spilling out in great gouts from the ravaged heart. It pooled across the flagstones, running in scarlet veins between the tiles.

A split-second of silence was broken by the Landsmeet drumming their feet against the stone, ragged shouts of approval emerging from the crowd. Zevran had called out something triumphant in his native tongue; his distinctive accent blurring into the mass of native Fereldan.

The king lowered his blade, breathing in measured interval. He spared no further attention for the corpse as it was dragged away by the guards; turning to gaze up at the royal platform. His queen gazed back at him, still and pale as a marble bust. The weight of their sleeping twins must have been substantial on her breast and yet she sat straight as a poker, her chin slightly elevated.

"Who would be next?" Alistair called out, the edge of his voice raw as he turned back to face the prisoners' dock. "Step forward."

Flora was long-familiar with _death_ ; as a healer, it had been her oldest and greatest rival. It attempted to coax her patients through the Veil with cloying tendrils, easing them into the endless darkness of eternal slumber. It had been her vocation to reach out and pull them _back,_ to burn away death's lures with the vital energy she breathed from her lips. On several occasions, she had worked on a half-dead man in the waking world, while her spirit of Compassion had pushed his emerging soul forcefully back out of the Fade.

Over the past year Flora had also seen the _process_ of death more times than she could quite literally count. She had seen Daveth and Jory breathe their last before her; had watched men fall on the battlefield, too far for her to intervene. She had watched assassins perish at the end of Zevran's blade, or Alistair's, or Leliana's. She had seen all the myriad ways that a body could open itself up and spill across the grass. She had broken Rendon Howe's skull into fragments, and sawed Beraht's head from his neck with her own remorseless hand.

The queen was thus able – without flinching, or looking away – to watch as her husband laid waste to the men who had planned atrocities against her. Despite this, she had not become immune to the instinctual horror of watching a man die. She made herself look, grateful that the infants at her chest had somehow remained asleep.

 _Stay sleeping, little lobsters. Don't open your eyes._

Alistair, to his credit, made some effort to make each death a clean one, but this was not always possible. The second prisoner – the sallow-faced Orlesian – fought in a desperate flail, windmilling his blade wildly. The king's killing blow struck him at an angle, opening a seam across his belly. The entrails spilled out like butcher's offal; the man choked a cry and fell to his knees. Alistair did not hesitate, thrusting the blade forward to pierce the man's throat.

The next prisoner, on seeing the Orlesian's messy demise, took the blade in shaking fingers. Instead of fighting, he laid down the sword and began to babble; sweat running in rivulets down his forehead.

"I am guilty of it, guilty of it _all,_ your majesty _,"_ he confessed, wild-eyed. "I cared not for your babes but I coveted your wife, who I heard was the most beautiful woman in Ferelden."

Alistair's nostrils flared like a predator sensing prey, but he managed to restrain himself. Lips folded tightly, he listened as the man made a tremulous and impassioned plea.

"I ask not that my life be spared," he croaked, bloodshot eyes focusing on the king. "But please – take it in one blow. A swift death. I plead for this degree of mercy, King Alistair!"

"Would _you_ have paid heed to the protests of my wife?" retorted Alistair, who was not in the mood for benevolence. "Something tells me that her words would have fallen on deaf ears."

The man let out a half-groan, casting his eyes to the tiles. The guards around him shifted, fingers creeping compulsively along the shafts of their polearms. Alistair paused, then let his head drop in a nod; jaw taut.

"I'll leave the decision to the queen," he said at last, softly. "Since she was the subject of your… _disgusting_ desires."

The prisoner, his face the same colour as curdled milk, shot an oily, bloodshot plea towards Flora. Flora stared back at him for several thoughtful moment, letting him cringe in the face of the glacial Cousland stare. Then, she let her eyes move sideways to settle on Alistair, who knew well already what his wife desired.

 _Are you sure, my love?_ his tawny gaze asked, at once torn and tender.

 _Mm,_ she replied wordlessly, her fine-hewn features still as a portrait.

The king's blade scythed through the air, carving a gleaming silver streak. The man's head went bouncing across the floor, travelling several metres from the force of the strike. It then came to an abrupt halt beneath Fergus Cousland's firmly planted boot. A giggle slipped from Zevran's throat; his dark eyes gleaming in approval.

Guards removed the parts of the man's body, dragging the torso unceremoniously by its legs. The tiles were now soaked in a crimson wash; the king and front row of the audience were decorated with arterial spray.

Eamon asked if any brief respite was required, Alistair shook his head with the grim resolve of one determined to finish what he had begun. If the king had seemed fatigued then the arl would have insisted – but he stood as tall and undaunted as he had done before lifting his sword for the first time. Alistair was fuelled by the vigour of his own fury; a source that seemed inexhaustible.

The fourth prisoner to take up the trial was the grotesquely overweight slave-trader. He held the blade like a dead animal, cringing and holding it far from his body. Alistair easily side-stepped the first three flailing blows, parrying the fourth with such force that the man stumbled backwards, blade clattering to the bloodied tiles. The king, his teeth gritted, made himself wait until the sword had been reclaimed.

It was over very swiftly after that. The slaver, panting and nauseous, left an unfortunate gap in his defence and Alistair struck; thrusting the blade between the ribs with a sickening scrape of bone. The man toppled in a landslide of flesh, eyes rolling back in his head as blood disgorged from the ragged wound.

Theodora woke shortly after the fourth slaver's death, her small lips parting in wordless demand. Passing her sleeping son across to Eamon, Flora loosened the laces on her tunic and gave her nipple to the greedy baby. Theodora paid no attention to the groans of the dying man, her plump hand spread possessively across her mother's breast. The proud queen watched her daughter suckle hungrily; less than three weeks old and the little girl was already determined to make her small mark on the world.

Meanwhile the fifth man died in similarly incompetent manner, gasping like a fish as the life drained from a ravaged throat. He took several minutes to die, the air gurgling within the torn flesh; until Alistair ended the suffering with a strategic sword-thrust. Once more the body was removed by a pair of guards, leaving a macabre trail in its wake.

The Landsmeet shuffled excitedly; only one prisoner left. The Orlesian _duc_ was caught somewhere between disdain and fascination, edging his lace-trimmed calfskin boots away from the spreading sea of blood. Alistair, who had declined even a sip of ale, turned his attentions to the next prisoner: the second dwarf.

"Angsgar Pike-Thrust," shouted Bann Reginalda from the audience stands, sobered enough to follow the proceedings with some coherence. "It's about time you got your comeuppance. Where are the girls you took from that Marcher alienage, eh?"

"I won't go down that easy," snarled the dwarf, his eyes narrowed and avian. "I've paid my dues in the Proving grounds. You'd best prepare yourself."

"Come on, then," retorted Alistair, with equal vitriol. "Don't waste my time."

The dwarf had not been lying. Immediately, it became clear that this was a fighter with several decades of combat experience. The two men circled one another; swords held readied to counter a sudden strike. Neither took their eyes from the face of the other. Alistair had the undeniable advantage of size and sheer power, but the dwarf was as desperate and cunning as a trapped snake.

Angsgar made the first move, lashing out with his blade in an attempt to slice at the king's abdomen. Alistair parried the blow, the sound of clashing metal resonated to the rafters. The Landsmeet gave a collective wince at the sheer force of the strike; Zevran and Leliana shared a single, identical glance.

The king retaliated with an aggressive lunge, which the dwarf managed to only partly deflect. The tip of the blade sliced through his tunic, gouging a long channel at the side of Angsgar's waist. The flesh opened like sliced fruit, revealing pinkish meat; the dwarf let out a strangled roar of pain and rage. Alistair lifted his sword, preparing to thrust it forward for the death blow.

At that moment, the desperate dwarf made a clever move. Groping a hand towards his waist - as if to pull out some hidden blade – he glanced over Alistair's shoulder to where Flora was seated with the baby at her breast.

It was only a feint – there was no possibility that any prisoner could have smuggled in any concealed weapon – but the king was sufficiently distracted. Alistair made a half-lunge to block the dwarf's line of sight, abandoning his own defence to protect his family. Seizing the opportunity, Angsgar made a wild and uncoordinated slash. The tip of his blade cut through Alistair's left shirtsleeve, scoring a gash down the bulky muscle of his upper arm. Blood immediately began to soak through the tattered linen, garish and crimson.

There was a collective inhalation from the crowd; Eamon almost dropped the sleeping baby. Teagan and Leonas glanced swiftly at one another, apprehension flashing like lightning across their faces. The king gritted his teeth and stepped backwards, lifting his blade once more.

Wynne was the only one not looking at Alistair, her gaze focused instead on where Flora was sitting with Theodora at her breast. The senior enchanter knew well enough how the girl reacted when her brother-warden was hurt. Sure enough, the finest of cracks had appeared on the queen's façade of glacial stoicism. The slight quivering of her arms; the twisting downwards of her mouth; the widening of her eyes; all indicated impending public distress.

The mage caught Flora's attention and mouthed across the chamber to her, the pale blue stare uncompromisingly stern.

 _Stay calm, child. Don't you even think about crying._

The queen folded her lips to clamp back her moan of horror; clutching her daughter a fraction more tightly to her chest. Theodora shot her mother a mildly perplexed glance, but continued to feed with a soft grumble.

Down on the floor, Angsgar made another lunge towards the king. Unbalanced by the cut to his waist, he lost his footing on the slick tiles and stumbled forwards. Alistair side-stepped the uncoordinated blow, anger and determination fighting for dominance across his handsome, bloodied features.

"For my _wife."_

As the dwarf lifted his blade, the avenging husband swung Maric's blade upwards with a guttural snarl. A vast seam was opened in the slave-trader's abdomen, beginning at the groin and slicing upwards to the chin.

Angsgar blinked for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish. The light left his eyes as he toppled backwards; he was dead even before his head met the crimson tiles with a sickening crunch.

Silence fell in the chamber as the last of the prisoners lay bleeding his life-force out across the flagstones. From his discrete position in the stand, Zevran tucked the throwing blade he'd readied back into his sleeve.

Alistair, breathing heavily, thrust his sword back into his belt. Sparing only the briefest of glances for his torn sleeve, he turned towards the platform; towards his wife. A weight which he had borne for weeks seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders. Adrenaline still gleamed hot and dark in his eyes, but his face was clear and free of anger.

Flora was already on her feet, Theodora thrust unceremoniously into the arms of a nearby guard. The queen stared, transfixed, at her bloodied husband, her heart raced as though _she_ had just laid waste to six slavers in mortal combat. Afterwards, she would insist that she had not planned her movements in advance; that it was not some ingenious conception of the politically-minded Leliana. She paid no heed to the _spectacle_ of it, nor the fact that this moment would be brought up in conversation for years afterwards.

She found herself stepping down from the platform, moving across the flagstones as though she was a figure in some dream whose goal was within reach. The tiles were slick with blood and yet her booted feet carried her steadily forward, heading with strident purpose towards her husband.

Alistair was already halfway to her, splattered in blood from head to toe. His eyes blazed out in victory; his jaw was set with steely resolution. His queen strode straight into his arms and he pulled her roughly to his chest. Then, ducking to close the difference in height, the king kissed his queen hard and triumphant. Flora, barely noticing the gore smeared across his face, kissed him back with equal ardour; her arms twining possessively about his neck.

"Ahem," said Eamon, and was ignored.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Nice excuse to put in a bit of combat! Anyway, this was inspired by the duel you can take part in during the Landsmeet in game. Alistair gets his opportunity to take out his rage on the men who would have enslaved his wife, and Flo gets a nice bloodied snog at the end of it, haha.

Watching the Great North Run highlights on TV as I edit this (famous half marathon in the UK)… and slightly traumatised because I got peer pressured at work into signing up for a half marathon in December! I'm only just about comfortable with 10ks and that's less than half the distance of a half-marathon. WAAHHHH!

No update till Friday because I have a work trip! But we are not too far from the end now XD

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	220. The Relieving Of Excess Adrenaline

Chapter 220: The Relieving Of Excess Adrenaline

The final session of the Landsmeet – the trial of Nathaniel Howe – was postponed for an hour. This would allow the servants time to rinse the blood from the flagstones, and for Alistair to have his wound tended to. It also granted the nobility a chance to discuss the series of duels between the king and the slavers. Banns and arls immediately formed into clumps, eagerly dissecting the skilled swordplay they had witnessed. The elder peers observed sagely how similar Alistair's fighting style was to that of his father, whereas the younger ones gleefully recanted the details of each death blow. Cousland retainers brought around trays of warmed apple-cider, avoiding the servants scrubbing diligently away at the gore-stained tiles.

"It's so _romantic,"_ Leliana sighed to Wynne, who had taken out her knitting needles as they waited for the trial to resume. "He fought all six without hesitation to avenge his wife's honour. Ah, if I were not laying aside my bardic talent to focus on my Chantry duties, I would be writing _several_ songs in praise of our darling Alistair!"

"I'm sure someone will write them in place of you, my dear," replied Wynne, a ball of creamy wool resting in her lap as the needles clicked busily away.

"Aye, Tareith of Arlenstone fancies himself quite the poet," interrupted Finian, interjecting himself into the conversation. "He wrote a _terrible_ sonnet about my sister after she killed the Archdemon, compared her hair to tomatoes or some such nonsense."

The young arl had been close enough to the duelling area that dark red splatters decorated the front of his expensive navy ensemble; nobody had the heart to tell him.

"Did you see the way that they were looking at each other?" Zevran enquired from Finian's other side, his eyes gleaming wickedly. "They're _definitely_ in bed right now."

"Nonsense!" declared Wynne briskly, knitting needles clattering away with a vengeance as Finian clamped his hands over his ears. "It's the middle of the day."

Zevran let out a derisive cackle; shaking his head as if to say _so?_

The journey back up to the bedchamber had passed in a blur for the trembling queen. She was certain at least that Theodora was curled against her breast – she could feel her daughter's small body curled up like a Mabari pup – and that Taron was tucked into the arm of his eldest uncle. Her heart was still racing, the blood flowing hot through her veins like one of the magma-channels that heated Orzammar's subterranean depths. She was conscious of Alistair's hand gripped tight around hers, his strong fingers entwined with her own and their palms pressed together. His skin felt feverish to the touch; adrenaline still coursed rampant through his body.

Eamon was speaking but his voice sounded as though it was coming from underwater, the words muffled and shapeless. Fergus also chimed in with the occasional comment as they made their way up to the bedchamber; but neither Flora and Alistair were listening. She was aware of the heat of the king's eyes fixed on her, his hazel irises blown wide in the aftermath of the bloodshed. The fine baby-hairs on the back of her neck rose in response to such unblinking scrutiny. Such was the intensity of his gaze, the queen felt as though she were already stripped naked before him; the leather clinging to her body peeled away like the rind of a lemon.

The journey back up to the bedchamber seemed to take an age. Eamon moved like a glacier and Fergus kept pausing to adjust the blanket over his sleeping nephew. Alistair, ignoring the cut to his upper arm, kept a firm grip on his wife's small hand. His thumb moved in restless caresses over her knuckles, still twitchy from gripping the hilt of the sword. Nervous energy coursed through the king's body; even when waiting for servants to open doors, he shifted restless from foot to foot.

Then at last they had reached the chamber, which was still strewn with the detritus of the morning's preparations. The sleeping twins were deposited gently in their crib and the fire was stoked to counter the encroaching autumnal damp. Eamon had already summoned a physician to look at the wound on Alistair's arm. To the doctor's mild annoyance – he was paid by the candle-length – the impatient king requested that the wound be doused in alcohol and then wrapped with a bandage.

"I don't need stitches," he replied, only half-listening to Eamon's protest as he removed his shirt. "I don't care if it leaves a scar. I'd proudly bear it."

The young husband was paying only minimal attention to the doctor; and barely flinched when wine was poured over the wound. His gaze was fixed on his wife, who stood still as a sculpted Tevinter nymph at the end of their bed. Her breast swelled against the confines of the leather bodice as she inhaled unsteadily; the skin creamy and plump as an Orlesian milk-jelly. The pale eyes were alight with a crowd of emotions; though raw need dominated all others.

 _I need you,_ her gaze implored him, her full mouth parted. _Come and take me._

"We'll reconvene the trial when you're ready, Alistair," Eamon was saying, trying in vain to reclaim the king's attention. "If you let the steward outside know- "

"That's fine, uncle," replied Alistair, his voice and posture still thrumming with restless energy. "But I want to… _speak_ with Flo, first. _Alone."_

"Hm," said the arl, archly. "As you wish."

Fergus, who had learnt from past experience, had already fled the chamber. Eamon followed him, with a tactful farewell comment about _not taking too long._ The chancellor, who always retained a view of Ferelden's long-term security, was not going to protest at this possible conception of more royal heirs _._

Alistair was moving across the room even as the door swung shut, his eyes fixed on his wife. He moved as though he was still engaged in mortal combat with the slavers, each step swift and purposeful. The Mabari scattered hastily out of his path, relegating themselves to the doorway to waylay any interruption.

The next moment, Flora found herself flat on her back on the bed, sprawled amidst the furs and blankets with Alistair on top of her. She reached up to clutch handfuls of his tunic; he had the same idea, pulling apart her bodice in a single rough tug to reveal her breasts. His hand was already fumbling at his belt, the air escaping his throat in ragged, irregular pants. It was not just the swiftness of his movement that betrayed the fact that Alistair's body had not yet calmed after the fight; adrenaline fuelled every impatient gesture.

Sweaty muscle pressed the queen down into the mattress, and she felt the warm exhalation of his breath across her naked breast. One of Flora's hands groped to the side even as he began to pull wordlessly at her leather breeches. After a moment, her fingers closed around the near-empty vial of oil that had been discarded in the blankets the previous night. Her husband took it, shaking out the last few drops into his palm while she wriggled out of a single leg of her breeches.

The creamy silk of the smallclothes was discarded in the same way as Flora's bodice, torn from her body with impatient fingers. Then Alistair was at the point of no return, pressing urgently against her with every muscle straining from the effort of holding back. His head hung low, the bandage unravelling from his arm; he was poised above her with need carved in desperate furrows across his forehead.

"Flo – _Flora- I- "_

"Yes,"she implored, reaching up to twine her arms about his neck. _"Please."_

As it turned out there was no need for the oil; his queen was more than ready. The king made love to his queen with adrenaline-fuelled vigour, expending the reserves of energy still coiled tight within the muscles. He was still mostly clothed, whereas she still had her breeches tangled around one leg; so eager they had been to join their flesh.

The act of rutting itself was swift – his buttocks pumped between her parted thighs with militaristic pace – and unashamedly _noisy_. The sweaty collision of writhing flesh competed with the frantic creak of the bedframe; she gasped out her pleasure with joyful abandonment as he laboured away with animalistic grunts above her.

Flora tended to advertise her climaxes to all and sundry; this occasion was no exception. It had become a running wager amongst the royal guard to place coin on how swiftly the king's pleasure would follow.

"There goes the queen," said one guard, yawning as he shifted his pike between idle hands. "She's in good voice today."

"One Mabari... two Mabari… three Mabari," began the other, pressing his ear to the door. "Remember; you owe me six silver if it's less than a ten-count."

"Stop counting so _slowly,"_ retorted his companion, indignantly. "Four Mabari, five Mabari- "

The unmistakable groan of a man in the throes of ecstasy came filtering through the wood. The second guard let out a muffled cackle of triumph as the first grumbled irritably.

"Ha! You owe me six silver. Reckon he's just put a baby in her belly?"

"If the Maker wills it so. Yeah, I do reckon."

There followed a pause, during which muffled conversation could faintly be heard through the door. The king was murmuring; the queen was giggling and responding in the distinctive, throaty cadence that she was known for. The guards made ready to return to the Landsmeet chamber, only to realise that the sound of a joyfully creaking mattress had resumed.

Duty won out, however – both parts of the royal couple were accustomed to yielding to obligation – and the protesting bed soon fell silent. The sound of rustling clothes ensued; followed by the reproving grumble of the girl as she realised that her bodice had been ripped beyond redemption. When they emerged a short time later, with the king carrying his babes in a basket, the queen was pink-cheeked and clad in one of her husband's shirts.

"Theo was sick over my last clean tunic," she explained unnecessarily, winding the trailing bandage more tightly around Alistair's upper arm. "I need to wash my clothes."

Theodora looked less than contrite, waving her small fingers thoughtfully in the air beside her sleeping brother. The little princess, like a localised storm, had caused devastation to a limited area within minutes.

"Hold on a second, my darling," Alistair interjected, letting the basket down to rest on the tiles for a moment. "I just need to- "

He passed a smoothing palm over his wife's bed-rumpled ponytail, which – rather tellingly - appeared as though it had been tugged. Flora reached up to check that the buttons of the shirt were fastened and the linen tucked into her waist. She knew that her cheeks were still flushed with the afterglow of amorous congress, but was unsure what she could do to hasten their settling.

More of a concern were the enthusiastic kisses suckled into her neck and collarbone; a constellation of Alistair's ardent affection. Once upon a time Flora had been able to melt away such marks with a touch of her finger; those times were now long past. The king tried to adjust the angle of her shirt to disguise the wreath of rose-hued bruises, but it proved to be a futile task.

"Oh, well," he said after a moment, abandoning his efforts with a self-conscious grin. "Everyone keeps telling us that we need to make more heirs. We're doing it for Ferelden."

" _Doing it for Ferelden!"_

The notion of this tickled Flora. The queen kept breaking into snuffled, hastily bitten-back cackles as the small procession made their way back down to the assize chamber. During the interim the Landsmeet had been fed, and watered; and now looked forward to the trial of Nathaniel Howe with a mixture of emotions. Naturally, the primary reaction was anger - _this_ was the man who had set the whole ghastly chain of events into motion – but the outrage was tinged with melancholy. The Howes were one of Ferelden's oldest bloodlines; their honour unquestioned until this last pair of disappointing generations. The Orlesian in the audience might have been used to treachery and self-aggrandisement from their native dynasties – all part of their so-called _Great Game_ – but Fereldans liked to pride themselves on their loyalty. The civil war of the past year had uncovered old divides within their society, ancient grudges rearing ugly heads once again. After all, many Ages past, Sarim Cousland had won dominion of Highever from an ancestral Howe.

This brooding undercurrent had been detected by more than one of Alistair's advisors. Leliana, with her finger on the pulse of more than one nationality, was the first to point out the growing tension; Eamon became aware of it shortly afterwards. The royal couple were waylaid before they could re-enter the assize chamber; pulled discreetly to one side by the Chancellor.

"Are you still of a mind to release Howe to the Wardens, Alistair?" he asked, dispensing with pleasantries while keeping tactful eyes averted from the wreath of rosy bruises around the queen's collarbone.

"As long as I feel like he's telling the truth," replied the king, glancing down into the basket as Taron woke with a yawn. "About not knowing the truth behind what happened at Highever. How do they seem in there?"

He canted his head towards the entrance to the assize chamber. Beyond the wooden doors Ferelden's great and good sat assembled; awaiting the commencement of the final part of the day's trial. Unlike the hearings against the Carta and the slavers – which had been anticipated with vitriolic glee – there was no excitement in the air for this last indictment. The atmosphere thrummed with taut unease, it rose from the stands like a miasma.

"Apprehensive," interjected Leliana, who had sidled up unnoticed. "Resentful of our last prisoner. With a Mac Tir accused of treason in the past year, and a Howe on trial today – it seems as though the greatest families in Ferelden are crumbling. The stain of civil war still besmirches us in the eyes of Thedas – and all the while, our enemies watch, and wait."

Taron gave a gurgle, now nestled against his mother's shoulder with his fingers wandering over the cream linen of her shirt.

"Remember too that there is an _Orlesian_ in the audience. The man is sure to be sending word on the fastest bird to Val Royeaux tonight," added Eamon , thinking on the azure-clad _Duc Germain._

This had naturally been whom Leliana had thought of foremost: the clever bard had a political mind second to none.

Alistair gave a tight nod, the furrows in his brow ploughed deeper with each sentence uttered.

"Then we'll have to show them that we're united," he replied, swiftly. "And that Ferelden's recent troubles have only made it _stronger."_

Leliana nodded, the delicate sky-blue of her eyes losing focus as she deliberated. Flora watched the shifting nuances of her friend's face, slightly in awe of the machinations going on behind the prettily painted features.

"The day has gone in our favour so far," the bard said at last, her point corroborated by a nod from Eamon. "The execution and exile of the Carta was a sound decision, as was your victory over the slavers."

" _Six_ victories," corrected a solemn Flora, caught between pride and a silent resolve that Alistair would never put himself in such danger on her accord again.

"Six victories, _oui,"_ Leliana conceded, flashing Alistair an indolent smile of approval. "The Landsmeet appreciated that _very_ much, Alistair. In fact, if you _hadn't_ drawn your blade against the slavers, I am reasonably certain that someone else would have."

"Aye," came Fergus' dry and blunt interjection; the teyrn had just returned from a swift quarter-candle meeting with the town's master-architect. "Me."

"Or me," chimed in Finian, who had been called to a cause that he deemed _far_ more interesting with Zevran: investigating whether the wine cellars contained any Antivan labels. "Where did you two disappear off to?"

" _Doing it for Ferelden,"_ replied Flora, so delighted at the opportunity to use her new favourite phrase that she temporarily forgot that Finian was her brother. "Oh, sorry."

Both of her siblings were now glowering openly at her; neither one appreciating enlightenment in this particular area.

Meanwhile, Leliana had noticed the remnants of Alistair's passion-fuelled attention on Flora's neck. Managing to stop herself from launching into a tirade of reproval, the bard instead retrieved a stick of waxy peach from some secreted pocket of her dress. She set about masking the affectionate bruises, daubing the pale cream-like substance across the blotch-marked skin with her fingertips.

"We can't have you going in there looking as though someone has tried to _eat_ you," she chided, briskly."Hold your hair back, _ma petite."_

Flora obediently gripped as much of her hair as she could; which was only part of the volcanic mass.

Eamon could not resist reminding Alistair once more of the stakes before they re-entered the chamber, drawing him to one side and lowering his voice.

"It's vital that we show that the divisions of the past are exactly that – _in_ the past," he murmured, while Leliana gripped Flora's crown between her teeth and manhandled her hair back up into the signature ponytail. "We have spent too many decades fighting for independence to be undermined by fractures from within."

"Well, that might be a touch difficult," interjected Finian, with an acerbic roll of his eyes. "Seeing as it's a _Howe_ on trial for crimes against a Cousland."

"Fish-fin," said Flora, unconsciously drawing the nickname from the dark well of her Highever memory. "Do you ever wish that Rendon Howe had been captured alive, so he could be put on trial?"

Her slender and scholarly brother let out a cackle, sole eye flashing wickedly.

"Pumpkin, I would not exchange the sight of that whoreson's head shattering into two dozen pieces for all the courtly justice in Thedas. I like to recall the image when I need cheering up, in fact."

Flora smiled at him, pleased that – in some small way – she had provided her brother with some form of vicarious retribution. She nuzzled her face against the downy, gilded crown of Taron's head, feeling his curious fingers flail towards her cheek.

Then, all too soon, the herald was heard calling out their names with clear-voiced resonance. The guards were pushing open the doors that led to the assize chamber, and Eamon was gesturing them firmly towards the final business of the day.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Haha well did we expect anything less from Flo and Alistair than a little stress relief? And what better way for Alistair to relieve excess adrenaline from all those duels? Perhaps they've even made another heir for Ferelden 😉

In other news, I'm so excited that AUTUMN is here! My favourite season of the year. I love everything about Autumn, I can't wait to trade in my sandals for LEATHER BOOTS and DUFFEL COATS. There's nothing better than London in the autumn, seriously!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	221. In Defence Of Nathaniel Howe

Chapter 221: In Defence Of Nathaniel Howe

The twins were no longer in their basket – it would not be seemly for the heirs to the throne to be carried in a basket formerly used for eggs. Theodora was nestled contentedly in his father's elbow; Taron was grumbling softly on his mother's shoulder, he was hungry again. The king and queen reached out in unconscious synchronicity, their free hands twining tightly together. The affectionate suckling marks from Alistair's lips had been well-hidden by Leliana's peach-coloured wax stick; only the sharpest of eyes would have been able to spot the slight mismatch of complexion. The bard's skin was naturally several shades warmer in tone than Flora's cows' milk flesh. However, a more telling clue was the changing of the queen's outside – she had departed the assize chamber clad in the leather bodice, and was returning in one of her husband's shirts.

Alistair glanced sideways and down at his wife to check that she was ready; Flora's pale eyes were already fixed straight ahead, her chin slightly lifted.

" _The king and queen of Ferelden; the royal infants!"_ announced the herald just before they entered, his strident tones echoing to the ceiling. _"All rise!"_

There was a rustling of clothing as the occupants of the chamber hastened to obey. The murmuring died away, an anticipatory hush falling over the assembled gathering as the royal couple entered.

 _Wait just a moment, royal infant,_ Flora thought to the little boy on her shoulder, feeling the baby snuffle around for food. _Let me sit down first._

She was so distracted by the soft grumbling of the baby that she did not notice the residue of blood on the flagstones; coagulated crimson within the gaps between the tiles. Servants armed with mop and bucket had done their best in the interim to clean away the gore, but it was clear that a more intensive effort would be needed to fully erase the evidence of the duels.

As they passed their companions, who were seated on a wooden bench near the front, Zevran caught Alistair's eye and mouthed a lewd query, illustrating further with a subtle hand gesture. The king just about managed to keep a straight face; deliberately averting his eyes to the platform ahead.

As the royal couple took their seats, the rest of the chamber returned to the benches, expectant faces turned forwards. A myriad of emotions were strewn across the chamber; anticipation, apprehension, regret and resentment. The Howe name was one of the oldest in Ferelden, and – until this past year – had been associated with only the most noble of qualities. All were aware of the damage dealt to the Bannorn's integrity; all were also aware of the Orlesian _duc_ taking mental notes in the front row.

 _A Blight and a civil war; an assault on two fronts._

 _The Blight is defeated, but the bite of treachery sunk deep; the wound at risk of festering._

Eamon, Fergus, Finian and Leliana had entered in the wake of the king and queen. As the latter returned to their seats, the arl proceeded to his former position on the platform. He surveyed the audience, then cleared his throat. There were no formalities this time, no ceremonial introduction or invoking of the Maker; just a blunt directive issued to the guard.

"Bring out the prisoner."

As everyone's heads swivelled in the direction of the approaching guards, Flora fingered loose the top few buttons of her shirt and let the material slip down her shoulder. Taron immediately settled down to feed, one plump hand spread like a starfish across his mother's breast.

 _You've definitely inherited your parents' appetite,_ Flora mused fondly as she gazed at the hungry flexing of her son's cheeks. _My fat and happy shrimp._

The queen's attention was then caught by the movement of a man; the prisoner had been escorted back into the chamber. Nathaniel Howe had not been present for the duels against the slavers, yet he had heard the sounds of battle from the adjacent holding chamber. Now, he noticed too the coagulated stains that a quick scrub with mop and bucket were unable to erase.

Rendon Howe's son was also well aware of the eyes of more than a hundred people resting on him. Equally uncomfortable was the unblinking scrutiny of the Mabari, who needed only to hear a single word to spur them into action. To his credit, his face bore no trace of fear; the sallow features cloaked in resignation instead.

Flora gazed at the prisoner for a long moment, then let her eyes shift sideways to Alistair. Her husband was leaning forward on his elaborately carved chair; Theodora's plump body especially small against the broad expanse of his chest. He was staring at Howe with the same fixed focus as the Mabari lying at their feet; the green flecks in the hazel irises bright and hard as fragments of jade.

"Nathaniel Howe," said Eamon, enunciating his words clearly so that they carried to the far corners of the chamber. "Son of Rendon Howe and Elaine Bryland, formerly of Amaranthine, recently of no fixed residence. Confirm your identity for the scribe, if you will."

The man inclined his head, and Eamon gestured roughly for him to speak.

"Aye."

"Are you aware of the charges laid against you?" the Chancellor demanded, wasting no time. "If you do, speak them out loud for all to hear. Make no excuses, say your crimes plain."

"I don't intend to-"

" _Louder,_ man!"

"I don't intend to offer any excuses," Nathaniel replied drily, lifting his voice in response. "I can offer reasons for the actions I took – whatever you may think of me now, I am _not_ the sort of man who would place a contract on the life of a woman with child – but you are free to weigh the value of them and decide whether they sound logical or ludicrous."

The king grew tired of the Howe's drawn-out words. He rose to his feet, easily the tallest man in the chamber; the golden band atop his head only an accessory to the authority that emanated from his stance. The infant daughter cradled in Alistair's elbow only emphasised his position as a new father, and the wrong that had been done to him as a result of Howe's action.

" _You_ contacted the Carta," he said, a faint and most un-Alistairlike air of menace tinging his tone. " _You_ took out the contract on the life of my wife."

"The Hero of Ferelden, and the queen of this nation," added Eamon, icily. "Beloved of the realm."

"A girl barely two decades old!" interrupted Leonas, unable to help himself – his daughter, Habren, was only a handful of years younger than Flora herself. "It's shameful."

There were cries of agreement from around the chamber. Several voices rose above the rest, calling for the traitor to be executed on the spot.

"And," continued Alistair, his voice falling lower and more malevolent. The others went silent as the king reclaimed centre stage, still standing on the platform with his eyes gleaming like fire _-_ amber.

" _And,_ as a result of your ignorant and treasonous action, my wife was sedated with chemicals – Maker knows what sort – and abducted from where she should have been the most safe. She was chained up like a rabid Mabari and kept prisoner for almost a week, at the mercy of men with the _foulest_ of intentions. All this, and she was _pregnant!"_

His voice rose into a bellow that hammered percussive against the ears of those that heard it; Nathaniel flinched but stood his ground. Awakened rudely from her nap, Theodora opened her eyes and shot her father a disapproving stare.

Flora was unable to do much with their son still feeding at her breast, and so she reached out a hand towards her trembling husband. Alistair caught a glimpse of movement and glanced downwards, focusing on his wife's beseeching fingers. The rage contracted back into anger; he took her hand as he sat heavily back down on the wooden chair at her side.

Nathaniel Howe made to raise his hands, but the manacles and chains were too restrictive for him to offer more than a shrug. A wry expression was writ across his gaunt-cheeked face; as though he was still half-expecting Alistair to slay him on the spot.

"All of what you said is true," he said, in deadpan tones. "I can't deny any of it."

The Landsmeet rustled, anger simmering like an overheated cauldron. The Orlesian _duc_ watched, inscrutable behind his mask. There was no quill in his hand but it was obvious that the scenes played out before him were being etched into his mind; complete with the emotions of the main players and the reactions of the audience.

"Speak, then," said Eamon eventually, sensing the undercurrents of tension that flowed within the chamber like rip-tides. "What reason can you offer for instigating such a heinous plot?"

Nathaniel sighed, soft enough that it was only just audible to those on the platform. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though to prepare for the possibility that Alistair's sword-tip might embed itself within the lean meat of his belly at any given moment.

"Most of you know that I've been out of Ferelden for many years," he said, the faint Marcher tinge to his tone corroborating this. "My father and I – well. We didn't exactly get along. I was making a living as a squire near Ostwick when the rumours reached my ears. Firstly, that a Blight had struck Ferelden, and secondly – that a powerful apostate sorceress had murdered my father in an unprovoked attack, then granted our family seat to her own brother."

There was a rumble of disbelief from the Landsmeet at the notion of an _unprovoked_ attack _,_ bearing in mind that they were seated within shouting range of Howe's unspeakable treachery against the Couslands.

Flora, meanwhile, was bemused and intrigued by the description of a _powerful apostate sorceress._ This was a description that she believed far more suited to Morrigan than herself.

 _All I could ever do was heal and shield,_ she thought wistfully, lifting Taron against her shoulder to pat him. _I'm not sure if that qualifies me as a 'sorceress'. I was happy to just be called a mender._

"When I heard that the rumours of Blight were true, I assumed – foolishly – that the second rumour was also accurate. When I heard that my brother Thomas had been found dead, I took a merchant's ship to Ferelden, and made contact with the Carta from there."

Alistair had not taken his eyes off the prisoner; awarding him unblinking focus. Theodora, soothed by the slow and deliberate breathing of her irate father, had quickly settled back down to sleep.

"The inn where I was staying was frequented by travellers," Nathaniel continued quietly, wanting the scribe to preserve his words in the event that he would not live to see sunset. "I soon overheard fragments of conversation that suggested that… I might have acted on false presumption. I heard about what my father did to the teyrn and teyrna, and what he attempted to do to Florence-"

" _Her majesty_ to you," interrupted Eamon, his green Guerrin stare alight with disgust.

"Sorry," replied the Howe, with a flash of the old acerbity. "I also heard that Thomas had been involved in an assassination attempt against the queen. I realised that I had made a… most grievous mistake. When I tried to call the whole thing off – well. The Carta refused to entertain it; they'd got their profit in mind already. All I got as reward for my protests was a set of manacles."

"Which you've not managed to shake," observed the king, glancing at Nathaniel's iron-bound hands.

"I can't remember how it feels to walk unfettered, aye," Nathaniel conceded, shifting from foot to foot with a metallic clank.

There followed a long moment of silence, during which the nobility shuffled in their seats. Ire rose from the gathered mass, but it was tinged with regret and irritation – _how_ could one have followed rumour so blindly? Many of the greying members of the Landsmeet had known Howe as an adolescent; sharp as a leather-knife and always ready with a witticism. Although he had not possessed the brawn of counterparts such as Fergus Cousland, he had been a welcome guest at any Satinalia gathering. The man that stood before them now – gaunt-cheeked, marked with the sores of incarceration and manacled at the wrists – was almost unrecognisable when compared to the charming, silver-tongued youth of decades past.

"You may claim it as a mistake," Eamon said in accusatory tones, shattering the silence. "Regardless, disaster could well have followed as a result of your actions. This nation could have lost its queen, and its newly lauded Hero. It could also have lost its heirs-"

"And I could have lost my _wife,"_ interrupted Alistair with sudden harshness, the Mabari shifting restless at his feet as they detected their master's anger. "By the Maker, if she'd returned to me with anything worse than bruises - you would not have lived to stand trial, I _promise_ you."

"It's a miracle that she's not been traumatised by her ordeal," Eamon added, censure flaring in his unblinking stare.

Nathaniel began to smile, then hastily checked himself as he caught the ripple of outrage and anger that followed.

"Forgive me," he murmured, lifting a hand as far as he was able. "I don't intend to jest. But, from my perspective… well. It seemed as though the Carta were the ones left traumatised by their encounter with _her._ I doubt those that live will soon forget the severed head of Beraht rolling down the dinner-table, nor the blood-soaked figure that hurled it."

The prisoner canted his head towards the queen, along with the rest of the Landsmeet chamber. Accustomed to stares, Flora continued to pat Taron on his back as he hiccupped; one tiny fist clamped firmly around a loose oxblood strand.

 _It would take more than dwarves to traumatise me,_ she thought to herself, tilting her head as the baby gave a vigorous tug. _I grew up with demons lurking on the edge of my dreams. I've spent the last year dancing with Darkspawn._

 _Besides, I had to be brave, for you and your sister. You made me valorous._

"That as it may be," the Chancellor said at last, his face carefully neutral. "But – regardless of the bravery of our queen - you must still answer to the Landsmeet. So, I ask: who will speak in your defence and vouch for you?"

The chamber was silent. Those who had known Nathaniel as a youth looked away, averting their gazes from the gaunt and chained figure before them. Alistair leaned forward, like a Mabari scenting a rabbit; his stare focused and unblinking.

Flora had expected no less – who would dare to defend the man who had begun the whole sorry endeavour? She shifted Taron into her elbow and then rose to her feet, feeling the astonished eyes of the chamber settle on her. She did not return the stare of anyone, but caught a quick glimpse of Nathaniel's naked disbelief.

 _You've managed to say Nathaniel's name properly before,_ she thought sternly, feeling the baby's curious fingers wandering over her collarbone.

 _Don't call him Namanatule._

Several of the Mabari followed the queen as she headed purposefully across the flagstones where her would-be buyers had met their end. When she reached Nathaniel, she turned towards the Landsmeet; letting her clear, grey gaze meet them head-on. As usual, Flora had not prepared what she was going to say, hoping that the words would come regardless.

 _Na-tha-ni-el._

"Last year, most of you believed the Grey Wardens to be traitors and liars," she said softly, her words shaped by the throaty cadence of the northern villages. "I remember when you looked at myself and Alistair with only _suspicion_ in your eyes."

The audience shifted uncomfortably; this was undeniably true.

"Your majesty," ventured Arl Wulff bravely, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. "At that time, we did not know the truth of what transpired at Ostagar."

Flora half-smiled at him, pleased at such unprompted corroboration.

"Events can become misshapen with each mile that news travels," she said, nodding to acknowledge his point. "Stories take on a life of their own. A Warden could become a traitor. An act of retribution could become an unprovoked murder."

 _I could become a powerful sorceress. Ha! Haha!_

"If news can be distorted by simply travelling over the Bannorn, think how much could be changed by travelling across a _sea,"_ the queen continued, thinking fondly of her beloved, temperamental stretch of choppy water. "Na- _Nathaniel_ ought not be blamed for hearing rumours – though he ought to have verified them as _fact_ before taking action."

She shot Howe a glacial Cousland stare; by chance, Taron too turned his small face in the man's direction and delivered an equally disapproving glower.

"But," the queen continued, relenting a fraction. "Who can claim that they always act rationally when it comes to family?"

Flora looked up at Alistair, who was gazing at her with a mixture of frustration and reluctant affection. She wished that she could take a moment to reassure him, to confide that this would all work out for Ferelden's benefit.

 _Trust me,_ her eyes implored, huge and earnest. _I have a plan._

 _What did Eamon say? It's vital that the divisions of the past stay in the past._

 _Civil war is a wound that can fester, if allowed._

"I see no purpose in more blood being spilt today," the queen said, turning once more to face the Landsmeet. "In fact, I feel as though the repercussions of that blow might go further than Howe's neck."

She canted her head towards the Orlesian _duc,_ subtle and yet the meaning was obvious.

"A different form of penance – a chance at redemption – would be more suitable. There is a _precedent_ for it, after all."

Although the queen did not move, the eyes of the Landsmeet moved towards the patch of blue and silver in the corner of the chamber; where Loghain sat amidst the collection of Grey Wardens. No noble was unaware of Mac Tir's vital role in recent events involving the Darkspawn in the Blackmarsh. The former teyrn sat up a little straighter, aware of the scrutiny of the chamber.

Flora took advantage of the temporary distraction to catch Alistair's eye, hoping that her actions now made more sense.

 _They were baying for his blood before. Now – hopefully – they'll accept this lesser punishment._

The Landsmeet returned their attention to her, waiting with breath held prisoner in their lungs.

"My Herring-dad once told me that a single line of fibre can easily be broken," she said quietly, feeling the heat of the audience's gaze prickle against her skin. "But when woven together, they create a fishing rope that won't break even in the fiercest of storms. We need to be the same: together, we are stronger."

 _There's more than one way to mend._

Flora took a deep breath – paused - and then made a gesture towards the side-door.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Of course Flora is going to stand up in his defence, haha. To be fair, it's not purely because she's nice - she didn't come to the defence of the Carta, or the slavers. She knows how important it is that Ferelden emerge from the crisis of Blight and civil war united and strong - and she wants the Landsmeet to accept a lesser punishment for Howe, as opposed to execution. Then a line can be drawn beneath the factional rivalry of the past year, and they can move forward without further bloodshed.

Now...WHO IS BEHIND THE DOOR? Clue... there are TWO special guests!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	222. A United Ferelden

Chapter 222: A United Ferelden

The door opened, swift as if there had been some pre-arranged signal – and indeed, there _had_ been. The Landsmeet and Flora's companions turned their startled gazes towards the entrance. The silhouette of a woman appeared in the doorway, holding something plump and unwieldy on her hip. When the woman stepped forward, blinking at the sudden contrast between the shadowed corridor and the brazier-lit chamber, Flora heard Nathaniel gulp in a sharp intake of air.

The woman was sallow of skin, with a pointed jaw and pretty, greenish-yellow eyes like Orlesian glass. Her hair was dark, wound up in a braided bun on the crown of her head. Although she must have been only in her late twenties, fine lines creased their way across her forehead and bunched at the corners of her eyes. On her hip she carried a fat and jolly babe, perhaps seven months old.

" _Del?"_ breathed Nathaniel, incredulous; his eyes darting from his sister to the nephew he had never met. "Maker's Breath."

Delilah darted a swift glance at her brother from the corner of her eye; but her face was fixed towards the queen, to whose side she strode purposefully. If the woman was nervous, there was no sign of it. Coming to a halt, she bowed before the king – whom she had met the previous night – and then turned towards Flora, who flashed her the briefest of half-smiles. Delilah, the babe gurgling on her hip, took up a position on the queen's left.

The Landsmeet recognised Rendon Howe's daughter immediately – the familial jawline was unmistakable – and a ripple of astonishment ran through them. Murmurs broke out in clusters; startled exclamations tangled with feverish whispers. Meanwhile Nathaniel Howe gaped at his sister, utterly taken aback.

The audience were so enthralled by the traitor's daughter alongside the queen that it took them a few moments to realise that _another_ figure had entered the chamber through the side-door. There was no herald to announce this woman's arrival, no trumpet preceded her entrance into the chamber; those days were long past her, and yet she strode into the room with her chin held defiantly high. The candlelight lit up the gauntness of her cheeks; her once-gilded beauty had dissolved to reveal a quiet and steely resolve.

Delilah Howe's arrival had prompted murmurs of astonishment; Anora Mac Tir was greeted with speechless awe. An incredulous hush fell over the chamber as Loghain's daughter- who had once so publicly opposed the Wardens and their cause – trod purposefully across the flagstones. The Orlesian _duc_ almost fell from the bench, his mask sitting off-kilter due to the suddenness of his surprise.

Former queen joined current queen in the centre of the chamber. It was not required that she bow, since after all, she was the widow of a previous king, but Anora Mac Tir was a political creature, who understood well the purpose of her summoning. With a quick side glance at _Duc_ Germain, Mac Tir's daughter swept herself into a delicate curtsey. Her wary blue eyes lingered on Alistair for a long moment- the king had been the only other person in the room aware of their presence. She assiduously kept her gaze away from her father, whose overbearing attitude over the past year had been a key factor in the loss of her position.

Loghain had been almost as astonished as the Orlesian when his daughter walked in. He had made no contact with her in six months; ever since the fateful Landsmeet session where the scales of power had tipped decidedly in favour of the Wardens. The former teyrn had been allowed to write a letter to her this past summer – scrutinised, naturally, as was all of his correspondence – but it had received no reply.

Flora shifted Taron a little higher; noticing that his huge grey eyes had focused in astonishment on the seven-month-old counterpart perched on Delilah Howe's hip. The fascination was mutual: the larger baby made a flailing grab for Taron's blanket. He missed, and pouted unhappily; his mother bounced him a little to reassure him.

 _They look as shocked as everyone else,_ the queen thought fondly to herself as Anora came to a halt at her right-hand side. Mac Tir's daughter angled her head to Flora in a stiff nod; the pale gold whorls of her head loaned warmth in the firelight.

 _She knows what's at stake. Ooh, I hope Leliana is proud of me. I came up with this idea by myself!_

The three women – Cousland, Howe and Mac Tir – stood elbow-to-elbow in the centre of the chamber; two of them holding the next generation of Fereldan nobility. The queen lifted her chin, hoping suddenly that Leliana would admire this scene that she, Flora, had so carefully orchestrated. She had written to the two women herself; a long and laborious process involving many discarded sheets of parchment and a few sly tears of frustration. Fortunately, since Denerim and Amaranthine were within a week and a half's ride, both women had arrived at Highever with a day to spare.

 _I still remember the conversation I overheard between Arl Eamon, Bann Teagan, and Alistair. They thought I was asleep; it was only a few days after the birth._

 _Cousland against Howe; Mac Tir against Theirin. The greatest families in Ferelden at each other's throats, like a pack of starving Mabari. The bite was deep; the scars still fresh._

 _For all of Celene's fulsome words and golden fishhooks, I would not let our western border go unguarded._

"I am grateful for Queen Florence's words on behalf of my brother," Delilah began, soft and purposeful. "And for her invitation here today."

It was clear that although she had never spoken before the Landsmeet before, she was determined to have her say. The nobles gazed at her in fascination; Leonas included. Delilah Howe was his niece by marriage and she took far more after her mother – Eliane Bryland, the arl's sister – than she did her father.

"My brother Nathaniel is not cut from the same cloth as my father or, indeed, Thomas," Delilah continued, raising her voice as she grew in confidence. "He was never like them. Tom – Maker rest him – was a sly little weasel, and… our father quietly encouraged his cruelness. You have no idea what it was like to live in a house with the two of them, none at all- _like living in a pit of vipers_ – and our father had _everyone_ fooled-"

Delilah cut herself off abruptly, two bright spots of pink flaring in her cheeks. There was a responding ripple of comprehension amongst the men and women of the Landsmeet; suddenly, the reason why the arl's daughter had spurned her family name and married a humble blacksmith became a little clearer.

She took a deep breath, ensuring that her voice was even before she spoke again.

"Nate, though… Nate refused to let himself be bullied by our father, nor did he put up with Tom's mean tricks. He used to shield me from the worst of them, the best he could. He would find my possessions after Tom hid them, and take the blame for my mistakes so that I would not be punished. He's… he's not perfect, Your Majesty, but he has some honour. And a good heart, I believe."

Delilah was now addressing Alistair directly, her greenish-yellow eyes entreating.

"He deserves better than the headsman or the gallows. I don't say that he should avoid punishment, just – just spare his life. I… I would like my son to know his uncle, he has precious little left in the way of family."

Nathaniel said nothing in response, but stared at his younger sister with unblinking focus; regret flickering in his gaze. His expression was unreadable, yet those with the sharpest eyes noticed that his hands were trembling as he held them chained before him.

Having spoken her part, Delilah stepped back, falling in line alongside the current and former queen. Without hesitation, Flora canted her head in the other direction; hoping that the frantic throne of her pulse was not visible in her throat.

Anora Mac Tir stepped forward, still regal in stature despite the removal of her royal credentials.

"I have come to loan my support to Florence's desire for peace _,"_ she announced, in the cultivated drawl of one who had been raised as a teyrn's daughter. "The queen-" and there was no bitterness in her tone as she spoke the title which had once been hers – "The queen believes that more bloodshed is futile, and I am in full agreement. What Ferelden needs now is _unity,_ not revenge. And so, to fulfil my end, I am here to _publicly_ grant Alistair and Florence my support, and offer them my assistance in – in whatever manner they see fit."

Anora still did not look at her father, but kept her gaze fixed firmly on Alistair. To her credit, although she was surrounded by a Landsmeet who had almost unanimously voted against her claim to rule, she kept her chin lifted and her voice clear. She said nothing more, for nothing else was needed: Mac Tir's daughter had declared her support for Alistair Theirin, while standing at Florence Cousland's right-hand side.

Taron was yawning, curled up against her breast like a Mabari pup. Despite his tender age, he was remarkably heavy; both he and his sister seemed to be growing by the day. Fortunately, Flora's slenderness hid deceptive sturdiness, and she hoisted the fat baby a little higher onto her shoulder.

The queen then stepped forward, commanding the attention of the chamber with a slight lifting of the chin and a cool, sweeping stare.

"Alistair and I have spent the past four months travelling the length and breadth of Ferelden," she began, feeling the baby dribble on her neck. "And all, over the country, we have seen evidence of recovery. Farmers were taking in the harvest from their fields. New buildings were rising from ruined foundations of old. The Gwaren restoration committee passed us on the road as they headed south. The effort to reclaim South Reach has already begun. The Circle Tower has been cleansed. But – _but-"_

She looked around once again, mentally envisioning the livery-clad members of the Landsmeet as brightly-coloured fish that she wanted to sweep into a net.

"It's also necessary to show that the bonds that were tested between _us_ last year have endured – and, not only that, but they are _stronger_ than they were. Like a fishing-rope of woven strands that won't break."

 _I hope you're listening, Orlesian duck._

 _Duc?_

Alistair, who had been waiting for his cue, now rose steadily to his feet. He passed a sleeping Theodora to Eamon, who – once again – had eyebrows lodged within his hairline in surprise. The king then withdrew something round and gleaming; a coronal identical in shape and size to the one that Fergus wore. He lifted it just high enough so that it caught the eyes of the Landsmeet; the old gold polished to a sheen.

 _A teyrn's crown – or, a teyrna._

"Anora Mac Tir," he said, with a hint of wry humour tinging the solemnity of his tone. Those in the audience grey-haired enough to remember the old king in his youth thought how _similar_ this son was to the father in his youth; from the inflection of the speech, to the easy command of the stance.

"Your skills as a politician shouldn't be wasted, and your love for this country – which I don't doubt – ought to be channelled into something useful. Your father was granted his teyrnir by _my_ father; tasked with rebuilding it after the ravages of war. I give you now the same task – to oversee the resurrection of Gwaren, to re-open its ports and fisheries, and restore its once-thriving economy."

Alistair paused, the green flecks in his hazel gaze sharpening as he gazed at the blonde-headed woman before him.

"You'll not have an easy time of it," he continued, frankly. "You'll need to win back the people's trust – Mac Tir is _not_ a popular name down south at the moment – and they'll have many questions for you to answer. Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan – who own the land that borders Gwaren – will lend their scrutiny and assistance."

Anora had remained silent throughout Alistair's speech. The granting of the teyrnir was not a surprise to her – it had been the bait that lured her to Highever. Despite the careful arrangement of her features, relief shone within her gaze as she looked up at the king.

"Although you faltered during the Blight, for much of Cailan's reign you were a good queen," Alistair said, soft and reflective. "There'll always be a place in Ferelden for a woman of wit and leadership – and _loyalty_."

Anora inclined her head in silent accord; each gesture thoughtful and composed. Cailan's widow then stepped forward across the flagstones, uncaring that her mauve slippers were treading the still-bloodied tiles; coming to a halt several feet before Alistair. She then lowered herself to her knees – a gesture which did not come naturally when considering her former station. Still, Anora made a concerted effort to do it well, lowering her gaze to the floor.

Alistair cast his eyes about the chamber, clearing his throat. Five yards away, Flora held her breath and hoped with all her heart that her words had meant something to the men and women gathered on the surrounding benches.

 _We're far stronger together. We need to show Thedas that we're united._

"Nobles of the Landsmeet, I intend on granting the teyrnir of Gwaren to Anora Mac Tir; with the condition that she rebuild the town and restore the port. Do I have your accord in this matter?"

The chorus of _ayes_ came immediate and without hesitation; loud enough that it roused a yawning Taron from his nap. It seemed that the Bannorn had forgiven Anora – at least, in part – for her indecision and subsequent inaction during the Blight.

 _My words did mean something to them,_ Flora thought in relief, watching Alistair lift the teyrn's coronal high in the air. The old gold gleamed in the glancing light from the braziers; like the ring of some low-hanging celestial body. He then lowered it carefully to the pale, tawny head of the woman kneeling before him. Anora closed her eyes for a moment, her lips moved – perhaps in a thank you, perhaps in prayer.

The queen then felt the prickle of a stare against her neck. She tilted her head ever so slightly, taking advantage of the audience' distraction to glance around. Sure enough, her guess was soon confirmed – Loghain Mac Tir was gazing at her, his dark eyes indecipherable as ever. Then, to the queen's astonishment, she saw him tilt his head in the slightest gesture of thanks. The movement was so subtle that it could plausibly be denied – not that anybody was looking in his direction. More nobles were looking at his dwarven recruit, who had found the proceedings so dull that she had fallen asleep.

Flora returned her gaze to Anora, who had just risen to her feet; a new and purposeful light settled across the aristocratic features. The teyrna's gold band must have sat heavy on her narrow head, but she bore it with a proudly lifted chin. On the front bench, Leonas was the first to move, shuffling himself to the right. Arl Wulff followed the general's example, sliding to the left. A space was left between them; Anora took a deep and steadying breath. She then claimed her place amongst the Landsmeet, taking her seat in their midst with a quiet resolution across her handsome features.

Delilah Howe was left with her son, several yards away from where Nathaniel stood in silence; caught midway between astonishment and amusement. Flora shifted a yawning Taron into her other arm, then – with a quick glance at the dark-haired woman – began to make her way back towards the platform.

 _Delilah looks nervous. I hope that was a reassuring glance I gave her just then._

 _I don't have a very comforting face. It looks stuck-up or unfriendly most of the time._

Alistair strode forward, reaching out a hand as she neared the edge of the platform. Flora took his offered palm, feeling the usual rush of reassurance flood her belly as she felt the strong warmth of her husband's fingers. The young monarch quite clearly felt the same way; the tense breadth of his shoulders loosening a fraction. She half-smiled up at him, aware that only he was privy to this break in her composure. Alistair gazed back down at her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards. He ducked his head and pressed a swift kiss to her knuckles. Flora felt her knees become liquidous, hastily reclaiming her seat.

Once his queen had been settled back in the sculpted chair, the king took back a bewildered Theodora from Eamon. His daughter had spent the past half-candle gazing up at the arl's chain of authority in bemused fascination; transfixed by the gleam of the gold.

"Nathaniel Howe," Alistair said, making a great effort to keep his voice calm and even. "After taking stock of the words of your sister and my wife's wise counsel, I've decided on your sentence. As penalty for your rash actions that so nearly deprived my country of its queen, you will serve Ferelden in a _different_ capacity. You will join the Grey Wardens – well, as long as you survive the initiation – and help to purge the land of any remaining Darkspawn,"

Flora held her breath but there was no cry of protest from the Landsmeet; no outrage at the sparing of the death sentence. Instead, there was a general air of consensus; tinged with faint relief. Flora's point – that, last year, most of them had whole-heartedly and mistakenly believed Grey Wardens to be traitors until being shown otherwise – had struck a chord.

"No gallows, then?" asked Nathaniel, and although there was a deliberate cloak of wryness applied to his voice, a faint tremor of emotion was discernible beneath the surface. "No headsman's block?"

Instead of responding, the king gestured towards the most senior guard present. The man stepped forward, retrieving a set of keys from a loop at his hip. Nathaniel Howe stood motionless as the shackles around his waist and ankles were removed; his lips carefully folded to hide any passion of feeling.

"You have my gratitude, King Alistair," he said, quietly but with enough clarity for the Landsmeet to hear. "And, my lady-"

His dark gaze came to rest on Flora, who was patting Taron as he drifted off to sleep against her breast. At one point seemed to be an excess of words swelling in his throat, but the arl's son bit them back; instead, inclining his head with his eyes fixed on her.

"Ferelden is fortunate to have such a queen."

"Aye, aye!" called out Teagan immediately, and was met with a loud chorus of agreement from both sides of the chamber.

Alistair grinned, boyish and proud; reaching sideways once more to claim his wife's fingers. Flora clutched his fingers tight against her own scarred palm, quietly astonished that Taron and Theodora appeared able to sleep through such a racket.

In the corner, Loghain had taken advantage of the applause and diverted attention to rise to his feet. This had not been easy with the limp he had borne for much of his life; the false limb did not make it any easier. Still, he made it to his feet clad in full Warden armour and unaided; using all the lean muscle of a retired soldier. Nathaniel glanced once more at his sister and nephew – absorbing the sight with as much ferocity as he could manage – and then crossed the chamber without prompting to Loghain's side.

As Eamon rose to deliver the closing formalities of the Landsmeet, Flora squeezed Alistair's hand tightly. Moments later, she felt him return the pressure; hard and affectionate.

 _I think we did a good job,_ the queen thought, nuzzling her face into Taron's downy, golden head. _We still work well together, even though we aren't on a battlefield anymore._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ok, so it's not quite ousting Loghain at a Landsmeet by surprising the attendees with three armies gathered on the plains outside Denerim, but I thought it was keeping up tradition that Flora pulls a card from her sleeve, haha. Alistair knew that Delilah and Anora had arrived – they were the mystery guests that arrived the night before, who Flora took him to see – and he was in on the plan to make her teyrna of Gwaren. In Flora's practical mind, Anora is the best woman for the job: she's experienced, loyal, familiar with the area – and it'll be a difficult, time consuming job to rebuild the ruined town, she'll need to earn back the trust of the abandoned citizens, and Teagan and Eamon own the surrounding land so they can keep an eye on her. However, Alistair didn't know that Flo was planning on speaking on behalf of Nathaniel – but she'd realised that she needed some way of pacifying the Landsmeet so that they'd accept the more lenient sentence of Howe becoming a Warden.

Good job on those who guessed Delilah! As far as I know, nobody mentioned Anora 😉 hehehe

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	223. Conversations With The Mac Tirs

Chapter 223: Conversations With The Mac Tirs

After the formal dissolving of the Landsmeet, its audience drifted into the corridor; where they were met with trays of warm cider and spiced mead. Everybody ignored the great hall, which was damp and filled with autumnal chill, and headed instead to fill up the smaller reception chambers. These were a series of rooms crafted for more intimate purposes: overstuffed armchairs and couches were gathered around fireplaces, sideboards were laden with easily-accessible bowls of fruit and nuts, and the ceilings were built low to keep in the heat.

The royal couple were in one such sitting-room, each one grateful that the formalities of the day were over. Their closest friends and companions were gathered about them, in addition to the unexpected guests. The three infants had been placed on an armchair near the warmth of the hearth. The older baby sat gurgling in the middle; the twins had been propped up against cushions to either side. Taron was on the verge of falling asleep, but Theodora was gazing around the room with huge and curious eyes. Several Mabari, including Cod and Lobster – who had been retrieved by Fergus from the kennels – lay sprawled before the armchair, eyeing all who passed by.

Flora was about to re-join Alistair – she had made a detour across the room to collect a pear from a side-bowl – when she saw him drawn into the company of two droning banns. From the sound of their excited babble, they wanted to relive each blow and parry of the duels against the slavers; Flora successfully managed to avoid them.

Instead, the queen squirmed her way unceremoniously between her companions; interjecting herself neatly into their conversation.

"Are you proud of me?" she asked hopefully, her pale gaze moving from Wynne, to Zevran, to Leliana. "Were you surprised? It was a good idea, wasn't it?"

" _Ma petite,"_ replied Leliana, pressing her lips to the queen's cheek atop the now-smudged _kaddis._ "I suspected that you might have conjured up the Howe daughter. But I had no _idea_ that Anora Mac Tir was about to walk through that door!"

Wynne stifled a laugh: she could tell that the Orlesian bard was secretly a little perturbed at her lack of insight. Usually, Leliana would have been intimate with the movements of a Mac Tir – but, in light of the dramatic events of the previous month – it was wholly excusable.

"You did very well, Flora," the senior enchanter said, knowing that the queen was eager to hear the words spoken out loud. "You spoke with assurance and authority."

"It was _incredibly sensual,"_ added Zevran, lowering his voice and shooting her a limpid stare from beneath his eyelashes. "I was squirming in my seat, especially when you turned your back on us in those leather trousers. I was _turgid."_

"Ooh, I want _turbot_ too _,"_ breathed Flora, thinking on one of her favourite seasonal fishes. "They have meaty back fillets and taste best when cooked in their bones."

"Not _turbot,"_ corrected Zevran, one eye twitching. _"Turgid._ It means- "

"Thank the Maker you didn't start rhapsodising about fish before the Landsmeet, child," interjected Wynne, hastily. "I admit, I did get a little worried when you started talking about hemp strands and fishing rope, but the analogy was a good one."

" _Sí,"_ agreed Zevran, the lusty edge fading from his voice. _"Carina,_ you've always been able to hold the attention of a room with your words. Even disregarding all _this- "_ he gestured to her face, her hair, her leather-clad lower half. "Nobody in that room could take their eyes from you, _Queen Florence."_

Flora beamed, delighted. She treasured each word of praise from her companions like precious gems; secreting them away for future contemplation. Taking advantage of the queen's temporary distraction, Wynne shot Leliana a swift and meaningful look. The two women had become familiar enough with each other over the year that a single glance was enough to hold portentous meaning.

 _You can leave for Orlais without guilt, my dear. Our young king and queen will be alright. Both were born to lead; they have already proved capable._

Meanwhile, over on the armchair before the hearth, a fidgeting Theodora had lost her balance against the cushions. She slithered slowly downwards onto her back, entirely unable to stop herself. Since she could now see nothing except the ceiling, the baby believed herself to be abandoned, and began to whimper. One of the Mabari immediately clambered upright and, with exceptional care, used its muzzle to nudge the baby back into a sitting position. Her vision of the company restored, Theodora quickly quietened down. She flailed out a hand and grabbed the Mabari's ear. The patient hound immediately settled its chin upon the seat of the armchair, letting the baby's fingers clutch comforting handfuls of its fur.

Flora drifted away from her companions; a movement in the corner of the chamber had caught her attention. There was a figure leaning against the wall, somewhat incongruous in armour amidst the noble regalia. He wore the same dour expression that he had once sported during socialisation as a teyrn; Loghain Mac Tir had never had much time for festivities.

"What surprise are you going to produce at the next Landsmeet?" he remarked drily as the queen came to a halt beside him. "The Empress of Orlais? The resurrected Andraste? Eamon had to retrieve his jaw from the floorboards when Anora walked through the door."

The man was adept at hiding his emotion; he spoke of his only child with only the slightest flicker in his gaze. Flora shot him a vaguely confused look from the tail of her eye, since she had never been good at detecting sarcasm.

"No," she replied, solemnly. "I don't understand why people were surprised. Making her the teyrna of Gwaren was the most practical solution. I thought it'd be obvious."

Loghain gave a grudging nod of acknowledgment; as a fellow northerner, he admired the common sense of the scheme.

"I'd offer my daughter some advice on how to rebuild the town," he said, deliberately light in tone. "Considering I've experience in the area. But, since she's refused to even _look_ at me so far this evening, I'm not sure my words would be welcome."

Flora followed his gaze across the chamber, to where the slender and straight-backed Anora stood near the fireplace. She wore the teyrna's band proudly atop her mellow-gold hair, and was making polite conversation with Teagan.

"I'll speak to her," the queen said after a moment, her throaty, northern cadence crafting each vowel. "Not now – it doesn't seem like the right time – but soon."

"I'm not sure even your _persuasive tongue_ would be able to change my daughter's mind," Loghain commented, immediately annoyed by his provocative choice of phrasing. "She's as stubborn as a mule when she pleases."

"So am I," the placid Flora replied, turning her golden fish bangle absentmindedly around her wrist. "You're her dad. She won't stay angry with you forever."

He grunted his scepticism, dark eyes shifting restlessly from his daughter, across to the babes on the chair; finally coming to rest on the queen at his side.

Flora was entirely used to northern pessimism – she had grown up surrounded by it – and did not allow the Warden's doubts to daunt her in the slightest. Her small fingers continued to caress the gold, tracing the finely carved grooves in the metal. The former teyrn watched the restless motion of her fingers; her face was as still as an exquisitely carved Tevinter statue. A single dark eyelash sat on the high plane of her cheek.

"You ought to perform Namanatule's Joining in the morning, if you've got the… _you know,"_ she said after a moment, deliberately vague in the presence of the nobles. "Delilah Howe's husband is coming to fetch her tomorrow, and it would be nice for her to see her brother in uniform and ready to serve Ferelden."

Neither of them broached the possibility that Nathaniel might not survive the initiation.

"Aye, as you wish," replied Loghain evenly, simultaneously thinking _what the fuck? Namanatule?_

Flora nodded, gazing pensively off into the middle distance. Based on appearance alone, she appeared to be contemplating something of great significance. The queen was actually berating herself for mis-speaking Nathaniel's name; which she had thought she had mastered.

While Flora sulked quietly, the former teyrn fell victim to some intrusive and unwelcome thoughts. Her shirt – which belonged to her far larger husband – hung down low at the nape of her neck, revealing milky flesh and several silvered prongs of scarring. To his dismay, Loghain found himself imagining beads of perspiration running down between the delicate shoulder-blades; and ropes of crimson hair stuck to damp skin. Six months ago, he had warned the men of the Bannorn against inadvertent beguilement by Bryce's full-lipped daughter; it seemed that he now needed to remind himself of his own advice.

Mildly irritated, the former general forced his mind from such an inappropriate path. To his relief, Flora had not noticed his lapse into indiscretion; she was wondering whether it would be _wise_ to ingest her ninth pear of the day.

Just then, one of the Mabari beside the armchair pricked up its ears, detecting a snuffle from the little prince too quiet for humans to detect. The dog rose, then wove its way about the crowded chamber; heading straight for the queen. It pressed its nose against her thigh, pointedly.

Flora reached down to scratch the hound behind its ears, then squeaked as it gave her a firm – but gentle – nudge.

"What do you want, Claw?" she asked, admiring the rich russet colour of its fur. "Do you want some of this pear?"

The dog did not, and continue to nudge insistently at her leg. Mere seconds later, a hungry grizzle rose from the armchair; Taron was demanding his dinner. The larger Howe baby – who was named Alfie – looked down at his younger counterpart in alarm, lip wobbling.

A distracted Flora shoved the half-eaten pear into the unsuspecting Loghain's hand and trotted across the chamber towards the armchair. The crowd of nobles parted before her like wings of butter peeling away from the glide of a knife.

As soon as the baby's developing vision caught a glimpse of his mother, he thrust up two demanding, chubby arms. Flora scooped her son up, curling her fingers around the back of his head.

"Taron, Tarooon," she breathed, wriggling her shoulder to free it from the linen. "It's alright, food is here. I'm afraid it's the same again – you don't get much _variety_ in your diet."

The baby was already mouthing hungrily at the side of her breast, Flora gently nudged his head into place. As he suckled hungrily at the nipple, she looked around for a place to sit. An uncomfortable footstool was the only free seat – the other chairs taken up by more venerable members of the Landsmeet, whom she would not think of disturbing.

"Come here, my love."

Alistair, who had used his son's grizzle as an excuse to extract himself from the droning banns, slid his arm around her waist. He then lowered himself to the footstool, drawing Flora down onto his lap. She leaned back against the familiar broad muscle of his chest, grateful for the support. Both of them gazed down in fascination at their son as he fed, both small hands clinging greedily to her breast. Despite his tender age – the prince was less than three weeks old - the determination shone through his tiny, finely-crafted features. The noise of several dozen people gathered around them faded into the background; the sphere of their attention shrunk to their family.

"How's your arm, husband?" Flora asked eventually, leaning her head back against his shoulder. "Is it painful?"

A soft half-laugh escaped Alistair's throat; he had forgotten about the bandaged cut. He shook his own head, brushing his lips tenderly over her ear.

"I'd forgotten about it, to be honest with you. It doesn't hurt in the slightest, sweet wife."

"I'm going to rinse it with saltwater later," she said sternly, recalling the old – but effective – Herring method of cleansing. "And if it needs stitching, I'll do that too."

He grinned, surreptitiously inhaling the clean and soapy scent of his wife's hair.

"Still trying to mend me, my dear?"

"Always," Flora whispered, turning her face against his neck and pressing her nose into the stubbled underside of his chin. "Aaah, I like when it's _rough- "_

The king lifted his head and laughed as she nuzzled against him like a Mabari pup, smudging the remnants of the _kaddis_ across his throat.

" _Ahem."_

Both Flora and Alistair looked up at the elegant figure standing before them; tall and slim as a willow. Anora Mac Tir had excused herself from Teagan and made her way to the royal couple; inclining her head as she waited to be acknowledged.

"Teyrna," said Alistair, his tone neutral but not unfriendly. "Make sure you find out the names of the Gwaren restoration committee before you leave. The last I'd heard, they've set up a camp in the ruins of the town. I'll write to the mayor to inform him of your arrival."

"Take one of the Carta's chests with you," Flora added, referring to the ship's hold-worth of plunder they had retrieved from the dwarves. "It's going to be used for Ferelden's recovery anyway, and we need the docks in Gwaren active again. There's _a lot_ of southern fish that I haven't tried yet."

 _Plus, it'll give you a warmer welcome from the locals._

"Thank you," replied Anora, stiff and yet with a distinct thread of genuine gratitude running through her reply. "I – I'm grateful for your consideration. I admit, I wasn't expecting to receive a letter from you, Florence. I haven't… I haven't always treated you with the respect that you deserve."

 _You once called me a little scarlet goblin,_ Flora recalled, trying not to giggle. _I don't know what a goblin is, but I don't think it was meant as a compliment._

Her words were abrupt but earnest. Unlike her father – who had never lost the coarse cadence of the north despite the outer veneer of nobility – Anora spoke with the lofty articulation of the upper classes.

"I dismissed _you_ as a usurper and _you_ as a fool," Loghain's daughter continued, her fingers knitted neatly and held at her waist as she nodded towards Alistair and Flora in turn. "Yet, you both rose to defend Ferelden where I… I _faltered._ "

Alistair bristled at the implied slight against his wife, eyes narrowing a fraction.

"And I was mistaken," Anora hastened to say, noticing the king's nostrils flare. "Florence, your idea to write my summons in code was _genius._ I had to take the letter to three scholars before I found one who could decipher it."

"Flora wrote to you _in code?"_ Alistair repeated, astonished. _"My_ Flora?"

Anora nodded, solemn-faced.

"In a _curious, unintelligible script_ that I had never seen before. I assumed that the characters must be part of some Alamarri-era runic alphabet."

The corners of Flora's mouth turned down; she wondered if she should admit that there had been no _secret code,_ the letter had been scribed in her own misshapen hand.

At that moment Theodora distracted them all by squeaking for attention; tired of keeping the Howe baby company. All looked at the little girl, who had slithered down onto her back and was flailing her arms.

Flora, realising that she was incapacitated due to Taron, and Alistair equally so due to acting as her chair, looked hopefully up at Anora.

"Do you want to hold her?"

Anora hesitated for the briefest moment, then nodded slightly. The Mabari gathered about the chair, on hearing Flora's words, made sufficient room. Mac Tir's daughter reached down and lifted the baby as though Theodora was made from Orlesian glass, holding her awkwardly in her arms. The little princess quickly adapted to this new pair of arms, mouthing at her own fingers as she peered up at the noblewoman's long, high-browed face.

"It's your aunt, Lady Anora, Teddy," Flora said to her daughter, still not entirely sure how to address the former queen. "Try not to be sick on Aunt Lady's dress."

"Aunt… Aunt Anora will do," corrected the new-made _teyrna,_ astonished at the veracity of the statement. Through her marriage to the ill-fated Cailan, the twins were indeed her niece and nephew. "A beautiful set of babes."

Taron stopped feeding long enough to eye this strange new woman who had entered the corner of his vision. Despite his tender age, he seemed to possess an innate and advanced sense of curiosity.

Anora, growing more comfortable with the dark-haired Theodora in her arms, smiled wistfully back down at the bemused little boy.

"There are illustrations of Maric when he was an infant in Denerim Castle, rumoured to be sketched by the Rebel Queen herself," she said, tilting her head back to avoid Theodora's fingers in her hair. "Taron bears a strong resemblance to his grandfather. You can see the Theirin jaw on him already."

The baby had returned his attention to Flora's nipple, paying heed to the demands of the stomach. Flora nudged her husband gently in the ribs, enamoured by Anora's comment.

"We should ask Zevran to sketch the babies," she breathed, her pale eyes lighting like magefire. "He's good at art, he drew me a picture of a jellyfish once and I was _gob-smackered_ by its life-like qualities!"

"Gob-smackered?" Alistair murmured, hiding a smile in the dishevelled crimson of her hair.

"Mm!"

Anora, much as her father had experienced a half-candle previously, felt a vein twitching in her forehead near her eyeball. With a polite smile she handed Theodora to the newly-arrived Fergus, and made her way across the chamber towards Bann Reginalda. Several pairs of eyes followed her; noting that the teyrna assiduously avoided the corner where her father was standing.

"We were going to eat dinner in the Great Hall," the teyrn said, smiling reflexively down at his niece as she gazed up at him in fascination. "But I get the sense that most of them intend on going down to the town and spending their coin in the taverns and whorehouses."

"Perfect: we can eat in our quarters," replied Alistair, the relief stark on his handsome, wearied face. "It feels like we've been on display all day. I'd give my left ear for a bit of privacy."

Flora, who loved her husband's ears, looked alarmed.

"Nooo! Not your _ears."_

She twisted her head as far as she was able, seeking out the side of Alistair's head. Always happy to oblige, he tilted his neck so that his wife could brush her lips over his ear, her breath hot against his skin.

"I'm going to eat your ear," she told him in an undertone, lifting the baby to her shoulder and patting him on the back.

He grinned, heat flaring in his hazel gaze like embers in the heart of a bonfire.

"You are, sweeting?"

"Mm. I bet you taste like… smoked haddock," she breathed seductively, rubbing her nose against the short, bronze tufts of hair. "What fish do you think I'd taste like?"

"Uh," said Alistair, and then began to laugh. _"Maker's Breath,_ Flo."

"Whaaat?!"

Eamon and Fergus, both close enough to inadvertently eavesdrop, shared a glance of unanimous accord.

"I think our young royals have been in public for long enough today," the arl said, with a diplomatic cough. "They've done very well. Back to their quarters now, I think."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Lol Flora, what are you doing asking your husband what kind of FISH you would taste like?! Seriously girl! Anyway, it was interesting to write this chapter - having the two conversations with the two Mac Tirs.

Replying to reviews in the reviews thank you!


	224. An Evening At Leisure

Chapter 224: An Evening At Leisure

The bedchamber assigned to the royal couple had been prepared for their return. Fresh furs were slung across the bed, the hearth had been piled high with fragrant cedar, and fresh linens folded neatly on the Chasind's carved wooden chest. One enthusiastic servant had picked a bunch of meadowsweet and placed it in a vase atop the mantel; its soft, floral scent was carried outwards by the heat of the hearth. An iron wreath of candles hung from the ceiling, casting mellow light onto the flagstones.

Both twins and their mother needed bathing before any dinner could be brought into the bedchamber. A bathtub, pre-warmed with hot bricks at its base, was hastily brought in and placed before the fire. The babes were washed and dried first, wrapped in lambswool blankets and placed in their crib. Then, Flora clambered into the tub and began a hasty bath; more than used to quick washes after years of communal bathing.

While his wife dried her hair before the fireplace, Alistair read over a small pile of correspondence that Eamon had annotated; adding either his own signature or penning a query at the bottom of the page. He glanced periodically across at Flora, who was sat naked and cross-legged on the bearskin in front of the hearth. She was holding ropes of dripping crimson as close to the flames as she dared, her cheeks flushed from the heat.

"The repairs on the city walls have been finished," the king said, eyebrows lifting to his hairline. "Maker, those dwarven stonemasons are efficient. I thought it would take until the new year to finish the job."

"What about the tre- tray… _tray-buckets_ you wanted?" Flora asked, recalling how Alistair had admired the dwarven siege weaponry.

"The trebuchets? Apparently, Harrowmont has sent over all the required parts as a token of appreciation," he continued, eyes moving further down the letter. "They just need to be assembled, now."

"And _names_ for them thought up," his wife added solemnly, recalling the various machinery that had inflicted such damage on the horde.

 _Ball-Breaker. Nug-Humper. Fist-To-The-Face._

" _Ha!_ We should ask Finian," Alistair replied, grinning. "I bet he'd come up with some clever names. Give the Orlesian _duc_ something interesting to write home about."

The royal couple's closest companions were gathered in the hallway outside; conversing in low and excited tones about the success of the day. Eamon, who had been taken wholly by surprise at the appearance of Delilah Howe and Anora Mac Tir, was now implying that he had known about it all along; nodding sagely whenever Fergus brought up their arrival. Teagan, Finian, Leliana and Zevran were gathered on a bench playing a game of Wicked Grace – the bann had no chance against a bard, a former Crow and one trained in Orlesian subtleties, and he was losing badly. Wynne had retired to her quarters to write up the day's events.

One of the doors leading to the bedchamber opened a fraction; the two guard posted to either side shifted in case a royal personage was about to exit. Alistair appeared in the gap between frame and door, beckoning them inside.

"I've managed to persuade Flo into some clothes," he told them, cheerfully. "Even though she keeps saying _I've given birth in front of them, what's left to see?!"_

"Well, it's _true,"_ came an indignant comment from behind him, the words interspersed with a yawn.

They were accompanied in by a bevy of waiting servants, armed with platters, tankards and steaming bowls. These were placed on every available flat surface, some improvised – the royal bedchamber at Highever was not as equipped to handle the same number of people as its counterpart in Denerim. Every seat was soon claimed, with several sitting on the end of the bed.

"Clothing is unnecessary for me, _mi sirenita,"_ Zevran murmured in Flora's ear as she padded past him, reluctantly clad in one of Alistair's striped, Theirin-badged nightshirts.

"I know," she replied, weaving her way around Cod as the young Mabari accompanied her over-diligently to the soup tureen. "I just end up having to undress when they need feeding, and then change what I'm wearing if they dribble. Clothing is _annoying._ I'm taking this off the moment that Arl Eamon leaves!"

Alistair patted his wife on the thigh as she passed, leaning forward in the chair before the hearth. His plate was already stacked high with several ripe tomatoes, fresh-baked bread and a wedge of cheese the size of a man's fist. The king had built up a ferocious appetite after the day's events; he had already wolfed down a quarter of a cold chicken.

"So, the plan for tomorrow, then- " he said to Eamon, passing the ale jug to his uncle. "Flo and I will oversee Howe's initiation in the morning. Then – we have a free afternoon?"

"There's a few letters you need to sign, but apart from that – aye. The afternoon is yours to do with as you please."

The look of delight and incredulity on Alistair's face made the arl laugh, reaching out a hand to clap him on the knee.

"Son, you're not _always_ on duty as a king. You do get some time to yourself."

Alistair glanced across first to the crib, and then towards his wife; already anticipating the thought of several precious hours with his family. Flora had just retrieved a fistful of blueberries to add to the odd combination of food on her plate: smoked salmon, apple wedges and chunks of raw, diced turnip.

"So the feast will be tomorrow evening," the king then continued, swallowing a mouthful of cheese. "And then the next morning after that – the Landsmeet will depart?"

"Aye," replied Eamon, swirling the ale about his tankard with a thoughtful expression. "And then – well. Once the babes are old enough to travel, we'll be on the road ourselves, back to the city."

Alistair nodded, feeling an odd swirl of emotions in his belly at the prospect of returning to Denerim and taking up permanent residence in the royal palace. To his surprise, although some nervousness still lingered; _anticipation reigned_ supreme. He found himself oddly eager to continue the job he had begun in the spring; leading Ferelden towards a future that was both stable and prosperous. This once-daunting task – the prospect of which had, a year ago, given him nightmares as bad as any Fade-dream - seemed far more manageable now. With his best friend at his side as his queen, and his children's futures to consider; Alistair was ready for the challenge.

"Wynne has suggested we wait until they're a month old," he said, pushing the blade through a ripe tomato. "So, a week and a half. Will that work?"

"Aye, lad. I'll speak to the stewards tomorrow."

Meanwhile, Flora was perched on the bed listening to Leliana and Finian discuss the details of Leliana's upcoming post in the Valence Chantry. The queen struggled to listen without growing mournful; she was still not quite able to believe that her companion was _leaving her, for Orlais of all places!_ To distract herself, she was letting Zevran use her rigid fingers to weave several strips of leather together; a thick braid emerging as he wound the laces around her hands.

"How are you getting to Valence?" Finian asked, scooping out the fleshy innards of a pomegranate with a small, silvered spoon. "By ship or by saddle? I hope you're prepared for a choppy journey if it's the former, the Waking Sea is looking distinctly _unfriendly_ at the moment."

"I'll be joining _Duc Germain's_ retinue," the bard replied, reaching into the crib to brush a thumb across Theodora's dark wisps of hair. "He's graciously offered – after some subtle suggestion – to escort me across the border."

The arl quirked an eyebrow at Leliana's carefully assumed innocence. After a moment, she let the feigned ambiguity fall, and giggled; the sound like a peal of silvery bells.

" _Oui, naturellement_ I intend to eavesdrop on every one of the _duc's_ conversations and read his letters before he even places his seal upon them. I shall discover exactly _who_ he is relaying his information to, and then write all that I find to Denerim."

The corners of Flora's mouth had twisted progressively downwards with each turn of the conversation. Zevran, who was still winding the strips of leather around her fingers to braid them, clucked his tongue reprovingly to recapture her attention.

" _Carina,_ I shall put you over my knee and _spank_ you if your fingers droop any further."

"You ain't allowed to spank me," Flora grumbled, letting a touch of Herring colour her words. "I'm _queen._ I am the spanker, not the… the _spanked."_

"That's not what I've heard," he replied, neatly turning the leather around so that the braid doubled back on itself. "Word in the tavern is that you're _more_ than happy to be _spa- "_

Flora pulled a face of such grotesque proportion at the elf that he giggled, losing his train of thought.

"What is this going to be, anyway?" she asked, looking down at the intricately woven strands of leather. "Is it a belt?"

Zevran shook his head, long fingers working swift as darting fish as he wound the leather strips into a plait. The tattoos above his knuckles had faded beneath a decade and a half of Antivan sun. The only solace of a Fereldan summer was that its sun was too anaemic to further bleach the ink.

"It is a stirrup strap," he explained, the lightness of his tone unable to distract from the concentration in his gaze. "For your brother. I noticed the other day that his had worn thin; it appeared very near to snapping. And I… I should not like to see him fall. Unlike myself, he lacks the grace to land on his feet."

Finian, conversing wistfully with Leliana about a certain Val Royeaux _patisserie_ whose baked goods had added two inches to his trousers, had not heard the elf's words. The young arl continued to rhapsodise about the deliciousness of their cream cakes; begging Leliana to use her espionage skills to discover their recipe.

Although Zevran had deliberately infused his tone with casualness, the meaning of the gesture was not lost on Flora. She leaned forwards, careful to keep her fingers stiff and rigid before her, then pressed grateful lips against her friend's cheek.

"Thank you. On his behalf."

He curved the corner of his mouth at her in response - oddly wistful - then returned his attention to the braid.

Early evening drew into the prelude of proper night, the soft pastels of sunset richening into their deeper jewel-toned counterparts of sapphire and crimson before blending into a wash of darkness. It was mild for a Ferelden autumn, which well-suited those members of the Landsmeet who had ventured into the town to spend their coin. Highever's taverns were doing a roaring business in gossip as well as ale. The townsfolk gathered about a bann's son or less discreet arl to hear about the king striking down each of his queen's would-be slavers; something which they most heartily approved. Alistair's name was toasted across Highever; their cries of _Theirin, Theirin!_ accompanied by splashing beer and colliding tankards.

Alistair himself was oblivious to such lauding cries. As night drew in like a tight-woven blanket around Castle Cousland, the king had remained in the royal quarters with his family, his friends and companions. He and Flora had joined Teagan's game of Wicked Grace - both of them lost even when blatantly sharing and swapping their cards. The bard then sung the company a collection of Alamarri folk melodies that she had been compiling; a set of sweet and haunting verses from a more primal time.

Leonas ducked in just as the night watchman rung the ninth hour, informing Alistair that a ship had been found to take the exiled Carta far from Ferelden's shores. The general did not take much persuasion to join the company for a few minutes, though he would only accept a small tankard of ale. When Bryland rose to leave, Eamon accompanied him; stating drily that Isolde would be anticipating a long letter detailing every moment of the trial, which he had better begin now for fear of missing the morning raven.

By the time that the tenth hour was rung, the company in the king's bedchamber had shrunk to Leliana, Zevran and the royal couple themselves. Teagan had made his excuses shortly after his elder brother; though he was then witnessed heading towards the quarters of a certain elderly arl's daughter.

Alistair poured the lay-sister a fresh tankard of wine, splashing a few drops over the flagstones. The last remnants of adrenaline - combined with the euphoria of victory – made the king restless; his fingers flexing against his palm and his boot tapping against the tiles. He knew of two reliable ways of settling his nerves: bedding his wife or beating up a training dummy. Unfortunately, the former had fallen asleep while feeding Theodora, and the latter was not readily available.

"Do you need anything else for your journey?" Alistair asked, in an attempt to distract himself. "I've already signed all of your safe travel papers. You're an _official envoy_ of Ferelden now – congratulations! – so you've got diplomatic immunity. Which Eamon assures me is a _good thing."_

"A _very_ good thing," Leliana murmured, brushing her fingers gratefully over his arm before leaning back in the velvet armchair. _"Merci beaucoup."_

Alistair waved a hand in a _don't mention it_ manner, swirling the remnants of ale in his own tankard thoughtfully. When the bard asked if he wanted a top-up, he declined with a polite nod. One of the Mabari yawned and rolled over beside the hearth, keeping an eye on the door even in this state of languor.

"So, will we be hearing about _Divine Leliana_ by Satinalia, then?" the king asked eventually, and the bard let out another soft, silvered peal of laughter.

" _Créateur! Non, ma petit._ My past is _far_ too colourful for the synod to ever approve my appointment as Divine – nor would I desire it. No, I… I would prefer a subtler type of service to the Chantry."

Alistair nodded, watching the remnants of honey-coloured ale roll slowly around the base of his tankard. The hearth continued to smoulder quietly, chewing through chunks of fragrant cedar.

"You'd be good at that sort of job, Lel," he replied eventually, eyeing the dying flames. "Managing the things that go on in the background, which are actually _really, really important."_

" _Oui,_ I know that it is where my talents lie," the bard nodded, her words accompanied by a soft smile. "And I am eager to hone my skills in pastures new – although, I am going… I am going to miss you all very much."

She looked down swiftly, blinking fast before brushing her fingers beneath her eyes. Moisture glimmered on the skin, illuminated by the glow of the nearby hearth.

"You all have become like family to me. I will be very sorry not to see our precious little twins grow up. They'll be twice the size the next time I see them."

"Then you'll have to come back often," the king said firmly, giving her arm a friendly pat. "Mac Tir worked the distance out for Flo; it's only ten days by ship. You can't miss their Maker-blessing at Satinalia!"

"I will be there, _je te promets!"_

The bard rose to take her leave, pecking Alistair on the cheek and blowing kisses towards both crib and bed. She left in a waft of lemongrass and bergamot, the stiff brocade of her gown rustling as she wove herself around the Mabari.

As the door closed behind her, Alistair reached out for the poker and shoved it into the logs; launching a rush of sparks towards the chimney as he resurrected the light. There was a log basket beside the hearth, and he spent several minutes arranging the wood in what he deemed to be the best position atop the flames. Once he was finished, the king brushed the soot from his hands and glanced around, stifling a yawn.

"Zev? You've been oddly _quiet –_ which usually means that you're up to something."

A low Antivan cackle rolled across the shadowed room.

"Come and see, _amor._ I am almost finished."

Alistair rose to his feet, scratching one of the Mabari behind the ears as it watched him movement.

The elf was perched on the twins' carven clothing chest, well-lit by the candelabras that he had moved to either side. A wedge of parchment rested atop his thighs; there were a few additional ink splatters scattered across his nose. A quill was held with light and delicate expertise between his fingers.

"It is true that I am more used to using the pen for forgeries and falsifying," he murmured, wry as ever. "But I also have some skill in copying what I see before me. I overheard what _carina_ said earlier, about sketching the twins."

Curious, Alistair came to a halt at the elf's side, peering down at the top sheet parchment. A moment later, a startled half-laugh escaped his throat; part in astonishment and part in wonder.

"Maker's Breath, Zev. That's- _that's-_ "

He shook his head from side to side, leaning forward to take a closer look at the parchment. His languid queen lay atop the bearskin on the bed, naked as a babe herself; a tawny fur draped over her groin in a vague nod to propriety. Theodora was nestled at one breast, having also fallen asleep at the nipple. The other breast was bared, smooth and unblemished as a goose egg. Taron lay in the crook of her elbow, curled up in the manner of a Mabari pup. Hair flowed everywhere like spilled Antivan wine, falling over flesh, babe and blanket alike. A few deft strokes of the quill had captured the tilt of Flora's drowsy head and the intimate question of her full mouth; her fingers slightly curled against her palm. The sleepy Cod and Lobster were lying like matched bookends on the rug below, nose to nose.

"Maker's Breath," repeated Alistair, utterly mesmerised as his eyes moved from the inked sketch to its real-life counterpart. "You've put Flo on paper. I can't believe it. And the babes too – how did you draw such tiny fingers?!"

The elf smiled, carefully pulling the sheet of parchment free from the string that bound it. He gazed at his work for a long moment, then passed the drawing up to the king.

"For you, my friend. I know it's not like the _traditional_ sort of painting that hangs in the Royal Palace, but perhaps you can put it in some drawer and take it out on special occasions."

"Are you joking?" the king retorted immediately, still unable to tear his gaze from the parchment. "It's the… the _purest_ thing I've ever seen in my life. I'm going to have it framed and placed where I can see it every day."

He looked about for a place to keep the parchment safe in the meanwhile; finally dumping a map from its case and placing the rolled-up sketch within the confines of the leather.

Zevran let out a low chuckle, the sound mellow as autumnal fruit.

"A drawing by an Antivan assassin in pride of place in Denerim Castle? There's a real turn up for the books. Scribe, take note!"

Smiling, Alistair then crossed the few steps to the bed. With infinite care, he lifted each babe from their dozing mother and transferred them to the crib; cradling the back of the head in a broad, sword-callused palm. Both Taron and Theodora were too deeply asleep to wake, curling up together like puppies beneath one of Wynne's knitted blankets.

"You know, I couldn't draw _mi florita_ for the longest time," the elf said softly, watching his friend lean into the crib to kiss each of his children goodnight. "It made my heart sick with longing. Yet now… now I find that I _am_ able to draw her. It is not _entirely_ a painless process, but – but I can endure it."

Alistair gazed at his friend for a long moment. Although it was _his_ wife whom Zevran had coveted, the young man was compassionate enough to feel sympathy over the pain of unfulfilled desire.

"Flo adores you," he said, wry and blunt. "You know she does."

"And a part of me will always be in love with her," the elf replied, matching Alistair's frankness with raw and unapologetic honesty. "But I- I must at least attempt to seek out some happiness with another. After all, I believe now that I… that I deserve a chance at it."

"Of _course_ you do," the king replied, earnest and immediate. "In my humble opinion, you deserve it more than most people. Flo would agree with me!"

The former Crow half-smiled; the bone-white teeth in rich contrast to the earthen tones of his skin. He dipped into an exaggerated bow as he took his leave; as he rose against, Alistair clapped a rough, affectionate palm against his shoulder.

"See you in the morning, Zev. 'Night."

" _Buenas noches, mi rey."_

Once the door had been shut in the elf's wake, Alistair began to remove the day's clothing. Unbuttoning his shirt swiftly, he draped the linen over the armchair before turning his attention to his lower half. Boots, breeches and smalls were all taken off in quick succession.

Patting Cod and Lobster as he stepped over them, the king climbed into bed and slithered naked beneath the furs. His wife was warm from the bearskin and the heat from the hearth; he reached out and pulled her bodily against him. Flora shot him a sleepy smile from beneath several thick ropes of crimson, one slender arm reaching up to embrace his shoulder.

"I love you," she mumbled, the words blurred with a yawn. "Husband."

"My sweet wife," he breathed back, capturing her attention through the haze of sleepiness. "You're the heart of my whole world."

Flora gazed solemnly up at him, her pale irises like seawater captured behind glass. She leaned forward, her fire-heated breast pressing into the firm muscle of his chest, then let her lips brush warm and sweet against his own.

Impulsively, Alistair pulled the heavy wolfskin over their heads, encasing them in muffled, faintly perfumed darkness. Flora reached out a hand, tracing her fingertip along the strong, stubbled angle of his jaw. He leaned his face into her palm and she cupped his cheek, her thumb caressing small, affectionate circles.

"I can't believe we only met a year ago," his wife whispered through the shadow, soft and wondering. "It feels like we've spent our whole lives together."

"Well, I'm never going to spend a night away from you again," he told her, wholly serious. "I swear it, Flo. From this moment on, _nothing_ will part us."

"Yes," Flora replied, in simple and earnest agreement. "I never want to be away from you, either."

Alistair stared at her face for a long moment through the gloom; the fervent intensity of his gaze in stark contrast to their dim surroundings.

"You've given my whole life meaning," he said, wonderingly. "Maker's Breath, 'Flora of Herring'. All my purpose comes from you."

Flora leaned forwards, unseeing in the gloom, blindly seeking out his mouth with her own. He readily greeted her parted lips, reaching up to thread his fingers through the oxblood ropes. The full length of her hair felt rich and decadent, which made touching it all the more thrilling.

Their mouths worked in tender harmony; lips still incredulous at how perfectly they moulded together. She let out a half gasp as he deepened the kiss, pressing her down into the mattress with sudden urgency. The fur tangled about them as he rolled on top of her; impatient, he thrust it back and took his wife in his arms once again.

The kisses soon lost their youthful innocence as desire overtook tenderness. He ducked his head to attend to her breasts as she spread covetous palms across the broad muscle of his back. His wife urged him on, pressing herself against him with joyful and wanton abandonment as she explored the proof of his arousal. Even though there was no longer any need for them to _rush_ – no looming threat on the horizon, no imminent meeting or obligations – it never took long before their bodies were joined in the oldest and most primal of ways.

Halfway through their exertions, the king stopped motionless, propped above his wife with his palms pressed into the mattress. Perspiration ran down the contour of his chest in shining rivulets; his hair plastered to the back of his neck. He gazed down at his queen with an odd reverence writ raw across his face, the green flecks in the irises lit like elven veilfire. Flora stared back up at him, her hair spread in a luxuriant tangle across the pillows, lips swollen and cheeks aglow. Her throat and collarbone were mottled with the aftermath of vigorous kisses; each one like a worshipper's lit candle.

 _There's something sacred about this,_ Alistair thought wonderingly, the echo of his heart thundering in his ears. _Bedding her._

He briefly considered sharing this thought with her, but then she reached up a needful arm and he was drawn back to her light like a moth to the flame; resuming the percussive thrust of his devotion.

* * *

OOC Author Note: I was going to go in my usual more smutty direction for the end of this chapter, but then I actually am super pleased with the slightly religious overtone it took instead! I think it's a nice contrast to the one from a few chapters ago.

ZEVRAN 3 I wanted to give him a bit of closure seeing as we aren't far from the end nooooooow

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	225. Packing Leliana's Armoire

Chapter 225: Packing Leliana's Armoire

The next day dawned with a sense of harried urgency; even night seemed to flee before the impatience of a hastily rising sun. Now that the excitement of the Landsmeet was over, the commitments and obligations of normal life resumed in full force. Nobles who had travelled across half of Ferelden to attend the Carta trial now sought to organise their journeys back to bannorns and arlings – or, as was more accurate, instructed their stewards to begin preparations. Castle Cousland hummed with activity – the kitchen staff bumped elbows with members of various noble retinues gathering supplies for the road; carpenters attended to broken wagon wheels and leather-workers to worn out saddles.

This was a task made somewhat more arduous by the fact that many of the castle's occupants had recently spent hours in the taverns toasting Alistair Theirin's skill with a blade. The sun seemed to shine down with additional viciousness onto throbbing heads, chiding them for such wanton frivolity. Even the Mabari had worn themselves out with excitement, having fed on the adrenaline coursing through the veins of their owners.

Fergus - who would be accompanying the royal family back to Denerim for the winter - had a morning of meetings scheduled to prepare for his absence. Eamon, whose new responsibilities as Chancellor meant that he would not be able to spend months in Ferelden's south, was drawing up paperwork to transfer the arling of Redcliffe over to Teagan.

Contrary to the frenzy of preparation and packing in surrounding areas, the bard's bedchamber was an oasis of calm. The shutters had been flung open to welcome in the sun, fresh flowers – a gift from an admiring bann – were gathered in a vase on the dresser. Silk wrappers for clothing were spread out neatly over the bed, while bags, cases and boxes arranged themselves neatly beside the door. Leliana hummed lightly to herself as she swirled about the room, a cloud of grace and efficiency; folding gowns, rolling up belts, nestling daggers between shimmering velvet sheaths. Her perfume lingered in her wake; the clean, bergamot scent that she favoured.

Wynne assisted where she could, the two women laughing and chattering amongst themselves. The senior enchanter had visited Val Royeaux several times, and shared memories of her favourite _patisseries_ and _delicatessens_. Leliana reminisced over a certain _couturier_ which she hoped was still doing business; a tucked away little establishment in the haberdashery quarter that crafted the most exquisite _déshabillé._ Taron was nestled in one elbow, gazing in wary fascination at the glamorous face above him.

Meanwhile – like a storm cloud amidst sunny skies – a brooding Flora sat in the corner of the room. She clutched Theodora in her arms as she glowered at the frenzy of activity, thoroughly disapproving of the scene before her. To add to this, she had no idea what Wynne and Leliana were talking about – half of their words were utterly incomprehensible. Cod and Lobster lay at her feet, ears down; detecting their mistress' despondency.

"Florence, please stop sulking in the corner like a grumpy little troll," the bard called, wrapping up a vicious-looking garrotte and placing it in her jewellery case. "I will be back at Satinalia. It is a _handful_ of months away, you will barely notice that I am gone!"

"I _will,"_ mumbled the belligerent Flora, wiggling her little finger in front of Theodora and watching the baby grab for it. "I _will_ notice."

"Well, I hope that Mother Dorothea appreciates her new aide, my dear," Wynne interjected, settling herself on an armchair to sort through a pile of chemises. "And that she appreciates your – ah – _unique_ set of talents."

The mage's eyebrows rose as she found a wickedly curved hairpin, one side sharpened to a razor's edge.

Leliana let out a giggle accented with such Val Royeaux flavour that the little prince in her arm shot her a suspicious stare.

"Mother Dorothea is not without a colourful past of her own. I think I will have an interesting time with her, Wynne – and hopefully, a fulfilling one."

These words only served to sink Flora into a deeper gloom. As hard as she tried to feel pleased for her friend and her new opportunity, she could not help but feel a sense of abandonment. The queen had believed that she and her companions had forged an unbreakable bond under the terrible conditions under the Blight; it now appeared as though this might not be the case. Flora's Herring rationale had told her sternly that it was _ridiculous_ to expect her companions to live with them in the Royal Palace – what would they _do? –_ but she had not expected that they would go so far as to _leave Ferelden._

Theodora yanked enthusiastically at her mother's finger, letting out a contented gurgle. Flora lifted the baby to her shoulder and patted her narrow, wool-clad back; admiring the downy softness of her daughter's ink-black hair.

Just then, there came the strident ring of male laughter from outside; boots echoed against the flagstones and muffled voices continued a conversation. The door opened to reveal Alistair still grinning at a humorous observation made by Teagan. The men were clad in the loose shirts they wore for sword-practice; their blades hung at their sides.

"I don't even know how these tavern rumours get started," Alistair replied, brushing a sweaty palm over his hair in an attempt to flatten it. "It's been barely three weeks since Flo had the twins, and they're saying that she's with child _again?"_

Teagan let out a slightly out of breath chuckle, still winded from the exertion of sparring with the young and energetic king.

"You know what they say about ale and loose tongues, lad," he said, watching Alistair head across the room to kiss his son. "If Eamon lets you go before sunset, stop by the stables. Reginalda keeps trying to sell me a pair of bay mares; I'd like your opinion on whether they're worth the coin."

"I'll try and get through the paperwork quickly," promised the young king, smiling a swift greeting at Wynne and Leliana before hurrying towards his wife.

Theodora received the same peck as her brother; the baby blinked up at her father with a faint flicker of recognition. Finally, Alistair stooped to attend to his wife's upturned mouth; kissing her with a fervour that showed how badly he had missed her during their single hour of separation.

"Sweet wife!"

Flora smiled up at her husband, slightly mesmerised by the linen clinging to the contour of his perspiring chest.

"Husband," she whispered, made more cheerful by his returned. "I'm so happy you're here."

"Thank goodness, Alistair," interrupted Leliana, pointedly. "You can cheer your _sweet wife_ up. She's been glowering all morning! _Despite_ me telling her that it causes wrinkles."

Alistair took in the situation in an instant: his pouting and unhappy queen, Leliana surrounded by packing-cases and travel bags.

"My love," he said, struck by sudden inspiration. "Do you know what I saw in the corridor just now?"

"What?" grumbled Flora, nuzzling the top of Theodora's head.

"A _seagull!_ Fancy that!"

"A SEAGULL?!"

As he had predicted, his wife's eyes grew huge with fury, her nostrils flaring and her fist clenching. Springing to her feet, she thrust the startled princess into her father's arms and leapt for the door. Cod and Lobster, awoken rudely from their nap, scampered in her wake with a scrabble of claws against tile.

"It was… just outside," called Alistair hastily in her wake, tucking Theodora into his elbow. "Don't go far, baby."

Leliana, who had not been with the company when they ventured to Herring, and thus was unaware of Flora's antipathy towards seagulls, looked more than a little confused. Alistair glanced swiftly towards the door, then rose to his feet and headed straight for Wynne.

The senior enchanter reached out her arms with a benevolent smile; Alistair handed over the yawning Theodora in the hope that the baby would provide additional incentive to the request he was about to make.

"Wynne, I have a proposition for you," the king began, his voice steady but his eyes somewhat anxious. "I didn't want to say anything in front of Flo- "

"A clumsy distraction, but an effective one," interjected Leliana, bouncing Taron gently as she circled on the spot.

" – so, I need to ask you now. Right: here goes."

Wynne raised a single, finely plucked eyebrow; an arc of white rising to her hairline. Alistair continued, the words tangling together in his haste to release them.

"Lel is leaving tomorrow. Zevran has already warned Flo that he intends to take down the Crows in Antiva. Oghren's joined the Wardens, while Sten and Morrigan – well." The king let out a rueful half-laugh, shaking his head.

"Maker knows what those two are doing. It's possible they've left already. But – I'm worried about Flo, and how she'll find life in the Royal Palace... life without her friends. I don't want her to find it _strange_."

Wynne listened closely, her sharp, pale blue eyes fixed on Alistair's. Although she had a good idea what he was about to propose, she wanted to hear him speak the words himself.

 _I don't want her to feel isolated in the castle. I don't want her to worry about looking after the twins._

"I want to offer you the position of Court Enchanter," Alistair said, meeting her stare head on. "After all, if Empress Celene can have one, why shouldn't we? It was the position that Flo would have had, if her magic hadn't been… _you know."_

He crossing fingers surreptitiously beside against breeches. Wynne was gazing at him thoughtfully, while simultaneously rocking Theodora into a deeper sleep.

"You want me to stay to keep some consistency in Florence's life," she observed, cagily. "You know I was planning on returning to the Circle?"

"I'll get you anything you need," Alistair countered immediately. "A library, an apothecary, an- an experimentation chamber!"

" _Experimentation chamber?"_

"You'll be the best stocked and supplied mage in Ferelden," the king continued, hope emblazoned across his handsome features. "I'll have whatever you need brought to your chambers. So long as you stay – not _forever._ Just for a while."

"You would do all this to keep your wife happy?" the senior enchanter asked, trying and failing to hide a smile. "Including putting up with the nagging of an old woman?"

"I'd do _anything_ for Flo's happiness," Alistair replied, without hesitation. "If it were in my power, I'd bring the Waking Sea to Denerim for her."

 _Not Herring, though,_ the king thought grimly to himself. _The north coast is welcome to keep that particular shithole._

"Well, alright, then," the mage said, hiding a smile. "I'll stay to see the twins through to their first birthday."

The joy that dawned on Alistair's face was like seeing the sun emerge from behind a cloud. He leaned forward to embrace the older woman with a clumsy arm, while being careful not to squash his sleeping daughter.

"Thank the Maker! I wasn't sure what else to bribe you with, apart from Teddy."

"Tsk!" chided Wynne, hiding a smile as the grinning king withdrew. "You didn't need to _bribe_ me, child. I'd have been happy to stay without the offer of becoming First Enchanter."

She flashed an affectionate smile down at Theodora, who was flailing a plump, sleepy arm above her head.

"You'll need an extra pair of hands with them once they start teething, especially since you've no wet-nurse."

"Oh," replied Alistair, vaguely. "Mabari pups teethe. Do babies teethe, too?"

Wynne shot the king a deadpan stare, nostrils flaring a fraction.

" _Yes,_ Alistair. How do you think they _get_ their teeth?"

Alistair gave a cheerful shrug, brushing his thumb over Taron's head as his son was whisked past in Leliana's arms. The little boy peered up at his father, wide-eyed and remarkably curious for one so young.

"I don't know – some sort of _magic?_ Anyway, I'm going to retrieve my wife from her one-woman crusade against the seagulls of Highever."

The king smiled, but his eyes were already sliding towards the door; a faint anxiety lacing the rich hazel of his irises. Leliana reached out a reassuring hand as she passed him by, patting her fingers gently on his elbow.

"Calm, _mon ami_. I heard her storming the passage just a moment ago. Besides, she has the two hounds with her."

A half-laugh escaped Alistair's throat, rueful at the bard's razor-sharp perception. Leliana, as one who had spent years studying the eyes behind the masks of the Orlesian court, had easily seen through her friend's careful cloak of joviality.

"When will I stop worrying that something else will try and take my girl from me?" he asked, the lightness of the question betrayed by a slight crack in his voice. "First Howe, then the Archdemon, and then the Carta. Each time I lose sight of her, I worry that… that someone will covet her enough to steal her."

His shoulder rose and fell in a shrug, he shot a brief and faintly agonised glance towards the two women.

"Alistair," replied Wynne, with equal parts persuasion and patience in her tone. "Florence has learnt her lesson about charging off into the dark and unknown. I _truly_ believe that. She's a _mother_ now, she won't put herself at unnecessary risk."

"And after your display of swordsmanship yesterday, I doubt that anyone would dare incurring your wrath," Leliana chimed in, somehow managing to fold a delicate peach-coloured _chemise_ one-handed as Taron yawned in the crook of her arm. "Not unless they possessed some sort of _death wish."_

Alistair nodded, keen to believe in their reassurances.

"Mm, you're right _– as usual_. Do you ever fancy the notion of getting something _wrong,_ just for a change?"

Sure enough - just as Leliana had promised - Flora was still in the corridor. The queen, having grown tired of looking for seagulls, was now sitting on a bench some distance away down the passage, and playing with a pair of amiable black cats. Cod and Lobster watched the felines bat at Flora's waving fingers, quivering with the effort of holding themselves back. Alistair crossed the flagstones in a half-dozen swift footsteps, the cats scattering as he lowered himself to the bench. The king slung an arm around his queen's shoulders, pressing affectionate lips to her cheek as she shuffled closer to him.

"I can't find any seagulls," she said after a moment, her eyebrows drawing together in consternation. "I think that it must have… escaped. _Somehow._ It probably knew that I was coming. _My reputation has spread!"_

The passage was windowless; thoroughly encased within solid northern granite. Alistair grinned, reaching down to ruffle Cod's sandy head with his free palm.

"Maybe, sweetheart. Why do you hate those birds, anyway?"

"They aren't _birds,"_ she retorted, a trifle indignantly. "They're _rats of the air. Sky-rodents!_ They steal fish and make a mess everywhere. And they screech loudly without consideration."

He stifled his chuckle, pressing his face to the top of her head and inhaling the clean, salt-soap scent of her hair. Despite the ubiquitous presence of the Royal Guard a dozen yards up the corridor, the young couple appreciated these few moments of solitary quiet; duties and obligations at a temporary lull.

"I need to say sorry to Leliana," Flora said after a moment, fiddling with the button that fastened Alistair's shirt cuff. "I've been as grumpy as a… a sea-slug all morning. I have to try and be happy for her."

He nuzzled his face into her neck, tugging her leg affectionately across his thigh.

"Grumpy or not," he said against her skin as she giggled, squirming herself as close to him as she could get. "You're _my_ sea-slug."

Flora flashed him a shy and appreciative smile. A pink flush spread over her cheeks; as would any maid who had just received a compliment from their lover. They made their way back up the passage, still wrapped tightly together with his arm about her shoulders and her fingers curling in his belt. It made their gait somewhat awkward, considering that he was far taller and longer of stride; yet he refused to release his grip from her arm.

"We should have had that in our marriage vows," Flora observed as they came to a pause before the door; Royal Guard hastening to open it before them.

"What's that, my love?"

"' _You're my sea-slug,'"_ she repeated, turning her face up to his. "I think it would've been romantic."

He grinned, ducking his head through the foot of air that divided them; pressing his lips firmly against her upturned mouth.

"To be fair to you, my darling, I didn't give you much time to prepare for our wedding. Three days, wasn't it?"

"But that's _ages,"_ she replied, somewhat perplexed. "Why would I need any longer? In my head, I'd been your wife for months."

Having delivered this, the queen scampered into the bard's bedchamber to reunite with her babies; going from one to the other and lavishing both with her kisses. Alistair waited in the corridor for several deliberate moments, bright-eyed and blinking fast. After brushing away the sudden dampness that had sprung to his eyelashes, he joined his wife inside the bedchamber.

Flora, having greeted the gurgling twins effusively, now turned her attention back to the bard. Scurrying to Leliana's side, the queen wrapped her arm around her friend's meticulously honed waist and pressed an apologetic face against the silken sleeve.

"I'm sorry for being so crabby earlier," she said earnestly, turning pale and entreating eyes up to the bard's face. "Forgive me, and let me help you pack."

" _Ma chérie,"_ crooned back the bard, ruffling an affectionate hand across the top of Flora's head. "All is forgiven, _ma choupinette_."

Leliana then frantically looked around the chamber in an attempt to find a pile of her possessions that were neither _delicate_ nor _fragile._

"And you can pack… my travel cloaks."

"These?"

" _NON!_ Not the silken spring capes – the _heavy winter woollens._ Have you washed your hands?"

* * *

OOC Author Note:

Lol, Flora fucking hates seagulls XD A true fisherman's daughter!

Aaaaah so we are beginning to wrap things up good and proper now 😊 I estimate about… 5 or 6 more chapters, and then we're DONE! Finally! After what seems like a looooong time, hehehe. But hopefully it's been a fun ride for everyone!

Here's the roundup so far – what's been 'fixed' in Ferelden, post-Blight:

Arl of Amaranthine = Finian, new general = Leonas, Loghain is co-leading the Wardens, Anora is the new teyrna of Gwaren, the Darkspawn in the Blackmarsh are crushed, the Carta expelled from Ferelden, Nathaniel is joining the Wardens, Leliana is about to leave to join the soon-to-be Divine Justinia (atm just Mother Dorothea) in Orlais, Wynne has agreed to stay with the royal couple for a year, the Circle has been mended, and the destroyed settlements of Gwaren and South Reach are in the process of being restored through the efforts of the restoration committees.

OOH that's a lot of stuff ahaha XD But the point of this sequel, the BLOOM after the Blight, was to focus on the rebuilding/repairing of Ferelden. And of course, for Flo to actually spawn the sprogs she was up the duff with for most of the original story, lol XD

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	226. A Day Off

Chapter 226: A Day Off

It took both Alistair and Flora an unusually long amount of time to comprehend the notion of an _'afternoon off'._ Once they had become accustomed to the idea of a day free from commitments and responsibilities, the next step was persuading them that taking such a liberty should not be accompanied by feelings of guilt. Eamon ended up having to stand within the entrance to his chamber to stop Alistair from getting to the pile of paperwork stacked on his desk. Despite the inherent humour in the sight – a man of five feet and eight inches standing firm in the face of the Marician bulk of Alistair Theirin – there was only stern earnestness in Eamon's tone.

"Alistair, we'll go through this tomorrow – or at some point this week. You've had a busy few days – _take the afternoon for yourself."_

But Alistair, despite his cloak of deceptively casual humour, had always taken the concept of _duty_ with utter seriousness. As a miserable adolescent in the monastery, he had tried his hardest to adhere to the Templar teachings and practises; even when he was not entirely sure that he wanted to _be_ a Templar. He had demonstrated the same utter dedication during his two years as a Grey Warden, and was determined to apply the same rigour to this new, equally weighty responsibility. He also – secretly - liked to imagine that perhaps Duncan was watching his endeavours from some lofty window in the Fade.

Flora's sense of duty was as stark and uncompromising as her other northern attributes. While Alistair tried to persuade Eamon into letting him have just a _glimpse_ at Kingsway's harvest report; she eyeballed the stack of parchment and wondered who she could persuade to help her write a letter to the Gwaren restoration committee.

 _I have to write to the Circle as well, remind them that we're keeping an eye on them._

 _And I need to reply to Connor Guerrin's latest letter, too._

Cod and Lobster wound their way between their mistress' legs, sensing her prickling restlessness.

"Alistair," said the arl patiently at last, resorting to a tactic that – historically - had a high chance of success. "You must consider Florence's well-being."

The only commitment that Alistair held in higher esteem than his duty to Ferelden was the sacrosanct promise he had made to his wife; to love her, care for her and protect her against all that might harm her.

The king's nostrils flared, he glanced down at the mildly confused girl at his side. She shifted Taron to her other arm – they were holding a twin each – and peered back up at him.

"Her well-being?" Alistair repeated, a new keenness to his stare. "What do you mean, uncle?"

"The memorial to the murdered teyrn two days ago, the trial yesterday," the arl elaborated, trying to eyeball Flora into playing along with his charade. "It's been a difficult – possibly _traumatic_ – time for her-"

" _Traumatic?!"_ croaked Alistair, alarmed. "Maker's Breath. My sweet wife!"

The queen had initially been confused at his implication that she might be traumatised – she had dealt with the memorial and the trial with the same stoic resilience that she had demonstrated in the face of the Blight. After Eamon had nearly dislocated his face through contortions to subtly catch Flora's attention, she finally grasped the arl's intent.

 _Oh! Alistair needs a break. He needs some time to not think about anything important._

"Yes," she said obediently, to Eamon's relief. "I need a day off. Or I could get… bad dreams."

"My love, you don't dream anymore!"

"Bad _daydreams,"_ the queen amended, turning her huge and soulful eyes to her husband. "I don't want that, do you?"

"Maker's Breath, of _course_ not!"

"Take the afternoon off," interjected Eamon, pouncing on the opportunity. "And enjoy the feast tonight. Spend time with your wife and babes. _Relax."_

With both king and queen persuaded to take a break from their royal duties, the afternoon was free to pursue their own desires. Alistair, who had promised Teagan that he would come down to the stables to inspect the two mares; elected to bring his entire family with him.

By the second bell past midday, king, queen and sleeping babes-in-basket had descended on Castle Cousland's stables. Bryce Cousland had once prided himself on owning one of the best stocked yards in Ferelden, with two long rows of stalls housed in weather-proof sheds at the base of Ferelden Tower. However, Rendon Howe, during his brief and illicit sojourn as teyrn, had pilfered many of the best horses for his own use; now, only a dozen Forders remained.

Still, Fergus was determined to replenish Highever's stock and restore its reputation as a source for fine, purebred stock. He and Alistair shared a love and appreciation for horses – one from the perspective of a stable-boy, the other from a loftier view – and often found their conversations meandering back to the stables.

The stables consisted of a long, cobbled thoroughfare, lined with individual stalls on each side. As befitting its status, each segment was roomy and well-stocked with fresh hay and sweet-smelling grasses. The horses were placid and good-natured, save for a feisty young stallion at the far end.

Alistair and Teagan had spent the past candle-length in a stall with Reginalda's bay mares. The horses stood patiently as they were inspected; their hooves lifted and their muscled flanks felt. Fergus joined them after some time had passed, leaning on the wooden stall divided and offering his own enthusiastic commentary.

As the men discussed fetlocks, dams and sires, Flora sat on a nearby hay-bale and fed her son. She had deliberately chosen to sit far away from the feisty stallion, who kept snorting with alarming ferocity in its end stall. Cod and Lobster were sprawled at her feet; detecting their mistress' apprehension, both of them kept their ears pricked in the direction of the excitable young horse.

"I've no idea what they're talking about," she whispered to the pair of Royal Guard stationed nearby, pikes in hand. "Do you? What's a _fetlock?"_

The queen did not expect a reply – for one thing, their closed-face helms entirely obscured their mouths – and she did not receive one. Taron had fallen asleep at the breast; when she went to lift him, he woke up and continued his suckling, determined not to finish his meal.

In the stall, the conversation had taken on a slightly different timbre. Teagan's murmur was persuasive; Alistair's more hesitant. The king was clearly in two minds about some issue, a crease folding itself across his handsome forehead. Since they had lowered their voices, Flora was unable to hear exactly _what_ they were discussing.

Shifting the baby higher in her arms, Flora leaned back against the wooden divider and glanced down at the basket. Theodora had just woken up, she was running thoughtful fingers over her mouth. On seeing her mother's face – prompted by the early beginnings of recognition – the little girl thrust out her arms to be picked up.

"Just a moment, little lobster," Flora pleaded as her Mabari pup pricked its ears expectantly. "Let your brother finish his lunch."

Theodora was an impatient little creature, as most infants tended to be. Her face crumpled, and Flora envisioned the stables erupting into chaos as the surrounding horses were all spooked by a newborn's tearful howls of rage.

Then Alistair was there, stooping down to lift Theodora and holding her against his chest. With a gentle palm that was now practised, he patted his daughter's back and hummed reassurance near her ear; easing her back from the brink of tears.

"Teddy," he crooned, as the little girl peered at him with huge and curious grey eyes. "Don't pull that grumpy face. We already have one pouting woman in this family."

His other palm rested briefly atop Flora's head; a nod to the full Cousland mouth that appeared perpetually perturbed. She smiled up at him, grateful for his swift and timely entrance.

"Is Bann Teagan going to buy the horses? They look nice. They're a nice colour."

Alistair's mouth curved in an inadvertent grin; he kissed the top of Theodora's head as he bounced her gently against his chest.

"A nice colour, eh? Is that your main consideration when purchasing a horse, my love?"

"No," replied Flora, shifting Taron to her shoulder and patting his back. "My main consideration is: _is this horse likely to bite me? How big a chunk of flesh will it take if it does?"_

He laughed and she looked mildly indignant, peering up at him with the twins' rain-grey eyes.

"It's true! You _know_ horses hate me."

As she spoke, she lowered the sleepy Taron with infinite care back into the basket. Theodora now took her turn at the breast, her earlier belligerence swiftly forgotten.

"They don't _hate_ you," Alistair murmured, lifting errant oxblood ropes and fingering them admiringly. "Maker, you've beautiful hair."

"I'm wearing it down at the feast later," she told him, delighted by the startled expression on his face.

"Baby, how will I restrain myself? You know what I'm like when you let your hair down."

The king bent to nuzzle his face against hers with a low growl, she let out a characteristically throaty northern giggle and tilted her head obligingly. If it had been South Reach - and six months ago - the two would have disappeared into a nearby stall; now, he contented himself with sucking a kiss into her neck.

"What were you and Bann Teagan talking about just now?" she whispered as Alistair returned upright, passing a hand over his own rumpled hair while eyeing the red mark blossoming on her skin.

"Oh," he replied, a reflexive grimace passing over his features. "Teagan suggested that we take the horses out for a ride over the fields."

"You pulled a face," Flora said, mildly confused. "I don't understand. I thought you liked riding?"

"I _do,_ my darling, but I don't want to leave you and the twins here in the castle."

The words echoed about the stable, tinged with the sour remnants of fear. Alistair could easily recall those terrible days when his fat-bellied wife had been a hollow absence at his side; outrageously stolen from beneath his nose.

"I'll take them down to the shore, then," offered Flora, after a moment of deliberation. "I want to collect some seashells."

She beamed down at Theodora, who bore a seashell for a middle name.

This prospect did not reassure Alistair in the slightest; in fact, it made him more determined not to leave his fledgling family alone. His jaw stiffened and he reached out to touch Flora's bare shoulder, exposed along with her breast as she fed their daughter.

"In that case, I _definitely_ don't plan on leaving you!"

"Nonsense," interjected a stern and no-nonsense voice; the words echoing about the wooden stalls. "You can't live your life breathing down your wife's neck, Alistair. Go and test out the horses with Teagan, and we'll keep an eye on them."

This pointed admonition could only have been delivered by one person: the inimitable Wynne. Sure enough, the senior enchanter was positioned in the entrance archway – a somewhat incongruous figure amongst the dirt and hay, clad in her fine robes and sporting a scholarly bun.

"I'll go with her, as will Leliana, and I'm sure Zevran will manifest at some point. Together, we are _more_ than a match for anyone who bears ill-intent."

"But- "

" _Alistair,_ remember what we spoke about this morning?" the mage said, her reproving gaze boring back into his anxious stare. "Florence – and the twins – will be perfectly fine. When has she ever come to harm in our company?"

It took some time and a great deal of persuasion before Alistair agreed to take the horses on a quick candle-length ride across the fields that bordered Highever. It had taken the combined cajolement of Wynne, Teagan and a newly-arrived Leliana to finally tease a _'fine'_ from the king's reluctant lips.

Yet Alistair's agreement was contingent on several factors: that they take a dozen Royal Guard, at least ten Mabari, and that they be accompanied by Zevran himself. The king trusted the mage and the bard implicitly, but he knew that the elf's presence would _especially_ deter any would-be criminals.

 _They say in the taverns that the queen is guarded by an Antivan Crow._

A short while later, the elf was retrieved from skulking about the Orlesian _duc's_ chamber. Zevran had been masquerading as an innocuous servant, blending seamlessly into the crowd of other retainers as he eavesdropped. Thanks to a year spent travelling with Leliana, and a natural ear for languages, Zevran had picked up a good deal of the Orlesian tongue.

On hearing that Alistair had flatly refused to leave his wife's side unless their elven companion could be found, Zevran found himself oddly touched. He disguised the sudden rush of sentiment with several inappropriate jokes about _keeping more than an eye_ on the lovely queen; though everyone within earshot was so used to such inappropriate banter that they barely batted an eyelid.

The Antivan then swooped into the stables like some avenging figure of legend; plucking up the queen's hand and kissing it with the flair of a literary hero. He then scooped Taron from the basket and lifted him to his chest, murmuring in foreign, lyrical whispers to the fascinated baby. Zevran liked children - especially infants - they brought out a deeply buried and rarely-seen side of him.

Now that Zevran had been located, Alistair had no excuse to delay. The anxiety that had been churning in his stomach since Teagan had suggested the ride amplified itself until he thought he might actually _be_ sick; perspiration beading on his forehead. Even as he adjusted the length of the stirrup on the mare's flank, he kept stealing glances to where his wife sat on the haybale, Theodora in her arms.

 _She's not got the fish-hook or the blade that Celene gave her,_ the king realised, in sudden alarm. _She's not got anything to defend herself with._

Just then Zevran appeared before him; the movement as swift and silent as a shadow. The elf stood so close that Alistair could see the richness of the skin beneath the fading ink of his tattooed cheeks. Taron's fat little fist was clamped around a lace that dangled from Zevran's tunic.

"Zev- "

"I won't take my eyes from them, _lo prometo,"_ he murmured, using the flank of the horse to disguise their conversation. "You know that there is _nothing_ I would not do to protect your sweet wife and your tiny twins. And they will come to no harm in my company."

Alistair searched his friend's face like a gos-hawk sweeping the field, and found only resolution there.

"You need this, Alistair," continued the elf, a serious note underlying his cajoling tone. "You cannot spend your life breathing down _mi sirenita's_ neck. Trust me, when you return and find her whole and well – _well._ It will be good for you."

And so, with gritted teeth and a faint nausea in his gut, the king rode out in the company of the Bann of Rainesfere, and several other mounted knights. He almost turned back at the first portcullis, and then again at the southern sentry tower. Only the recollection of such steely assurance in Zevran's stare kept his grip loose on the reins; as much as he wanted to turn the horse's head back towards the castle.

Despite Alistair's burgeoning fears, the queen's journey down to the beach was mundane and entirely uneventful. It took them twice as long to prepare for the journey than it did to actually travel the mile and a half's distance. The infants had to have fresh blankets and woollens packed, Flora needed a change of clothing in case of twin-related accident.

With Zevran clutching Taron and Leliana holding Theodora, the party made their way along the cobbled streets on horseback. Flora, who did not trust herself to hold the infants – or even to stay on the saddle herself – had elected to ride with Leonas Bryland. The general, after a quiet word from Teagan, had volunteered his services in escorting Flora down to the beach. With the addition of a regiment from the Royal Army, this brought the number standing watch over the queen and her infants up to nearly _forty_ people. In addition, a dozen Mabari had been requisitioned from the castle stables to accompany them.

The town of Highever had returned to its usual daily routine after the excitement of the Carta trial. The taverns had closed and the merchants re-opened, women chattered to each other as they hung out washing from their windows, and a muted hum of activity hung in the air. The sound of blacksmith hammers rang out in an erratic and atonal chorus. Children running errands for their parents scampered along the roads and clambered daringly across the river-bridge parapets.

Naturally, the procession of such a large retinue drew attention. Window shutters were flung open and shopkeepers poured out of their doorways; crowding onto the pavements to catch sight of the queen and the twins. They called out greetings and snatches of praise; the bolder amongst the crowd wondered if she was already with child once again.

Flora, naturally unaware of the tavern-rumours, blinked in perplexion.

She also found herself grateful that she had a reputation of languid, cool-eyed composure in public; nearby, Leliana complained under her breath that her cheeks hurt from the _constant smiling._ However, the sight of three little girls clinging to the base of a lamp-post made the corners of the queen's mouth curl up. Each child wore their hair in a high ponytail, and one of them had coal-black locks that reminded Flora of her own daughter. The queen smiled down at the girls as the group passed by; they squealed and almost fell off the lamp-post in their excitement.

"They're calling it the 'Lady Cousland' now," murmured Leonas quietly in her ear. "Or so Habren tells me."

"Calling what?"

The general made a rough gesture towards his head with his maimed hand.

"The hair, up in the horse-tail. The 'Lady Cousland'. Popular amongst the daughters of Ferelden, apparently."

"Ooh!"

They reached the beach without incident, just as the Chantry bells rang out the second hour of afternoon. Seagulls wheeled overheard, calling out to one another in their inimitable tongue as they spotted fishing vessels heading homewards in the distance. The Waking Sea was enjoying a relatively peaceful afternoon, sending only the occasional lash of spray up against the harbour walls. The currents beneath the surface rolled in teasing patterns around each other; unlike its eastern Amaranthine cousin, the Waking Sea never sat still and placid.

"What a bland and desolate excuse for a beach," observed Leliana as they dismounted, the guards fanning out at the head of the beach. "Quite possibly the most depressing sight I've seen all week."

Flora, as to be expected, was enchanted by her surroundings. The stark and exposed stretch of shingle; the grey turmoil of the water; the tangled wreckage flung haphazard onto the shore; all was made even _more_ beautiful by the recollection that this was where their children had been born. Her fondness was laced with regret: in just over a week, they would be departing from the northern coast and the Waking Sea would be but a memory once again.

 _You'll help me remember,_ she thought to herself determinedly, picturing the sea-grey eyes of the twins. _Every time I look at you, I'll think of here._

After the queen had kissed her sleeping twins, they were nestled warm in their basket with a blanket embroidered in the Alamarri fashion tucked about them. The senior enchanter stationed herself on the only seat-like boulder in the vicinity, the basket at her feet and her knitting in her lap. A half-dozen Mabari stationed themselves about her, staring at the trailing ends of the wool with temptation in their soulful eyes.

"Don't snap at my mohair," Wynne ordered them, the steel of a Circle instructor running through the words. "These are the twins' winter woollens – or, they _will_ be."

Meanwhile, Zevran and Leliana flanked the queen as she wandered about the shingle, her boots sliding into the gravelled stone. She had another, smaller basket tucked into her elbow, and her head was swivelling back and forth in the search for seashells.

"Shall we go a little more _quickly?"_ the elf suggested, shooting a baleful stare over his shoulder at the half-dozen guard and equal amount of Mabari that shuffled ten yards in their wake. "We have quite the _entourage."_

"Stop trying to lose Florence's protective escort," Leliana obstructed, plucking up a pretty pink shell and placing it in her own pocket. "Alistair will have conniptions."

" _Carina_ doesn't need a 'protective escort'," retorted Zevran defiantly, sending a fragment of driftwood flying with the pointed toe of his boot. "She has _us. Fetch!"_

Neither dog nor guard responded to the elf's attempt at distraction. They continued to follow the queen as she wandered about the pebbled beach, stepping over clumps of seaweed and wending her way around wreckage, her gaze fixed to the shingle. Every so often, Flora would angle a look of pure vitriol towards the sky; where seagulls shrieked in raucous excitement at the return of the fishing fleet.

"What are you gathering shells for anyway, _mi sirenita?"_

Flora made a vague gesture with her free hand, holding out her basket to receive several bleached-white cockles that the sharp-eyed Crow had spotted.

"For the celebration tonight. There's going to be dancing, and it'll be _northern_ dances, so I'll know them. I want to make bracelets out of the shells to make a noise."

She shook the basket and the contents gave an obliging shiver of sound.

Leliana clapped her hands in delighted astonishment, having not yet noticed the seaweed clinging to her delicate embroidered shoe.

" _Dancing!_ At last, _chérie –_ how long have I begged you to do something other than stand at the banquet table and _gorge_ yourself during festivities?"

"I always liked dancing," mumbled Flora, not mentioning that she _also_ intended to spend some quality time at the banquet table. "But I couldn't really dance when there was a _Blight,_ could I? And then I couldn't dance when I was the shape of a ball."

She returned her attention to the mess of shingle beneath her feet, inhaling unsteadily. Zevran, who had been casually admiring the sculptor's finesse of the queen's face, narrowed his eyes with sudden alertness.

" _Carina,_ for someone talking about dancing, whilst standing in their _favourite place in all the world,_ you don't look too happy."

Flora turned huge and miserable eyes on him, the corners of her mouth turning downwards even as they trembled. Dampness shone in the grey irises; her expression as clouded as the skies overhead.

"I… I miss my _husband!"_

"Don't be so _co-dependent,_ Florence _,"_ instructed an unsympathetic Leliana, her nostrils flaring with disapproval. "You are a strong and _ferocious_ woman who killed an Archdemon, remember?"

"But – but- "

"Come, _ma choupinette,_ let us gather more shells."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Hahaha, Flora IS very co-dependent XD As a result of her spending the most formative/transformative year of her life (the recent year) pretty much in Alistair's company, 24/7. Lol I'm sure she'll grow out of it when she gets a bit older!

Anyway, this was a cute little chapter! I'm going forced camping with work colleagues and I feel like raging, ahahaha.

Next chapter in the OOC author note I'm gonna talk a little bit about Flora's spirits and who they were - especially her healing spirit, Compassion, which I've never spoken about before! (I don't think, lol)

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you


	227. Several Farewells

Chapter 227: Several Farewells

The seagulls called out in a frenzy overhead; eyeing the fishing vessels tied up at jetties that stuck out into the waves like extended fingers. The shouts and calls of the men swarming them echoed over the beach, their voices carried by a strong westerly wind. Castle Cousland, sprawled over the rugged breast of the cliffs, kept a watchful eye over the activity below.

Bolstered by Leliana's firm words, Flora forced herself to turn away from the cobbled slope of the harbour road.

 _Don't be such a jellyfish,_ she told herself firmly, though she was thoroughly aware that stern admonition would not ease the ache she felt in her belly at her husband's absence. _Finish gathering your shells, and by the time you do that, he'll be back._

She shifted her basket to the other arm, eyeing its contents. The best type of shell for threading into bracelets were cockles; their fine, fluted spines fitted well together. There were a mix of colours nestled within the wicker; the majority were cream or swan-feather white, but there were also several of a pretty, pinkish hue.

Leliana and Zevran, for whom the novelty of collecting shells had quickly worn thin, fell into step a few yards behind the queen. Their conversation meandered from Leliana's impending departure, to the feast that evening, and finally returned to the execution of the Carta ringleaders that morning. The traitors had met their deaths at dawn and the royal couple had not attended, prioritising the hungry wails of the twins.

Despite the gap of a handful of metres between Flora and her escort – and the shifting cadence of their conversation – only a fool would assume that their vigilance was any lessened. Through unspoken accord, the Crow kept a keen eye on the queen, while the bard's attention was fixed on the basket of babes at Wynne's feet.

Flora herself was not following the conversation at her rear; it shifted too quickly, and often pertained to matters that she had no interest in. Instead, she focused on the shingle beneath her boots, diligently scanning the uneven surface for the distinctive curved back of a cockle. One that she plucked from a patch of gritty sand still had its other half attached; clamped tightly shut to protect the soft belly within.

"I used to love eating these," she said wistfully, more to herself than her companions. "I used to eat _buckets_ of them when I was a baby. Mm, I loved them with _vinegar,_ especially."

Flora opened her hand and let the bivalve drop back into the shallows. The tide had crept steadily in since their arrival at the beach; curling fingers of grey water beckoned those on the shore ever closer.

"Now I can't eat them because they turn my stomach," the queen continued, perplexed. "I thought it was the twins that didn't like them, but I tried eating one this morning and I couldn't even _swallow_ it."

Shrugging to herself, she turned her back on the beach and waded several feet into the shallows, ignoring the plaintive wail of protest that emerged from her elven companion.

" _Carinaaa,_ the waters are _frigid."_

Flora watched the grey, foam-capped tongues of water lick around her boots, a stray clump of seaweed wrapping itself possessively about her ankle. Just as she reached down to retrieve a handful of empty cockle-shells, she felt her toes grow unexpectedly cold and wet.

Perturbed, she returned to the dry, gritty slope of the beach and bent her knee upward, peering down at the leather boots. To her dismay, the soles had worn so thin that the inner lining was visible; there was a tear in the stitching beside the heel. Her boots had been issued to her at Ostagar, when it became obvious that her Circle footwear was not designed for the rougher terrain of the world beyond the walls. She had travelled the length and breadth of Ferelden in this particular set of boots; they fit her as intimately as a pair of socks, and were equally as comfortable. They had walked the depths of the Deep Roads, and trodden through the leafy glades of Brecilian. They had ventured into hallowed halls and cursed towers. Flora had worn them as mage, Warden, Cousland and queen; the one constant note in her changing garb.

 _I made Alistair king in these boots._

 _I killed the Archdemon in them._

 _Duncan gave them to me, by his own hand._

She swallowed, inexplicably saddened by their demise. It was clear that the boots were beyond repair, the leather worn thin in too many patches to replace.

 _I'll have to get a new pair._

The queen was so preoccupied with this unwelcome realisation that she did not notice that Leliana and Zevran had fallen silent. The only sound that now echoed behind Flora was the crunch of footsteps into loose shingle; one stride seemed to fall unevenly.

A sudden slither of gravel was accompanied by a half-snarled curse, shaped by a distinctively northern throat.

"Shit – blast this damned leg."

Flora turned around, basket hanging from her elbow. Loghain Mac Tir was standing several yards away, gingerly testing the stability of his false limb on the shingle. Nathaniel Howe was at his side, clean shaven and inscrutable as always. He looked healthier than he had done in weeks; his chin lifted and his shoulders straightened. Both men wore the garb of a Grey Warden, their silvered breastplates glinting in the muted autumnal sun.

Leliana, who liked to pay lip-service to courtesy, had positioned herself just to one side; a polite smile lingering. Zevran was less concerned about appearances; he had already sidled to stand at Flora's back. He watched the new arrivals with dark and unblinking focus, his eyes like smouldering shards of coal above the queen's shoulder.

"You survived your Joining," Flora observed, eyeing Nathaniel's navy-striped tunic.

"Your husband will be disappointed," countered Nathaniel swiftly, one wry eyebrow lifting.

The queen didn't respond, her brows drawing together as she swept her gaze over the man from top to toe. He stood tall beneath her scrutiny, his dark eyes faintly amused and yet harbouring a kernel of something more intangible.

"It fits you well," she said after a moment, thoughtfully. "The armour never used to fit me, not until my belly got bigger."

She turned her face pensively towards the open water, the soft grey of the cloud blurring into the horizon until sky became sea. The northern seascape complemented her colouring; she seemed a creature put together from pale shell, grit and crimson seaweed, mist veiling her irises and seawater running through the translucent channels of her veins.

To avoid his gaze lingering overlong Cousland's daughter, Loghain had turned his attention to those that surrounded her. He then stifled a rueful snort at the peculiar parallel in the three men's circumstance.

"You've made a habit of this, lass," he remarked, making a rough half-gesture with a hand. "Look at us three."

It took Flora a moment to realise what he was referring to: the fact that, at one point, all three men standing about her had once held intent to do her harm. She heard a petulant rumble escape Zevran's throat; he clearly viewed his own situation in contrast to that of Howe and Mac Tir.

"Potential traitors all," agreed Nathaniel, earning himself a dirty look from the elf.

"Hm," said Flora vaguely, casting another look down at her worn-out boots. "None of you were like Rendon Howe."

"Aye."

Former general and new queen were engaged in the familiar dialogue of the north, unsentimental and economic of phrase. Loghain no longer veiled the provincial cadence of his speech with formal pretensions; whereas Flora had never even _considered_ an attempt to gentrify her own humble dialect.

"You're going back to Warden's Vigil?" she asked after a moment, noticing the gathering of horses and wagons on the harbour wall.

The Warden-Commander grunted an affirmation, gesturing to the ship docked at the nearest quay. It was a trade-ship, and sported the distinctive flag of Amaranthine from its mast.

"I intend to scout the Blackmarsh, make sure there's no pockets of Darkspawn left above ground. Might see if we can clear a few nests, too. Your dwarven friend is eager to get back to the fight."

As he spoke, Flora could see the machinations of a military mind working behind the gaunt features: the former general had now transferred his attentions to Ferelden's subterranean line of defence.

 _Alistair was right to spare him,_ she thought to herself, suddenly. _His highest loyalty has always been to his country._

"If the crown desires the assistance of the Wardens in the future, you have only to ask," Mac Tir said abruptly, angling his gaze across the white-capped waters. "For all that the Order ought not to meddle in politics, the Order would not _exist_ without such meddling."

"Mm," replied Flora, her boots now entirely flooded with cold water. "I think you'll both have a good journey; the skies look kind today."

She cast her inscrutable gaze upwards, reading the unwritten language of cloud, wind and sky.

"I'll await your instruction," the former general said gruffly, although there was no need to clarify. "Hm."

Nathaniel ducked his head in a wordless farewell, the corner of his mouth turning upwards.

 _The uniform does suit him,_ Flora thought to herself idly, twisting the golden fish bangle around her wrist. _It suits both of them, actually._

"I'll write to Anora," she said, just as Loghain was about to turn away. "I hadn't forgotten about it."

"I never thought that you had."

Loghain looked as though he were about to say something more, but then gave an abrupt nod instead; gesturing to Nathaniel.

"Come on."

Flora eyed them both curiously for a moment as they made their way up the beach; the shingle shifting beneath their boots. Zevran, angling himself like a cat from the stiff westerly breeze, drew close to the queen and murmured in her ear.

"He fancies you, _mi sirenita."_

"Eh?"

"It's true," he continued, evilly. "He used to look at you from the eyes of an enemy. Now he looks at you as a man."

This unwelcome comment earned the elf a handful of seaweed in the face. He squealed, peeling the crimson strands from his cheeks with indignant fingers.

"I shall be putting you over my knee tonight for that cheek, little minx!"

"'I am a saucy minx from Highever'," Flora said, beaming at him. "Do you remember that?"

The affront faded from Zevran's face, replaced with something soft and intangible. He remembered the reference well; for it had been the elf himself who had tried to embed the phrase into Flora's head as she tried to memorise Eamon's Landsmeet speech.

"Of course," he said after a moment, curving the corner of his mouth with odd pensiveness. "Ah, that seems like a lifetime ago."

Making up her mind with a sudden, grim resolution, Flora reached down and removed her worn-out boots, one after the other. Her feet sunk into the coarse sand; tendrils of incoming tide creeping around her toes. The water was cold and she inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening their grip on the boots.

" _Ma petite,_ you are _surely_ not planning on going _swimming?"_

Leliana's voice rose in mild affront from somewhere close behind Flora. The bard watched in bemusement as the queen waded out into the shallows; her breeches soaked to the knee. The well-weathered boots were held before her like an offering; clutched in both hands.

Flora held the boots to her chest, inhaling the familiar tang of leather, saltwater and – faintly – the taint. Although the Blight had once tasted oddly bittersweet beneath her tongue, it now caused only a roll of nausea deep in her belly.

 _Is that because you aren't with me anymore?_ she wondered, waiting with her breath held for an answer.

 _You aren't with me anymore. Are you?_

The queen then counted out five lingering seconds – long enough to confirm that there would be no soft returning whisper in the back of her skull.

When no response came, Flora returned her attention to her boots. The leather on the toes was so worn through that it was almost transparent; it was no surprise that the seawater had flooded in.

"Thank you for your service," she said, and found that it took no effort to be solemn. "I'll never wear a pair of boots more special than you."

Zevran and Leliana had both fallen silent behind her, sharing a glance but saying nothing. After a year in Flora's company, they knew her eccentricities well.

Flora took an unsteady breath, lifting her eyes to the seascape. The brooding waters spread out in a swathe before her, flecked with peaks of bone-white foam. On the far side of the bay, the Waking Sea flung temperamental arcs up at the cliffs; the low roar of waves railing against rock echoed in the distance. Her feet sunk into the grit, numbness creeping towards her toes as she stood knee-deep in seawater.

Before she could lose her nerve, the queen reached down and placed the boots in the foam-flecked water. She returned upright swiftly, not giving herself the chance to change her mind. The boots, left submerged in the shallows, were quickly claimed by the encroaching waters. Strangely – and despite the incoming tide – they appeared to be pulled _back_ into the depths; the Waking Sea accepting the offering of its most loyal daughter.

 _Thank you_ , Flora thought once again, watching them disappear within the waves. _Goodbye._

The queen felt something prickle at the corners of her eyes, and brought a swift hand up to brush at her face. For a moment, she thought that this might not be enough and that the tears would come regardless; but then she felt Leliana's fingers wrap firm and reassuring around her elbow.

At the same time, the elf's warm and teasing tone came filtering through the cloud of melancholy that had settled on her shoulders.

"Come, _mi sirenita,_ you cannot stand bare-footed in such unfriendly waters. Your toes would freeze off, and then what would Alistair take in his mouth during your amorous activities, _hm?"_

As Leliana's voice rose in a chiding response, Flora let her squabbling companions lead her out of the shallows. The tide was now arriving with grim purpose; Wynne, the basket and the Mabari had relocated themselves closer to the harbour wall. The queen, her damp feet covered in coarse and pale sand, followed Zevran and Leliana back up the shingled slope of the beach.

Just then, she saw the ears of the Mabari prick in familiar recognition, their heads turning towards the harbour road. Moments later, the percussive sound of hoofbeats striking stone came echoing about the beach; an irregular clatter that suggested more than one rider.

"That'll be the king," commented one guardsman to the other, then almost dropped his long halberd in shock. "Oh, shit, there goes the queen- "

"Andraste's ass, she's _fast!"_

The moment that Flora had overheard their casual naming of the rider, she had shot off towards the road; barely noticing the press of unforgiving shingle against her bare feet. The guards, more accustomed to a fat-bellied, waddling incarnation of the queen, were caught unaware by this far swifter version. Fortunately, the Mabari had sprung to attention far more rapidly, surging forward to flank the errant Cousland.

With a cursing Leliana and Zevran in hot pursuit, Flora ran towards the harbour road, her hair flying behind her like a scarlet pennant. She had but one singular need; and from the speed of the approaching horseman, it was a _mutual_ desire.

Soon, both horses and their riders came into view – two of them, and the first figure was unmistakably Marician. Even the pittance of anaemic sunlight was enough to gild the bright, bronze crop of hair. On seeing the queen scampering barefoot and excitable down the road, the king coaxed further swiftness from his horse. The powerful mare yielded to the will of the equally dominant man astride it; its shoes clattering in a relentless thunder against the cobbles.

Flora held up her arms as the horse slowed, turning her face up to its rider like a flower tilting towards the sun. Alistair, equally relieved at the reunion with his wife, brought the mare to a slow trot. He reached down with a strong arm even before the horse had stopped, drawing Flora up onto the saddle before him in a single, sweeping gesture. She threw her arms around his neck and he let the reins drop, embracing her back with impassioned fervour.

"I _missed_ you," the queen confessed between breathless kisses, her eyes huge with solemnity. "I know I said for you to go on the ride, but… but- "

"I missed you too," he replied immediately, cradling her face between his riding gloves. "Maker's Breath, I could think of nothing else but you and the babes the entire time."

Zevran, Leliana and the Royal Guard arrived a moment later; the latter panting after a sprint in full heavy armour.

"It's true," added Teagan wryly, the bann drawing his own mare to a halt beside them. "Whenever we stopped at a field-boundary, it was nothing but _I wonder what my wife is doing? The twins will be having their lunch now. I wonder if they're still at the beach?"_

Alistair grinned, entirely unashamed of such preoccupation with his fledgling family. The next moment, his eyes dropped and his brows furrowed; eyebrows lifting to a gilded hairline.

"Why does my wife have no _shoes_ on _?"_

* * *

OOC Author Note: So it's farewell to Loghain and Nathaniel, departing from our story! And also goodbye for Flora's boots, which she's worn since Ostagar - I thought it was nice to offer them up to the Waking Sea as a sort of offering!

Flo and Alistair are very co-dependent, lol. It's a consequence of them spending almost every day together during the trauma of the Blight - it was an indelible bonding experience!

Had to go CAMPING with work last weekend - ARGHHHHHHHHHHH

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	228. I Want To Be That: Redacted!

Chapter 228: I Want To Be That… [Redacted]

By the time that the party returned to the lofty heights of Castle Cousland, preparations for the feast were well underway. The kitchens were a hive of frenetic activity; each of the six huge hearths smouldering away at racks of turning meat while harassed cooks shouted instructions at equally harassed underlings. The smell of the herbs used in Fereldan cuisine – parsley, wild garlic, marjoram and juniper – permeated the hot, maze-like quarters. The kitchen steward, well acquainted with the culinary preferences of the royal couple, had made sure to cater to individual preferences. There was roasted venison for the Guerrins, who hunted deer across their expansive southern territories; pork and fennel sausages for Bann Reginalda, who loved the taste of liquorice; even Leonas Bryland's secretive sweet tooth was catered for with a selection of honey cakes.

For the royal couple, especially special preparations had been made. Smoked herring, in honour of the queen, took pride of place amongst the more delicate cuts of fish, wild sea holly was candied. On Leliana's request, a selection of raw vegetables, cut into appealing shapes, was also present.

Alistair, who had inherited the Theirin love of dairy, was catered for with a spectacular and wholly unique tableaux made entirely from cheese. Denerim Castle had been reconstructed from carved blocks of cheddar, with crenelated walls and roof tiles carved from Orlesian brie. Ruddy Nevarran pillars fortified the walls, which were topped with tiny flags no larger than a man's finger.

Other preparations were also well underway. Twelve vast kegs of harvest mead had been transported up to the great hall; each barrel requiring the strength of six men to move. Four dozen bottles – ranging from claret to commoner's fruit wine – were arranged amidst a forest of clean tankards. Unlike Orlesian nobility, who indulged in moderation on most days, Fereldan nobility tended to abstain from alcohol for long periods of time, and then drink to excess on special occasions. After the gravity of the memorial and the trial, the members of the Landsmeet were anticipating the chance to relieve the pent-up tension.

The great hall was decorated for the occasion; nervous servants ventured up lofty ladders to add new heraldry to the wall-brackets. Sweet, freshly-cut rushes were strewn beneath the tables, and the flagstones were washed and scrubbed for the first time in almost a year. After all, there had been no cause for celebration beneath the eaves of Castle Cousland for a long time. A makeshift platform for musicians had been constructed at the furthest end of the cavernous space.

To contrast the frenzy of preparation in other parts of the castle, activity in the royal bedchamber moved at a far more leisurely pace. The king and queen, newly reunited after the trauma of temporary separation, ended up asleep for much of the afternoon. They had tucked up the sleeping twins into their crib, and then fallen onto their own bed in a tangle of yawns and weary limbs. The twenty-minute nap swiftly turned into two hours; cuddled up tightly amongst the furs with no obligation or duty to disturb them.

The royal guard had done an admirable job at keeping out potential interruptions. However, they were unable to stop the inexorable Leliana from gaining entrance as the bell struck the fourth hour. The bard was driven with purpose: the conviction blazing in her eyes mildly terrifying.

" _Éveillé, éveillé!"_ she sang out, trusting that her harmonious tones were not severe enough to rouse the twins from their slumber. "Time to wake up, _mes amis._ It is not night-time - it is day - and you have _obligations_ to attend to!"

Leliana was carrying several folds of deep, ink-blue navy cloth over an elbow; the dress so newly made that a tailor's pin still jutted out from a trailing sleeve. Her own gown was still carefully arranged on a dressmaker's mannequin in her own chamber.

Alistair let out a muffled groan of protest, turning his face into the loose cloud of his wife's hair. Flora sprawled lazily in his arms with one leg draped over his thigh; she was warm, and naked, and he was _far_ too comfortable to shift himself. His son and daughter lay fast asleep in the crib nearby; all had seemed right with the world until the bard had invited herself in.

"Do we _have_ to get up?" he asked, somewhat plaintively. "Can't everyone just… have a party without us? I'm _far_ too content to move right now."

Flora let out a sleepy grumble of agreement, tucking herself more tightly into the wedge of Alistair's well-hewn arm. She had not been dreaming – this was now impossible. Instead, she had been submerged in a soft and soothing darkness. Her slumber was no longer bent to the whims and will of the Fade; but regulated by the rhythmic pulse of her husband's heartbeat.

" _Non,_ the party is _for_ you," Leliana retorted briskly, draping the Cousland-blue gown over the back of the armchair. "To honour your _joint_ victory over the Carta."

The bard angled her delicate chin towards the dozing queen, making it clear that she was also referring to Flora's escape from the smugglers' isle.

"Can't we have it up here instead?" Alistair cajoled, summoning enough energy to flash his friend a charmingly winning grin. "I'll persuade Flo to put some clothes on."

Leliana did not deign to grant response to such a foolish question. Instead she gave a short, Orlesian sniff of disapproval before clapping her hands in imperious manner.

"Bathtub!"

A filled bathtub was summoned from nowhere – in fact, it had been patiently waiting outside the royal chamber for any sign of movement from within. After being manhandled before the hearth, the hot bricks within were removed. As Flora had predicted, Leliana had come armed with a vast array of vials and potions.

The queen was about to bathe first – her hair was loosed, her dressing gown placed – when Taron woke, demanding food and comfort in that order. Flora, one leg lifted before the bath, immediately lowered it again. She scuttled across the chamber, scooping up the grizzling baby and clutching him to her breast.

"Fat prawn! Shh, shh- "

"You won't escape my unguents that easily," the bard warned her, having been poised to gleefully pour the contents of several vials. "Alistair, your turn."

"Uh," replied Alistair, putting a bashful hand to the back of his head as he stood with his breeches unfastened in the centre of the room. "Are you going to – to _watch?"_

" _Tsk!"_ huffed Leliana, turning her back on the king and trotting to join Flora beside the crib. "A fine time for you to develop some _decency._ How many times did I catch you two in the act on our travels?"

"Many times," confirmed Alistair, with a nod of acknowledgement. "Fair enough."

While the king submerged himself in the steaming water, his wife sat cross-legged on the bed and fed their hungry son. Taron's plump arms stretched out to claim his mother's breast, purpose writ across his handsome little face. Flora looked down at the suckling baby, so determined to gain his fill, and felt a rush of dizzying adoration in her gut. She was glad that she was already seated, thus could not lose her balance.

"I love my baby," the queen told Leliana, a distinct tremor in her voice. "Both of my babies. I _love_ them so much."

The bard shot her a slightly odd look, perched elegantly on the furs as she snuck glances at the humming Alistair.

"My, you're full of emotion today. Weeping over a pair of boots earlier, now this spontaneous outburst of affection."

Leliana halted herself abruptly, eyeing the redhead as she cradled the babe to her breast. Taron had taken a break from his meal to flail a chubby arm towards his mother's face; the obliging Flora tilted her head towards him. The infant was far from coordinated, unable to master the erratic movement of his limbs. The plump little hand eventually collided with Flora's chin, fingers spreading out like a starfish. She beamed, infinitely proud of his victorious efforts.

"You're a natural _maman, ma chérie,"_ observed Leliana fondly, her earlier reproving tone melting away. "It brings such joy to my heart to watch you. I had a dream last night that you were surrounded by a whole _brood_ of children, like a Mabari bitch with a litter. It was so realistic that I was _convinced_ that it was true."

In the bathtub, Alistair's lips moved silently: offering words to the Maker that were either a hopeful prayer or a more direct request.

"I want to be that bitch!" said Flora, earnest and huge-eyed at the possibilities. _"I want to be that bitch!"_

It was at this moment that Teagan entered, carrying a travel cloak in Theirin colours over his arm.

"You left this in the stable- " he began and then flailed mentally and physically; confronted with Flora's proud declaration of intent and her resplendent nakedness as she fed Taron on the bed. "Ah, _Maker's Breath –_ sorry- "

"No need for you to apologise, Teagan," Leliana interjected, rising elegantly to her feet as Flora made the prince's chubby arm wave gently at the bann. "It's perfectly _reasonable_ to expect most people to be _clothed_ at this hour of the day."

"I was about to get in the bath," protested Flora without much conviction, sprawling back against the cushions and patting the baby between his shoulders.

"You were naked _before_ I came in!"

The queen cackled: having no further excuse. She was not embarrassed about her nakedness with baby, she liked the warmth of their soft, brand-new skin against her own, and the ease of feeding them when there was no fussy clothing to wriggle out of. Noble garb, the sort that she was meant to wear, tended to be complicated and time-consuming to remove.

"You told me a story once about a countess from Antiva who rode naked through the streets, covered only by her hair," she said after a moment, tilting Taron back and forth to coax him into slumber. "I could do that: my hair is long enough."

"The lady Galena did so for a noble cause: protesting the oppressive taxation of her people," countered the bard, naturally well-versed in the ancient tales.

The bann, who had hastily turned himself away from the bed to face the hearth, snorted.

"Anyway – Alistair, you'd left your cloak in the stables, one of the servants found it. Ready for tonight?"

There was a subtler enquiry nestled within the innocuous question: Teagan knew that it had taken some time for his nephew to become accustomed to the more _public_ aspect of being king. Despite his impressive stature and Marician good looks, Alistair had never craved attention from the masses. Due to their three months spent on the road, the newlywed couple had been spared much of the pageantry that would become a necessary part of their royal existence.

Alistair smiled, hefting his impressive stature up from the bath as water streamed down contours of hard muscle. He reached for a sheet of linen to wrap around his waist as Leliana tittered, peeking slyly at his reflection in the mirror.

"What with the memorial the other day, then the trial," he said, with remarkable cheeriness. "I feel almost used to having all eyes on Flo and I again. Honestly, it reminds me of how it was during the preparation for the final battle against the Darkspawn. All those hours spent riding around the camp, remember, my dear?"

"Mm," agreed Flora amiably, leaning over to replace Taron alongside his sister. "I don't mind people looking at me. People have _always_ looked at me. Probably because I was a mage?"

 _Hm,_ thought Teagan, unable to stop his eyes drifting to the mirror for a swift glance at the young queen. She was still sprawled on the bed, hair flowing in crimson abundance, the wolfskin tugged over her thigh in an abandoned attempt at decency. _Not just that._

"I've brought the leatherworking tools too," he said, producing a case from within his tunic. "What did you want it for, poppet?"

Pulling the dressing robe hastily around her shoulders, Flora rose to her feet; trotting across the flagstones to retrieve the case.

"Thank you," she said, opening the case and selecting a thin, wooden-handled awl. "I need to make my bracelets before tonight."

"You need to _bathe_ first," chided Leliana, intercepting the queen as she headed purposefully towards her basket of seashells. "The water will get cold, and your hair takes hours to dry."

Teagan took this as his cue to depart. He left them with a wave, and a promise to meet Alistair beside the keg of oak-aged Fereldan stout later on.

Preparations for the feast continued into the early hours of the evening. Flora bathed, biting her tongue at the addition of several perfumed unguents. The queen was aware that this would most likely be the last time – at least, for a _long_ time – that Leliana assisted with her bath; and so, she allowed the bard to pour in a selection of her scented oils. Fortunately, the perfumes were of the traditional Fereldan variety: juniper berry, pine-needle and wild rose.

After the bathtub was manhandled out by a pair of servants, Flora sat herself on the bearskin in front of the hearth. With her damp mass of hair as close to the flames as she dared, she began to work her way through the basket of seashells. Each shell was first rinsed in vinegar to remove stray flecks of sand and grit, then carefully punctured with the leather-working awl. The shell was then threaded onto a thin leather cord, knotted at one end.

While Flora made her bracelets, Alistair signed the last pieces of paperwork to authorise Leliana's application to Valence Chantry. Despite the bard's somewhat colourful past, the Divine had been willing to approve the appointment – _with_ the endorsement of the King of Ferelden.

"There you go, Lel," he said at last, stamping the Theirin-branded ring into the final blob of wax to seal it. "Is that the last of them?"

"I believe so," the bard said, keeping her voice carefully even. "I… I am very grateful for your assistance, Alistair. The Maker calls me to continue my service to the faith, despite how – how _easy_ it would be to remain in Denerim. Believe me, it would have been no hardship to stay with you and Florence, to watch our little twins grow-"

Her voice faltered, albeit only slightly; she dropped her gaze down to her embroidered silk slippers.

"You're doing the right thing," Alistair said firmly, giving her elbow a companionable squeeze. "You're a clever woman – much cleverer than me – and you've many talents that shouldn't be wasted. Come on, you must have had… some _dream_ that tells you that you're doing the right thing!"

The bard let out a chime of musical laughter, her duck-egg blue eyes sparkling in approval. This was a reference to Leliana's admittance into their party, almost a year ago to the day. The lay-sister had burst into their tavern room in Lothering and declared that she had received _divine instruction_ in a dream – _the Maker had ordered her to assist the disgraced pair of Wardens with their futile and most likely hopeless endeavours!_

"As it happens, I _did_ have a somewhat enlightening dream," she replied, tilting her head towards the crib as a cry for attention rose. "I don't remember much of it – there was a winding path, lit by lanterns, and a strange green glow in the sky – but I woke up _convinced_ that I had to resume my service to the Chantry."

The bard lifted Theodora, who was mewling for attention, and cuddled the baby to her breast. The little girl peered up at Leliana with huge and solemn cloud-grey eyes, then yawned.

"The last dream I had, I was trapped in a cheese prison and had to _eat_ my way out," the king countered with a grin, buttoning up his fine cambric undershirt. "I think it was meant to be a nightmare, but I had a _great_ time. Oddly enough, I woke up with indigestion!"

Flora could not add to the conversation with her own night-time anecdote since her ability to dream had been severed with her magic, but she was oddly grateful. Many of her nights as a mage had been spent shielding against demons in the Fade; her spirits urging her to practice with ever-increasing frequency. Back then, she had not known the reason _why_ they were so insistent – that, one day, her shield would need to withstand the incendiary wrath of an Archdemon.

Alistair was resplendent in the traditional leather-and-fur garb of a Fereldan king; sporting a thin golden band to reflect his status as chieftain of the Landsmeet. He shaved the day's stubble from his face with a narrow blade, humming _Bones In The Sand_ quietly under his breath. Despite the morbid subject matter of the northern shanty, he found that it had become one of his favourite melodies. This was perhaps due to the influence of his wife, who had often caterwauled her way through all sixteen verses.

Flora, once she had finished knotting the ends of her seashell bracelets, fastened them around her wrists and ankles. While she tightened a separate leather strap around her knee – _extra-securely,_ sinceshe was planning on dancing after the feast – Leliana brought forward the selected gown for the evening. The lambswool was dyed with indigo to create the distinctive Cousland navy; though the dress itself was plain, and lacked additional ornamentation. Instead it was cut to flatter the youthful figure of the body wearing it, leaving shoulders fully bared and clinging to the waist. A soft band of fur framed the cleavage; the creamy skin more pleasing than any artificial lace or frill.

"A beauty like yours needs no decoration to augment it – don't cross your eyes at me, Florence, now you look like a troll! – so we will need no _maquillage._ Now, you were planning on leaving your hair down?"

"Mm," replied Flora, her attention caught by her husband's fixed stare in the mirror. Alistair was gazing at her with his mouth open, admiration writ bright and naked across his handsome Marician features. "I always used to dance in Herring with my hair down."

Leliana combed through the length of rich crimson with her fingers, working free a knot in the thick strands.

"It'll end up as snarled as old rope in the morning," she warned, letting the length of hair drop back to Flora's waist. "And I won't have time to untangle it; I'll be making my final preparations to depart!"

Flora took a deep and steadying breath; she had been trying her best to thrust her mind from tomorrow's farewells.

"I'll try not to fiddle with it too much tonight," the queen promised, swallowing a bitter-tasting lump of sadness that had risen in her throat. "I'll be too busy _eating,_ anyway."

"And no practising your fisherman's knots with it, either!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Helloooo, foreshadowing re Leliana's dream with the green glow in the sky! Though that's a long time off – Mother Dorothea of the Valence Chantry isn't even the Divine yet. Also, lol at Flora: "I WANT TO BE THAT BITCH!" XD Classic case of mouth before brain! And of course Lady Galena is based off the English folk-legend Lady Godiva XD

So in this author's note I wanted to talk a bit about Flora's other spirit companion, Compassion. Since there'll only be a few more chapters, I didn't want to forget about it, since I've had the concepts for each one in my head since the original story. We've learnt a lot about Valour in this sequel – that it's the spirit of Flora's ancestor, Sarim Cousland, and that they manifested in the old wreath-marked family armour. They're responsible for Flora's shield, and also about 90% of the communication that she got from her spirits – or the _**text that looked like this**_ in the original story.

Compassion manifested as a skeletal figure, with scorch-marked bones and clad in filmy, diaphanous robes. Their appearance was actually quite terrifying, but since Flo had known them from childhood, she was never frightened! Compassion rarely 'spoke' to Flora during the main story – their voice was heard whenever Flo was healing someone. They were responsible for fuelling Flo's creation magic.

So… the identity of Compassion! Some readers messaged me asking if it was Andraste – nope! I wouldn't be so bold, but there is a similarity between Andraste and the woman who became Compassion. Her name was Cygfa, and she was a Fereldan mage and healer during the Glory Age. She spent a decade travelling the countryside, offering her healing services for free and accepting only food and a roof over her head as payment. Unfortunately, she was caught by a tribe of Avvar, and they somehow decided that she was to blame for the loss of their herd of mountain goats. She ended up getting burnt alive as a 'witch', hence the scorched bones in her Fade-appearance. So Cygfa became a spirit of Compassion, and ultimately ended up attaching itself to Flora! This is why Flora's ability to heal is so powerful – like, reverse-the-taint powerful, because the spirit channeling the creation magic is 800 years old! Not that Flo has any idea about the history or identity of her spirits, lol.

Of course, all of that should have been in the past tense, since Compassion sacrificed itself to destroy the Archdemon's soul. Anyway, I hope that was interesting! Flora's spirits were a key part of the original story – and the ending of the Blight – so I wanted to talk about them.

I'm going to Berlin for work this week – for five days! So I'll update when I get back, depending on how much writing I manage to get done XD Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	229. The Feast

Chapter 229: The Feast

They managed to make their laborious way through another chapter of the book; a not-especially-easy tome on the great families of Ferelden. Flora had reluctantly set her _Exotic Fish_ sequel to one side for the time being, reasoning that she ought to learn more about the history of the nation that she was now _queen_ of.

"The spelling of Guerrin still doesn't make any sense to me," Flora said eventually, narrowing her eyes down at the hand-scribed text. "Why isn't it _G, w, e, r, i, n?"_

"I suppose then it'd be too similar to _Gwaren,"_ the king replied cheerfully, winding a strand of her crimson hair around his finger as she leaned into his side. "People might get the two mixed up."

Flora's brow creased; uncertain how a _family of living beings_ and a _town_ could possibly be mistaken for one another. However, she was saved from further endeavours in literacy by a sharp rap on the door. The Mabari lying before the hearth pricked their ears, attentive as always.

"Are you two ready to go down?" came Fergus's voice, muffled through the wood. "Most everyone is there now, but no one can start eating until you arrive."

The teyrn had learnt, through traumatic experience, not to burst unannounced into chambers where his sister and her husband had been left alone for any period of time. As Fergus ventured inside the royal quarters, he exhaled a subtle sigh of relief – they were both sitting chastely on the bed, side by side with a book clutched in Alistair's hand.

"We're ready," the king replied amiably, even as Flora confirmed with an earnest _definitely ready!_ "Wouldn't want to keep anyone from their dinner. Let me just tighten Flo's knee-strap, and we'll be off."

The sleeping twins, dressed in cream woollens and tiny mittens, were lifted into their parents' arms. Mother carried daughter and father carried son; both infants remained sound asleep during the transition. As usual, the Royal Guard and a troop of Mabari fell into step behind them, an event which had become so commonplace that the couple barely noticed it occurring. They walked down the passageway with Fergus; past the tapestry depicting an Alamarri chieftains' clan gathering, past the veil-shrouded bedchamber of the murdered teyrn, passing before the reproving glare of William Cousland's stone bust.

Fergus had never been an overly talkative type. He preferred action to words; a soldier-at-heart who was more comfortable in the saddle, lance in hand, than engaging in scholarly discussion. Yet - since the return of his sister - the new teyrn found himself spontaneously initiating conversation, most often for the purpose of filling the gaps in Flora's memory.

"Our grandfather used to enjoy fishing," he offered as they passed the glowering statue. "I suppose there wasn't much else to do within the walls during an Orlesian siege."

"We saw his fish ponds," Alistair replied, absentmindedly thumbing the underside of Taron's foot before tucking it back into the blanket. "In the rear courtyard."

The king did not mention that he had accidentally flung a fish into the face of another stone replica of William Cousland. Flora, who remembered this moment with perfect clarity, bit down on a strand of her own hair to keep from laughing.

Fergus grinned, wearied eyes lighting as he recalled one particular family anecdote.

"There's an old story that William Cousland once hosted a fishing competition for all the banns in the region – I suppose it must have been during a break in the siege. Each bann had to spend a whole day fishing in a location of their choice, and then bring their catches to be weighed at the castle. Our grandfather had a 'secret' spot that he claimed was the most fruitful on the Storm Coast. Sure enough, at the end of the day, William Cousland produced three full baskets of fish."

Alistair gave a grunt of approval, while Flora was caught between admiration and perplexion at the notion of fishing as _leisure activity_ as opposed to practical vocation.

"Anyway," Fergus continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Our grandfather was so competitive that he paid a mage to electrocute the water beforehand. All the fish rose to the surface and were netted by his servants!"

Alistair laughed out loud, while Flora's face contorted in indignation. She almost declared that her grandfather was a _cheater!_ but then decided against it, on the off-chance that William Cousland's ghost might choose to _haunt_ her in petty revenge. Castle Cousland, although undeniably sprawling and impressive, was also the most eerie of the four castles that Flora had stayed in – namely Redcliffe, South Reach, and Denerim. The queen could not decide whether this was due to the architecture – looming dark basalt, arrow-slotted windows, defence structures that came across as prison-like – or due to the castle's long and macabre history.

They descended the spiral stair and left the tower, following the gravelled path that skirted the courtyard. Usually, Flora would have quite happily tromped across the damp grass; but she was in navy slippers rather than her usual leather boots. The Mabari trotted ahead – not too far, but keen to enter the chamber from which enticing smells were emanating. Cod and Lobster led the way, ears pricked and tails quivering in excitement.

The outside doors to the great hall had been unbarred; the rust cleaned from the old lock and the hinges oiled. It had been over a year since a feast had taken place beneath its ancient, lofty eaves. Warm, ruddy light streamed from the high windows above the door, accompanied by the muffled cadence of music and laughter.

Fergus halted on the lowest step, prompting the stewards to freeze with their fingers hovering near a door-handle. Each door was so vast that it required a grown man to use both arms to heave it open.

The teyrn nodded down at the twins, still fast asleep in their parents' arms.

"Poor little pups," he observed, mouth twisting in a rueful grin. "They're going to get a shock. There's three hundred people in that hall, and half of them have been at the ale for two hours."

Alistair glanced towards Flora, whose large, pale eyes flickered in consensual agreement. They had already discussed the potential ramifications of attending the feast with twins in tow – feeling very grown-up as they did so – but had decided that they did not want to leave the babes with a wet nurse. Since their presence at the feast was required, the twins' presence was unavoidable.

"They've got a lot better at sleeping through noise," the king said eventually, gaze dropping to Taron's snub-nosed, slumbering face. "Maybe they won't wake up. Or, if they do, maybe they won't bawl their eyes out."

"They'll be fine," Flora said firmly, sounding more confident than she felt. "The first noise they heard was probably the Archdemon roaring through my belly. This can't be any louder than that."

 _Sorry, again,_ the queen thought to herself with a spasm of shame. _I think I'll always feel guilty for putting you in so much danger when you were still so tiny and new._

Both new parents took a deep breath as they stood on the top step, waiting for the entrance to be fully opened. A steward had already slipped inside to prepare the herald; a sliver of light streamed across the flagstones where one door stood slightly ajar.

Then came the familiar flurry of brass notes as the trumpet announced the arrival of Ferelden's king and queen. The noise from within immediately stilled; the clarion announcement cutting through the silence like a blade.

" _My Lords and Ladies, I announce the arrival of His Royal Majesty, Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, Her Royal Majesty, Florence, Queen of Ferelden, and the Royal Twins!"_

As the herald's sonorous voice rose to the eaves, Alistair mouthed the words at Flora with exaggerated eye-rolls; the queen giggled and shifted Theodora into her other elbow. Yet, in contrast to this japery, the king's behaviour and body-language shifted the moment that the light from the great hall flooded over them. Alistair took his role as king with the utmost seriousness; he lifted his chin and stood tall and broad-shouldered in the face of the chamber's scrutiny. Flora, whose face naturally fell into solemnity, stood at his right; her pale seawater gaze set straight ahead.

They were met with the usual chorus of hails, from _Theirin, Theirin!_ to _Cousland!_ These were interspersed with the occasional _Blight-ender!_ and _Dragon-slayer!_ which were directed in particular towards the queen. Rather touchingly, a substantial number of voices called out greetings to the little twins; who had already achieved fame through – and beyond – Ferelden for their durability.

The great hall seemed to contain many more than the three hundred that Fergus had prophesied. As it happened, the teyrn had only been referring to the nobility and their family; not including the bevy of knights and assorted retainers that surrounded their respective liege-lord. As such, there was closer to five hundred people in the great hall; many seated at the long tables – now standing of course – and others gathered in clumps against the walls. All were turned to greet the king and queen, their faces bright and expectant.

The hall itself had been decorated for the occasion. Banners depicting the Theirin and Cousland colours hung from the eaves; bright against the bleak backdrop of northern basalt. Sheafs of fresh corn, the traditional Harvestmere decoration, were arranged atop squat wooden barrels and displayed in great copper vases. At the far end, behind the elevated royal table, cloth of gold hangings were edged with vermilion silk and embroidered with plump Fereldan roses. These hangings had last been displayed at Castle Cousland in Marician times; many of the older nobles murmured in approval as they recognised the decoration.

Flora's eyes swept the great hall until she spotted her companions, gathered in a cluster near the top table. Zevran, Wynne and Leliana were dressed in their respective finery; the elf blew her a kiss as he caught her gaze. Reassured by their presence, the queen raised her head slightly and matched Alistair as best she could in pace.

 _You have to stop looking for them whenever you enter a room,_ her conscience berated her, without malice. _They won't be there for much longer._

 _They are your friends, but they aren't your companions any more. The Blight is over. It's you and Alistair now._

As though sensing his name in her thoughts, the king shortened his stride, reaching out the hand that was still free. Flora reached out to take it, grateful for the familiar warmth of his callused swordsman's palm against her own. To their surprise, the twins continued to sleep soundly; undisturbed by the cries and hails that showered about them. Halfway into the hall Theodora yawned, opened her eyes and cast a bemused glance at the forest of faces around her, then promptly fell back asleep.

Finian, Teagan, Leonas and Flora's companions were already seated at the royal table; with three chairs left for the king, queen and teyrn. From the look of it, they had already begun to pile food high on their plate.

"Is that a _cheese castle?"_ Alistair breathed, resisting the temptation to swivel his head as they processed between the tables. "Maker's Breath, it _is!"_

"I would make a castle out of shellfish," his wife replied, wistfully. "With lobster tails for walls and crab-shells for rooftops. And cockles for decoration. Maybe prawns to guard it. But I still can't eat shellfish, even the _smell_ of it makes me feel sick!"

Cod and Lobster – the Mabari – pricked up their ears on hearing their names, but the clever dogs quickly realised that their mistress was not referring to them.

Alistair checked once again on his son; Taron was still fast asleep, one small fist pillowed thoughtfully against a plump cheek. The king felt a rush of startled pride in his children. The twins had every right to wake up and wail at the sudden noise that swelled about them, and yet they had learnt to sleep through the noise of public obligation.

The royal couple took their seats at the top table, joined shortly afterwards by Fergus and Eamon. The musicians, cued in by a quick wave from the chief steward, struck up a lively melody that had many clapping hands and bobbing heads in recognition.

Leliana, Wynne and Zevran made their way forwards, each one bright-faced in anticipation of an entertaining evening. As the companions of the Wardens who had defeated the Blight, they needed no-one's permission to approach the top table.

"Are you all ready for your travels tomorrow, Lel?" Alistair inquired, reaching out with a free hand to pour Flora a tankard of apple-water. "We noticed your trunks piled up in a corner of the courtyard."

"Sufficiently _guarded,_ I hope!" replied an indignant Leliana, who had been assured by the steward that her baggage would be meticulously taken care of. "But _oui,_ I do believe that I am ready. The weather is supposed to be fair, even _favourable_. The Maker smiles upon my journey, I think."

"Why wouldn't He?" said the king cheerfully, sliding the tankard towards Flora before reaching for the ale. "You must be in His good books by now, after all you've done."

"Hm! One would _hope,_ but one can never be sure."

As she listened, Flora tried her best to assume a light-hearted and interested expression; which only contorted her face into an unnatural grimace. Zevran, expert at spotting minute changes in the queen's temperament, swooped in to distract her.

"Why must you torture me by looking so edible, _carina?"_ he complained, eyeballing her with a soulful coal-dark gaze. "You're meant to have a reputation for _kindness."_

In reality, the elf knew well enough the purpose of the carefully tailored gown. Shoulders exposed, the dress dipped deliberately low at the back to display the silvered arcing of the Archdemon's scar. Both cut and cobalt colour sent out a clear message; Leliana's legacy would be the wardrobe she had curated for the young queen.

"I can't believe she's leaving tomorrow," Flora breathed, just about stopping herself from saying _leaving me._ "It's come so quickly."

"On that note," the senior enchanter began as the queen turned horrified eyes towards her. "Don't look so _traumatised,_ child. I was simply going to inform you that Alistair has offered me the post of court enchanter, and that I have accepted. So, I shall be remaining in Denerim for the next year, at least."

Flora let out a squeal of delight, hastily muffled when Theodora gave a sleepy grumble.

"You are?"

"Yes, my dear."

The impulsive queen stood and leaned across the table, reaching out to draw Wynne in for a kiss on the cheek. One of her sleeves trailed dangerously near a pot of seasoned beef stew; the elf swiftly plucked it from harm's way.

Next to receive Flora's effusive gratitude was Alistair, who was in the middle of responding to a query from Eamon. The king found his attention temporarily diverted as his wife plastered affection over his cheeks. He grinned, putting an arm around Flora's waist and returning her nuzzle of appreciation even as he replied to the arl.

"Everyone seems to be having a good time," Maric's son observed, surveying the scene before him. "Especially Geoffrey."

Indeed, the Bann of Calon had stationed himself beside one of the vast vats of spiced mead; impatient with the slowness of his squire at refilling his tankard. The bann was not the only member of the Landsmeet taking gleeful advantage of the renowned Cousland wine-cellars. Bann Reginalda was embroiled in a drinking competition with a neighbouring arl; two knights were steadily downing tankard after tankard in order to pluck up the nerve to ask the queen to dance.

Most, however, were focused on the impressive spread before them. Despite the massacre that had taken places within the castle walls, the past year had been a fruitful one for the teyrnir. It had escaped the poisonous touch of the Blight, and had enjoyed a bounteous harvest after a long, unseasonably warm summer. Plates were stacked high with smoked meats and cheeses; bowls filled with rich goulash stews and simmering broths. Some nobles, seeing the abundance of sugared treats on display, had begun their feast with dessert. Fergus Cousland, in a continuation of his father's generosity, had allowed the servants and retainers of each lord to attend the festivities. Unlike the class-restricted socialisation of Orlais, Fereldan peers were happy to drink in the company of good men – regardless of class.

A length of a dozen yards had been left between the long tables for dancing. A hesitant young knight was rotating on the spot with a blushing chambermaid, while a nearby dwarf demonstrated startling dexterity in footwork. Finian, worried that he might not fit into his favourite calfskin breeches if he was left unsupervised at the buffet, had gladly accepted the invitation of a lecherous old dowager. He was then trapped in a series of terrifying jigs with the spritely madam, whose skirts flew higher with each twirl. Zevran, laughing openly at his grim-faced lover, was deliberately taking his time before interjecting.

The twins were placed inside their basket, swaddled with blankets and sporting knitted woollen hats. They were placed gently between the chairs of king and queen, and the leader of the royal Mabari pack immediately curled himself around the basket, chin on paws. With both arms free, the king and queen were now able to eat properly. The cheese model of Denerim Castle was brought up to the table by two perspiring servants; Alistair, unable to stop himself from laughing in incredulity, cut off a large section of the battlements. Flora, equally enamoured by the creativity of the dairy-based structure, selected three of the little flags for herself. These were crafted from thin slices of Marcher gouda, supported by wooden dowels. Such was the attention to detail that a tiny Theirin lion had been scraped into the cheese with a toothpick.

Alistair piled his plate higher, cheerfully chattering away with Teagan about the mares that they had rode earlier. Despite his preference of quiet night in private with his loved ones, the young king had quickly grown accustomed to an evening spent in the public eye. His father Maric had once undergone the same process, after his rapid elevation from rebel leader to monarch of the realm. He forked up slices of Antivan smoked ham with one hand while topping up his tankard with another; frustrating the efforts of hovering servants.

Flora had eaten more sparingly, focusing her efforts on the fruits and vegetables. To the queen's supreme annoyance, the array of shellfish did not appeal to her whatsoever. It was an impressive selection: Cockles braised in white wine were presented in silver tureens; lobster tails were laid end-to-end on a bed of fresh green lettuce; squares of crab meat were skewered on slender staves. Yet none of these dishes appealed to Flora as they were presented. In fact, they made her stomach twist with a sudden, sharp nausea.

 _I can't blame you this time,_ the queen thought, peering down at the slumbering twins as she bit an apple-slice in half. _Hmm._

Evening gave way to night, though those in the great hall had no way of noticing the deepening shade of the sky. Full platters of food kept appearing to replace the empty dishes; servants kept running to the cellars to retrieve more barrels of mead. Fortunately, Fergus' steward had provisioned the castle well and they were in no danger of running empty. Laughter and inebriated conversation rose to the lofty rafters; nobles and retainers fraternised openly as they sampled the culinary array.

More now ventured onto the flagstones heartened by the example set by Finian and Zevran. Leliana and the bann of Calon, in honour of their old flirtation, were dancing a skilful gavotte. The bard was laughing and flirting as though aware that a future spent in service of the Chantry would have scant opportunity for such entertainment.

Alistair had devoured his way through a vast slab of roasted boar, washing down the richly aromatic meat with several tankards of ale. As a result, he was veering on the verge of a happy befuddlement, ever-so-slightly inebriated. Flora was trying not to giggle at her hiccuping husband, peering at him from beneath her eyelashes. She was proud of him for letting his guard down in public; a rare occurrence since her abduction a month prior.

"Eat up, baby," Alistair instructed, seeing the half-empty dish. "You've only had two… platefuls!"

"I don't want to get too full before dancing," Flora mumbled through a mouthful of fruit. "I'm just waiting for a song that I recognise."

Alistair flashed her a boyish grin, then reached out to finger a thick strand of oxblood hair. His voice deepened, the green flecks in his gaze standing out with bright admiration.

"You look sho – _so_ beautiful tonight, my sweet wife," he breathed, made hoarse by the mead. "I'm the luckiest man in Thedas to be married to you. My red rose."

Flora smiled at him, her cheeks pinkening at the compliment. Alistair stared at her a moment longer, then leaned forward and put his mouth close to her ear; whispering something that made the blush on her cheeks deepen. He raised a questioning golden eyebrow at her.

 _Do you want to, later…?_

She bit her lip and nodded shyly.

 _Mm. Yes._

Meanwhile Zevran, who had the hearing of a bat, immediately rose to his feet. Weaving his way through the clusters of well-dressed nobles, the elf made his way with subtle purposefulness towards the musicians' platform at the far end of the hall. A sly whisper was delivered into the ear of the leader as he fiddled away at an eastern gavotte.

On learning that the Hero of Ferelden desired some melodies from the northern coast, the musicians abandoned their current song halfway through the second-to-last verse. They struck up an instrumental rendition of _Bones in the Sand,_ the minor key lending itself well to the mournful wail of the fiddle. The _bodhran_ drum kept up a driving rhythm in the background; like the relentless patter of rain against a slate-tiled roof.

As they had hoped, the queen rose to her feet; the heads of the hall turning towards her as she did so. Flora was vaguely aware of the scrutiny of several hundred pairs of eyes; but she was far more focused on the strands of melancholic melody that wove about her like a fishing net. For the duration of the melody it was as though she were no longer queen, but a girl from a village too nondescript to be etched on maps, born and raised on the brittle, salt-laced air of the northern coast. The rustle of seashells about her wrists and ankles only seemed to confirm this further. She was fifteen again, with no obligation save for the mending of frost-cough and the occasional half-drowned sailor; she had never heard of Darkspawn, and her spirits kept her safe from night-time demons. Her family was her fisherman father, her deluded mother and a long-dead brother who mouldered in skeletal glory at the end of their table.

Flora needed no partner: the wind and the lash of the wave against the cliff below was accompaniment. Her hair was not caught up in the high ponytail of duty, nor the apprentice's humble braid; it fell loose to her waist like a mermaid's unruly mane. She wore the fur-trimmed navy gown as though it were a peasant's sackcloth tunic, careless as a girl not yet old enough to feel self-conscious before men.

The others moved back to give the queen space; she did not seem to notice the presence of others, swept away by the tide of the familiar melody and the restless beat of the _bodhran._ She lost one silk slipper and then the other; again, equally unaware. The collective eyes of the hall were fixed to Florence Cousland, as they had been the moment that she was named and claimed before the Landsmeet.

Alistair, the air suspended motionless in his lungs, stared unblinking at his best friend with his fork frozen half-way to his mouth. In contrast to the temporary cessation of breath, his heart was racing like a runaway horse within the suddenly-tight constraints of his chest. He felt a sudden prickle in the corners of his eyes; eyelashes heavy with emotion.

"Honestly," breathed Leliana as she leaned against the bann of Calon's side and feigned catching her breath. "I _try_ and teach the girl all the latest _minuets_ and _gavottes,_ and she cavorts around like… like some Alamarri chieftain's daughter before a bonfire."

"Aye, but that's why we – uh, _they_ appreciate her," the bann replied, the admiration warming his tone.

"Hm!"

The song ended and Flora came to her senses, blinking as though she were a fish plucked suddenly from the water. The musicians struck up a lively Highever _gigue_ and Finian strode forward; sweeping himself into a gallant and exaggerated bow before his sister. Giggling, she accepted his hand and he spun her into the first set of steps. Despite the height difference, they danced well together; his lively antics compensating for her inexperience.

Alistair, having hastily blinked the tears from his eyes, leaned back in his chair to check on the sleeping twins. They were still cuddled up amidst the blanket in their basket, Theodora's arm across her brother's shoulder with her chubby hand encased in a mitten. Eamon had left the top table to wander the hall, murmuring and conversing with a selected few. In his place, several young banns, along with Teagan and an arl's son, had gathered about the king; most of them somewhat inebriated. Zevran, who had won fifty silver from one drunken individual in cards earlier, lurked nearby in hope of another profitable game.

"What'sh it like, Theirin?" enquired one, the words stumbling from his throat like patrons at tavern closing-time.

"Eh? What's _what_ like?" replied Alistair, returning upright.

The arl's son canted his head towards Flora, who was being spun on the spot by a cackling Finian. The queen was laughing, in a rare interruption of the famed stoicism. She was pink in the face, the flush creeping down her neck to spread across the plump swell of her cleavage. Her hair flowed over her naked shoulders and fell to her waist in thick crimson ropes.

"You know," the young lord persisted, in knowing tones. "Being with her. The queen."

If Alistair had been entirely sober, he would have retorted with a sharp comment along the lines of _mind your own business._ However, the king had just enough mead flowing through his veins to answer the question in the spirit that it had been asked.

"Being with Flo?" he replied, a slight hoarseness to his voice. "Maker's Breath. It's… it's… _indescribable."_

He rose to his feet, without warning or announcement. As though they still shared the common taint in their blood, Flora turned on the spot to face him, dropping Finian's grip. The royal couple stared at one another for several long moments, eyes burning; and then he held out a wordless hand. She ran across the great hall, bare feet slapping against the flagstones; he rounded the table to meet her at the edge of the platform. Her arms rose to encompass his neck and he enveloped her in an embrace, to the accompaniment of a general murmur of approval.

"Husband," the queen whispered, gazing in enthralment up at his handsome face. _"My_ husband."

"My sweet wife," the king breathed, equally enraptured. "My beautiful girl."

As they embraced, Alistair drew a glass vial a half-inch from his pocket; catching her eye with heated meaning in his gaze. Obtained from Zevran a half-candle earlier, the vial was filled with something clear and liquid.

Flora curved the corner of her mouth in response; a slow and languid smile of approval.

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooooh wow that work thing in Berlin was absolutely exhausting! I got back a few days later than I anticipated (i.e. yesterday!) and I thought I would at least get some time to write in the evenings… nope! It's so nice to sleep in my own bed again though, haha.

Anyway, this was a nice chapter to write! Flora finally got to dance without being a) stressed about the Blight b) hugely fat with child, Alistair got to eat half a cheese castle… and both of them will have a nice time tonight XD Ahahaha

Most of the dances referred to are Renaissance or Baroque-era dances (I think some Classical as well?) which doesn't fit in with Ferelden's late-Medieval aesthetic but oh well! I got a commission of Flo and Alistair in their feast outfits but I don't know how to link it hhaha.

https-:-/-hmp-.-me-/-cbqh

remove the dashes! -

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	230. The Departure Of Leliana

Chapter 230: The Departure of Leliana

The revelry continued late into the night; several worse-for-wear banns staggering in the general direction of their chambers after the third bell had rung. The next morning, Flora woke in the colourless hour before dawn, with a distinct nausea in the root of her belly and a general sense of unsettlement. She grimaced, pressing tight against the warm, solid muscle of her bedmate's chest and wondering if she had eaten something the previous night that disagreed with her.

 _Was it the gouda flag from the cheese castle?_

 _Maybe it was that odd-looking turnip._

Sprawled amidst the furs, she peered thoughtfully up at the ceiling, dangling a hand over the edge of the bed to greet her Mabari pups. Cod – or possibly Lobster – shoved their damp nose against her palm; and suddenly the queen realised the cause of her nausea.

 _Leliana is leaving today, with the morning tide._

Flora let out a low grumble of discontent, rolling over onto her belly and burying her face in the pile of velvet cushions. A mere grumble was not sufficient to sate the queen's irritation: she snarled into the expensive fabric with such vehemence that several Mabari put their paws on the bed and peered over to the source of the unusual sound.

Disturbed by the vibration beside his head, Alistair awoke to a growling wife; her face buried and her fists clenched into the blankets. Perplexed, he lifted himself onto an elbow and peered down at her with eyebrow cocked.

"Good… good morning, my love."

"It's a _malevolent_ morning," she retorted sulkily, the words muffled by the bedding.

"Is that one of your words of the day, sweetheart?" Alistair murmured in response, eyes following the curve of her slender back down to the pert swell of her rump. It took him a moment to remember that he was permitted to _touch,_ as well as merely _admire;_ his palm followed the same route as his gaze.

"Yes," Flora mumbled, pillowing her cheek on her elbow and winding a stand of hair around her finger. "Who's going to do the _word of the day_ with me once Leliana's gone? Who's going to expand my _vocabunardy_ now?"

" _I'll_ expand your vocabulary, baby," he replied, walking his fingers up her naked back until they reached her scarred shoulder-blades. "I know at least _half_ of the words that Leliana does."

The milk-white brand across Flora's shoulders had wholly obliterated the scattered tan freckles that once decorated her skin. The king caressed the scar with an affectionate thumb, tracing its whorls and arcs.

"Hmm," she grumbled, her anger dissipating like a sea-mist at dawn. "Alright. What's my word for today?"

He thought for a moment, curling a strand of her hair around his finger. Flora curved the corner of her mouth at him, unable to remain sulky in the presence of her beloved husband. She then reached back to draw his hand close, pillowing her cheek against his sword-calloused palm after giving it a kiss.

" _Renaissance,"_ Alistair offered at last, triumphantly. "How's that for an impressive piece of vocabulary?"

" _Ooh,"_ the queen breathed, her curiosity ignited. "A _fancy_ word. It sounds Orlesian. What does it mean?"

"It is Orlesian, in honour of Leliana," he said, pleased with himself for producing such a _fitting_ word. "And it means… a new beginning."

Flora beamed, rolling over onto her back and winding her arms about his neck.

" _Rennersauce,"_ she repeated, absentmindedly admiring the thick and corded muscle of her husband's shoulders. "A good choice. I'll try and use it whenever I can today."

He grinned lazily down at her, hazel eyes bright and knowing with the memory of what they had done together the previous night. Flora, perceiving the direction of his thoughts, began to pinken; cheeks flushing as she recalled one particularly lewd act that they had partaken in - _twice._ She could see Alistair's mind working; eyes darting towards the dresser where the vial from the previous night now stood near-empty. If it had been any other morning, the queen would have readily yielded herself to her husband's desires, but this morning was singular and could not be wasted.

"I want to go and see Leliana," Flora whispered, her finger tracing the length of his stubbled jaw. "Will you come with me, husband?"

Alistair, to his credit, managed to rein in his morning lustiness. He gave a nod, delivering a tender peck to the end of his wife's nose while willing his breeches to stand down.

"I'd come with you anywhere, sweet wife."

The twins were already awake, blinking confusedly and waving small fists. In a routine that was not perfected, but increasingly well-practised, Flora fed one while Alistair bathed the other. The babes were then exchanged; the action repeated. On this chilly autumnal pre-dawn, the routine went off without a hitch. Taron did not throw up as soon as he had finished his feed; Theodora did not foul her bathwater with an alarmingly grown-up cackle. Both twins, looking especially pink and plump, allowed themselves to be manoeuvred into cream-coloured mittens, and blankets.

The new parents gazed down at the babes, enthralled by their fat little feet and huge, inquisitive grey eyes. Alistair reached out to wiggle one of Theodora's toes. The contrast between the grown man's fingers and the tiny, pea-sized digit of his daughter was extraordinary.

"They look like a pair of sea slugs," Flora observed fondly, adjusting the angle of Taron's hat as he flailed a mittened fist at her. "At the _renurgligance_ of their life."

" _Renaissance,_ my flower."

"Isn't that what I said? Ooh, do you think we ought to put some clothes on before we go out?"

"Yes, my darling. I… I think that's a good idea."

Escorted by the usual entourage of dogs and guards, the royal couple stole down the passageway barefoot and still in their night-clothes. Alistair carried both twins against his chest; lulled by the strong, even throb of his heart, they had swiftly gone back to sleep. Flora, determination writ across her sleepy face, led the way to where she _believed_ Leliana's chamber to lie. Unfortunately, Castle Cousland was large and sprawling enough that nothing was easily located; even a chamber which one had only visited the previous day. After a half-candle of fruitless wandering down torch-lit corridors, a passing servant offered to lead them to the bard's room. Leliana was housed in one of the guest rooms located on the sunny southern side of the castle; where the chambers were small, but well-furnished and comfortable.

Leliana had just finished her morning prayers – while still in bed, the flagstones were so _cold_ on autumnal mornings in the north – when her ears pricked in the direction of the doorway. Although she did not have the exceptional hearing of the elf, the bard was adept at identifying visitors by listening closely to the rhythm and timbre of their footsteps. Alistair's stride was leisurely and yet purposeful; Flora's was shorter, and slightly uneven due to the favouring of her stronger knee.

Thus, Leliana knew the identity of her dawn visitors before the first tentative knock on the door.

" _S'il vous plaît venez, cheries!"_ the bard called, then waited expectantly.

When the door remained shut, Leliana let out a little sigh and raised her voice once again.

"Come in!"

Now that her guests were able to comprehend the instruction, the door swung open. Cod and Lobster pranced in first – there was no way that _they_ were going to be shut out of a chamber! – followed by the king and queen.

"Matching nightclothes: _adorable,"_ purred Leliana, leaning back against the cushions as she surveyed them in their striped, Theirin-crested pyjamas. "Are those little Mabari embroidered on the hem? _Mignonne!"_

Alistair positioned himself in the armchair near the hearth, leaning back and peering down at the sleeping twins. Flora went straight over to the bed and clambered onto the mattress, slithering beneath the blankets. She curled up beside her friend like a Mabari pup, wrapping both of her arms around one of Leliana's and resting her head on the bard's shoulder. Leliana reached across an affectionate hand to ruffle the untidy crimson braid.

"Are you ready for your journey?" the queen breathed, surreptitiously rubbing her cheek against Leliana's gossamer-soft silk sleeve. "It's not too late for you to change your mind."

" _Florence."_

"Sorry. The dawn looks friendly; I think the sea will be nice to you today."

"The Maker will guide me safe to shore, I am certain. After all, I am intending to swear myself to His cause," the bard replied, casting an eye towards the leaded window. The sun was just beginning to rise, sending tendrils of burnt amber through the glass. "And if I was not meant to serve Him, then – well. I place myself at the mercy of your precious Waking Sea."

"I'd place ten gold that you make Divine within the next two decades," Alistair offered across the room, bouncing Taron in an effort to send him back to sleep. The little boy had been disturbed by Leliana's Orlesian cadence, and was now squinting around suspiciously.

"One does not 'make' Divine, Alistair, one is _appointed,_ after many years of dedicated service and demonstrable faith!"

"Well, if anyone could get themselves _appointed,_ it's you," replied the king cheerfully, offering his son his finger to occupy him.

Flora shifted into a more comfortable position on the pillows, retrieving several ropes of hair that had been trapped beneath her. The chamber seemed far barer than it had been the previous day; only the bard's most precious possessions yet remained unpacked. A faded, gilt-edged copy of the Chant sat alongside a braided leather belt; nearby rested a wickedly slender dagger masquerading as a hairpin.

"What's Mother Dorothea like?" she asked, stifling a yawn. "The priestess who you're going to work for."

"Dorothea is a most _remarkable_ woman – don't warm your cold feet on me, Florence! – and I expect that I will learn a lot from her."

Leliana half-smiled as she spoke, twisting the Chantry seal idly around her ring finger. Across the room, Taron continued to suckle gummily on his father's finger; his smooth, olive brow creased with the half-formed ideas of a newborn.

"Wynne told me that Dorothea of Valence was once a key player in the Fun Game of Orlais," offered Alistair, wondering if he would have any finger left once his son was finished with it. "And that she's had her fair share of scandal."

" _Great Game,"_ corrected Leliana, using deft fingers to work free a knot in the queen's hair. "And _oui,_ Dorothea's past is a ripe and colourful one. Who else would recruit one such as myself for service into the Chantry?"

The bard ducked her head in a wry acknowledgement of her own less-than-salubrious past. Flora curled herself more tightly against her friend, stifling another yawn.

"She's lucky to have you," she mumbled, feeling herself sink back into the comforting realm of sleep. "And, you know, you can always come _back."_

The corner of Leliana's mouth curved wistfully; she turned to press a peck against Flora's forehead. From outside, the sound of a castle rousing itself came drifting up to the window: dogs barking, men calling to one another, the clatter of hoofbeat against stone. The bard closed her eyes for several moments, as though preserving the scene in her mind.

"You know that I had a dream, back in Lothering, that prompted me to join your cause?" she said eventually, drawing Alistair's attention. "And then another that prompted me to rejoin the service of the Chantry?"

Alistair nodded, withdrawing his finger from the mouth of his sleeping son.

"I remember, Lel. I also remember feeling quite glad that the Maker doesn't bother with sending me messages in dreams – I _definitely_ wouldn't interpret them properly. I'd just assume that everything was a metaphor for… for _cheese,_ or something."

Leliana let out a classically Orlesian snort, occupying herself with another knot in Flora's hair.

"I had another such dream last night, though it felt a little _different_ from the others. There was a castle, vast as this one – but more decaying – surrounded by great, billowing clouds. I… I do not know what it means. The Maker has not yet enlightened me."

Alistair gave an amiable shrug, leaning back in the armchair with one babe tucked into each elbow.

"Perhaps it means that you'll be the Empress of Orlais by the time we carry out this 'state visit' that Eamon is insisting on in a few years."

The bard stifled a giggle with long, elegant fingers, her pale blue eyes sparkling.

"Hush with you, now! I never heard anything so ridiculous. Ah- "

She trailed off, letting her hand drift downwards to tilt Flora's chin a fraction higher.

" – but the Orlesians will like her. They appreciate beautiful things, possibly more than they ought."

Alistair's eyebrow quirked towards his hairline; he was not sure that he wanted Orlais to _appreciate_ his wife. Leliana smiled, then lowered her voice; snaring the king's attention with bardic skill.

"Alistair… I would not be too surprised if our queen starts to feel ill in the morning soon."

The bard made the observation lightly, though her eyes were fixed intent on him. Alistair stiffened within the armchair, his body a fraction more alert than it had been a moment prior.

"What do you mean?" he asked, a slight unsteadiness to the words.

Leliana paused, glancing down at the oblivious queen's head as it rested against the sleeve of her silk nightgown.

"I saw her forsake seafood in favour of raw vegetables last night. Yesterday too, she became _irrationally emotional_ over a pair of old boots. I have my suspicions that- "

Alistair was now on the edge of his seat, the breath held still in his lungs. He made a wordless nod for Leliana to continue, eyes fixed unblinking on her.

"I suspect that she's with child again," the bard said softly, stifling a smile at the pure, unadulterated joy that flashed across the king's face. "I could be wrong – do not say anything yet – but I doubt it."

A grin was now splitting Alistair's face nearly in two; the hope and disbelief radiating from him in bright waves. He could not speak for excitement, and did not have a hand to brush away the sudden dampness at the corner of his eyes.

"Do – do you really think so?" he croaked at last, ducking his head to wipe his running nose on his sleeve. "Maker's Breath – I'd hoped – but I didn't think, not so _soon- "_

"You two were at it like rabbits from the moment she was able to," Leliana pointed out, acerbically. "And her womb clearly takes your seed well, as proven by the precious little twins."

Alistair took a deep and steadying breath, dazzled at how his fortunes had reversed so dramatically in the past year. For the first time, he dared to envision a Satinalia celebrated with a wife at his side and a cluster of children gathered about his knee. Tears rose unprompted a second time; he held his twins to his chest and crossed to sit on the bed beside the snoring Flora. Very gently he passed a hand over the top of her head, ensuring that he did not wake her from her dreamless slumber.

"My sweet wife," he said, his voice oddly constricted. "My precious girl."

Leliana smiled up at him, her blue eyes soft and approving.

"She needs to try and enjoy it this time," she murmured, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Flora's belly. "She had an awful time bearing the twins, what with the stress of the Blight and the final battle. And then the trauma of losing her magic. And _then_ two months of travelling on horseback and sleeping in tents."

The bard made a _tsk_ of reproval as guilt creased the king's forehead; she reached out to place a placating hand on his sleeve.

" _Ah,_ but it needed to be done, _mon cher."_

Flora, having just emerged from sleep, took advantage of her companions' distraction. Taron was slyly plucked from his father's arm and deposited onto the bard's chest; Theodora was laid gently within her lap.

"Now you can't go anywhere," the queen said evilly as Leliana cooed down at the drowsy infants. "Trapped by BABIES!"

She then found herself enveloped in her husband's arms; her face pressed against his chest. Delighted, Flora put her arms around Alistair's neck to return to embrace, clinging to him amidst the blankets.

"I love you," he mumbled into her hair, a slight unevenness to his voice. "Can I get you anything to eat? Or drink? Do you need another blanket? It's chilly, I don't want you to catch cold. I'll have a pair of socks brought at once."

"Eh?"

After they had broken their fast, the final preparations for the journey began. Leliana would be accompanied on her voyage by the Orlesian _duc,_ and escorted by contingent from the Royal Army who had special permission to cross the Orlo-Fereldan border. The baggage of the Orlesian _duc_ took up three carriages alone; Leliana's possessions were stored in a half-dozen chests and trunks. These were piled into a horse-drawn cart, ready to begin the journey down to the ship.

A small procession accompanied the travellers to the 'Lowever' docks; many wanted to check that the Orlesian _duc_ was _really_ departing Fereldan soil, others wished to say farewell to the bard. Leliana, as one of the companions who had assisted Flora during the Fifth Blight, had achieved some measure of fame in her own right. Combined with an abundance of natural charisma and unrivalled musical talent, Leliana was a popular presence amongst the nobility. Many murmured to each other that it was a _waste_ to lose such a delightful and skilled woman to the service of the Chantry; yet those who knew the bard best were aware that she had talents that reached far beyond the realm of entertainment.

Flora wound the babies against her breast and rode on the front of Alistair's saddle, his cloak wrapped around them all to guard against a brisk sea breeze. Leliana and Wynne also a shared a saddle; they rode in companionable silence, having made their farewells the previous night. Zevran and Finian shared increasingly outrageous stories from the previous night, including one about a bann's son who had been caught in a deeply compromising position with a dwarven blacksmith. Eamon and Fergus had listened to the first few, then hastily spurred their horses to the front of the line to avoid the more _salacious_ tales.

It took less than a candle-length to ride down to the docks; Flora found herself wishing that it would take twice as long. For the first time in her life, she was dreading glimpsing the Waking Sea. Alistair, sensing her sadness and aware of the possible creature taking root in her belly, kept one comforting arm fixed around her waist.

 _Vegetable stew for lunch,_ he murmured in her ear, dropping the reins and brushing loose strands of Flora's hair behind her neck. _Your favourite, my sweet wife. I'll make sure they put turnips in it. And some pumpkin._

Flora found these soft, distracting whispers comforting, and nestled herself more closely against him in response.

 _She'll be back at Satinalia,_ she thought firmly to herself. _It's only a few months._

The ship that would bear the bard to Orlais was a merchant vessel, squat and wide-bellied, with sails many-times repaired. The Orlesian _duc_ turned his nose up at the weatherbeaten transport; murmuring something disparaging in a foreign tongue beneath his breath as the horses came to a halt on the quayside. Flora, conversely, was pleased at the sight of the old vessel – the patches and tarred cracks were battle-wounds from repeated combat with the Waking Sea; the ship was clearly a fighter, and its captain experienced. No ship successfully sailed Ferelden's most treacherous sea without scars. Yet as Flora had predicted, the Waking Sea appeared deceptively tame that morning. Only a few white caps decorated the choppy grey waters, like Chantry hats strewn across flagstones.

The crew was already aboard the ship, the captain waiting patiently to give the order to _raise anchor._ The vessel needed only to be loaded with the guests and their baggage before it could head out for the harbour entrance and the vast, turbulent swathe of sea beyond. It strained at its ropes, impatient for the off; sails part-unfurled in preparation to catch the westerly wind.

The carts were stopped beside the boarding-ramp, and servants sprang to unload the baggage. To the Orlesian _duc's_ perturbance, the lovely Leliana was attended to far more promptly than himself. While her trunks and chests were carefully manoeuvred up the gangplank, the bard made her farewells to new acquaintances and old friends.

Alistair drew Flora to one side as Leliana laughed and joked with Finian, helping her to unwind the infants from her chest. As the king lifted Taron against his shoulder, he peered into the grave fairness of his wife's face; narrowing his eyes to read the emotion beneath the delicate skin and bone.

"Are you alright?" he breathed, glancing swiftly over his shoulder to where Leliana was pecking a smiling Teagan on both cheeks. "Say something, my love."

Flora shook her head, lips pressed tightly together. She was horribly aware that if she spoke – if she tried to put the maelstrom of emotions within her into words – she might subside into pitiful weeping. The young queen did not want her friend's parting impression of her to be a snot-nosed, wailing mess.

The seagulls wheeled and raced each other above their heads; Flora was too preoccupied to give her arch-nemesis a second glance. Leliana withdrew from Wynne's embrace and, smiling, turned her cheek to Zevran's for a kiss.

"I am sure that I will see you very soon, _mon amour,"_ the elf declared, flashing the bard one of his wicked, white-toothed smiles. "You must keep me abreast of all the Chantry gossip. I assume you will be using your usual method of communication?"

The elf made a gesture towards the cluster of raven-filled cages making their way onto the ship.

"Ah, _oui,"_ replied Leliana, following the flutter of his fingers. "They have proven their reliability well over the past year."

"Good weather for sailing," Finian interjected cheerfully, casting a glance up at the pale, inoffensive sky. "I assume you don't get seasick?"

The bard snorted, although in truth she was uncertain whether she did or not – she hoped that it was the latter. Having promised to keep Eamon abreast of all goings-on in the Orlesian gossip circuits, she made her way to the edge of the crowd. The king and queen waited patiently for their turn to say farewell, stood slightly to one side.

Leliana lingered over her parting with the twins, cuddling one and then the other; plastering their plump, rosy cheeks with kisses to disguise the gleam of tears in her own eyes. She promised to send across an abundance of Orlesian toys and silk _vêtements_ from Val Royeaux.

"I will see you both at Satinalia at your Maker-blessing ceremony," the bard assured them, stroking down a tuft of Taron's golden hair that would not lie flat. "You'll be even more plump and delicious by then, _mes petites grenouilles."_

Leliana handed back the little boy to his father, then took a deep and steadying breath.

"I… I don't know what to say," she said, the cadence of her speech softer and more vulnerable than was usual. "For the first time in my life, I find myself speechless. How can I bear to say goodbye to you two, my dearest friends?"

The corners of Flora's mouth turned down; she clutched Theodora more tightly to her chest and inhaled the soft, warm scent of the infant's skin.

"It's not goodbye, Lel," Alistair replied firmly, aware of his wilting wife. "It's _see you later._ I wager that the next time we see you, you'll have a hat as tall as a Chantry spire."

The bard laughed, leaning forward to kiss the king's cheeks in Orlesian fashion.

"Ah, we shall see. Now- "

She turned to Flora, whose lip was now trembling dangerously, and awarded her a wistful smile.

"My little, redheaded sister. I shall miss your singing and your strange obsession with fish. You have been… a true inspiration to me, in many ways."

This revelation was surprising enough that Flora blinked, momentarily shocked from her gloom.

" _You_ were inspired by _me?"_ she breathed, astonished. "Are you sure?"

The bard laughed, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind the queen's ear. There was an oddly maternal tenderness in the gesture; two fat tears spilled over Flora's lashes and made their way down her cheeks.

" _Oui, ma choupinette._ It was a privilege to travel in your company, _both_ of you," she said, quite visibly struggling to suppress a sudden tremor in her words. "It has been the – the honour of my life."

Aware that if she elaborated further, it might lead to catastrophic consequences for her carefully applied eyeliner, Leliana leaned forward and kissed Flora in the centre of her forehead.

"Good luck on this new re- _reconnaissance_ of your life, Leliana," the queen croaked, tilting her head as Theodora let tiny fingers creep over her throat. "Thank you for everything. I love you very much."

 _Renaissance_ mouthed Alistair helpfully in the background, but Leliana understood well enough what Flora had meant. The bard smiled very wide, ducking her head to disguise the tears that had finally broken free.

" _Au revoir, mes chéris!"_ she breathed, turning and setting her face on the now-unfurling sails before her resolve could waver.

Alistair put his free arm about his wife's waist as they watched the bard cross the gangplank with more elegance than any sailor. Almost immediately, the captain bellowed the order to _raise anchor –_ he had a tide to catch – and the creak of a turning windlass began to echo within the bowels of the shop. The seagulls, excited by the sudden flurry of activity, began to wheel about the masts; crying out to one another in indecipherable tongue.

What seemed like mere moments later, the anchor heaved itself above the waterline; trailing green weed from its rusted iron prongs. The ship began to move, inching away from quayside with a groan of obliging wood. Then the wind caught the sails, filling them with salt-tinged air until they billowed outwards like great clouds. Thus, fuelled with the breath of the Waking Sea, the ship began to pick up speed, metres of grey water expanding between the stern and the harbour. It shrunk in slow increments until it was the size of a child's toy on the horizon; the sails faint white flecks against the colourless sky.

On the quayside, the sniffling queen's family and friends rallied about her. Alistair reached out his free hand to grip hers in their familiar ritual; his palm warm and reassuring against her own. The teyrn ruffled her hair, and made a disparaging comment about the seagulls that made her smile.

" _Carina,"_ murmured Zevran, sliding an arm about Flora's waist from the other side. "We need to start thinking about how we'll celebrate my birthday back in Denerim. I'm thinking an Ancient Tevinter style _orgy_ – thoughts?"

Flora giggled - somewhat damply - while Alistair muttered a retort under his breath along the lines of _wishful thinking!_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Ooooh that was a sad chapter to write! Leliana has been with us since almost the beginning - chapter 19 of the original story! Anyway, at least Zev and Wynne are sticking around for a little while.

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	231. The Orphaned Child

Chapter 231: The Orphaned Child

Over the next few weeks, Castle Cousland eased itself into a new rhythm; settling into a life free from the threat of Carta and Howe. The shadow of the old teyrn's murder seemed to have dissipated, blown out across the Waking Sea like a foul scent dispersed by the wind. Highever, which always reflected the well-being and mood of its ruling seat, also seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The harvest had proved a good one, they had not yet lost any ships to Harvestmere storms; the season itself had proved unseasonably mild. Many locals assumed that such favourable climate was a gift from the Maker for the royal couple, who had strived to keep Ferelden safe in the face of insurmountable odds.

There also seemed to be a new lightness within the castle itself. In contrast to the rapidly darkening evenings and the misty autumnal days, the servants moved about the passages and halls with a rejuvenated spring in their step. Letters had arrived from relatives in various parts of Ferelden with equally optimistic news: harvests were good across the nation, the Blighted sections of farmland had been scorched clean with mage-fire. The Circle had proved their usefulness in this endeavour; working with villages and towns to cleanse the polluted regions.

Wynne, in preparation for her tenure as official court enchanter for Denerim Castle, spent an enjoyable afternoon writing down a list of supplies. She had been promised a whole suite of chambers, including an alchemical laboratory and an herbarium. Since she was now renowned across Thedas as one of the Hero of Ferelden's companions, a dozen Circles had offered to requisition her with materials and equipment - at no cost - to demonstrate their gratitude.

Zevran, thinking on his own eventual departure, had begun to draw up a vast diagram of the Crow hierarchy. Although he was not planning to leave until after Satinalia, it would take several months to locate each senior member of the notoriously secretive guild. Finian, who had many noble acquaintances throughout the Marches, was proving invaluable – notes were coming in with information and possible leads from Kirkwall to Ostwick. On the young arl's chamber wall – where Zevran now resided – a vast sheet of parchment had been pinned; covered in scribbled notes, maps and fragments of letters. Each time some new correspondence arrived by raven, it would be affixed to the board next to the appropriate figure. Zevran and Finian took careful measures not to let Flora see the board. Although the young queen knew that her friend was planning to depart, they did not think it wise for her to know the exact _nature_ of his mission – the meticulous hunting and dispatching of Thedas' most deadly crime-lords.

After several days spent mired in gloom – she missed her departed companion dearly – Flora cheered up in an instant when Taron flashed a gummy smile after feeding. Although Wynne, drawing from some mysterious font of knowledge, informed her that it was part of infant reflex; the queen secretly believed that their little twins were _especially advanced_ for their tender years. The king and queen grew more enamoured with their children with each passing day; the twins were getting plumper and more personable by the week. Originally, they had planned to depart Highever for Denerim when the month's anniversary of the twins' birth arrived; when the day came, both parents decided that they were still too young to travel on horseback, exposed to the elements.

Thus, it was decided that they would remain in the Cousland teyrnir for another fortnight, until the twins had reached six weeks of age. This gave the royal couple a little longer to reconcile official duties with family life. It was not always a smooth process – during one council meeting, Taron refused to stop howling in inexplicable rage; during another, Theodora threw up in magnificent fashion over Eamon's best tunic. There was a grim period of three nights when neither twin wanted to sleep for more than an hour at a time. This resulted in both Flora and Alistair falling asleep at the table in the great hall at dinner, simultaneously exhausted.

Yet, those around the young parents rallied to offer their help. Eamon walked about the council chamber dictating a letter, while patting a gurgling Taron on the back. Zevran hummed songs – albeit rude ones – in his native tongue to soothe Theodora back to sleep. Whenever there was a free moment during the day, king and queen would steal the opportunity to nap, confident that someone they trusted would look after the twins.

And, in spite of the challenges, the rewards were also immense. The twins, always vaguely curious in their surroundings, had grown far more alert. They turned their heads in the direction of Mabari barks and creaking doors; even managing to lift them briefly when sprawled on their fat bellies. They had begun to discern one face from another, round grey eyes igniting with recognition when one of their parents reached for them. Finian spent an hour one afternoon waving a turquoise enamelled brooch before their faces, watching their eyes track the progress of the jewellery back and forth. They had also started to make soft cooing noises in response to their parents, offering pseudo-replies to murmured questions.

One afternoon, when the twins had reached their fifth week, the royal couple were seated in one corner of the great hall; the teyrn was at the far end meeting petitioners from the town. Alistair was reading through correspondence from the dwarven stonemason in charge of rebuilding the Denerim city walls; Flora was puzzling over a newly-arrived letter from Leliana. The bard had enjoyed a swift and pleasant journey, and had settled well into her new role at the Valence Chantry. Theodora was fast asleep in her father's elbow; a drowsy Taron was lying on his mother's thighs, her hand cradling the back of his head.

"Why does Leliana have such complicated writing?" the plaintive Flora asked Teagan, who was reading a report from Rainesfere nearby. "There's nothing here that looks like any letters I know. Is she even _writing_ in Kingstongue? What's THAT?"

Teagan lowered his own letter to eyeball the creamy, Chantry-stamped vellum.

"That's an A, poppet."

Flora shot the bann a look of such alarm and mistrust that he laughed out loud.

"I swear to you, it's an _A._ It just has a few _decorative flourishes,_ that's all."

"Hm!"

Alistair put his arm around his wife's shoulder and pressed his lips affectionately to her neck, inhaling the familiar salt-soap scent of her skin.

"As soon as I've finished this last report, my love, I'll help with the reading."

The king then found it rather difficult to return to his report; distracted by the rich crimson thickness of his wife's part-braided hair and the warmth of her bared shoulder. He could see the silver brand of the Archdemon arcing across her collarbone, and had the sudden urge to follow the mark below the neckline of her tunic.

 _Focus on business,_ Alistair told himself sternly. _You had her last night. And this morning._

With reluctance, he returned his attention to the report from the stonemasons.

Flora abandoned Leliana's letter and focused on her son as he lay in her lap. Taron was rousing himself in slow increments, blinking and flailing a chubby, imperious fist.

"Good morning," the queen said to the infant, beaming down at him as she adjusted a tiny woollen sock. "Did you sleep well?"

Taron gave a little squeak, focusing so intently on his mother's face that he went temporarily cross-eyed. Flora giggled, ducking her head to kiss the baby in the centre of his smooth, tawny forehead. The determined infant made a flailing grab towards a loose rope of crimson hair, clamping it within a chubby fist and trapping her in the bent position.

"You're so _coordinated,"_ she breathed in utter enthralment, the blood rushing to her cheeks as he kept her head anchored beside him. "What a clever baby!"

Teagan, noticing the queen's face reddening, reached out to coax the infant's fist open. His own finger was captured instead; the amiable bann let the baby keep his prize and returned his attention to the Rainesfere report.

"Now you've captured Bann Teagan," Flora observed, then let out a squeal of delight as Taron gave her a gummy smile. "Alistair, Alistair, look!"

The king's head shot swiftly round; a grin spreading across his own face as he saw his son smiling. Pride shone bright on his face, the hazel eyes warm with admiration.

"Maker's Breath. He's a handsome boy, isn't he?"

"He takes after you, husband!"

"Sweet wife!"

The couple's embrace was interrupted by sounds of consternation from across the hall. Fergus had risen to his feet, brow creasing beneath the teyrn's band of authority; several Cousland retainers were gathered about him and conversing in low tones. Alistair withdrew from his wife, but kept an arm around his shoulders as he angled a narrowing gaze towards the crowd at the platform. Teagan had also noticed the disturbance; lowering the report to the table, he shared a glance with the king.

"Something's happened," he murmured in a low voice, considerate of the oblivious Flora. "Shall I go and find out?"

Alistair gave a half-nod, jaw stiffening as all manner of dire possibility rose to his mind.

 _A new Howe sibling crawling from the woodwork, bent on revenge._

 _More Darkspawn emerging from the Deep Roads._

 _Someone else who wants to steal my wife from me._

He tightened his grip about Flora's shoulder, half-glimpsing her astonishment from the tail of his eye as he watched his uncle stride across the hall. The king's gaze dropped to his son, gurgling and kicking in Flora's lap, and then to where his sleeping daughter lay tucked within his elbow. The weight of his sword against his thigh felt suddenly comforting. The presence of Cod, Lobster and a pack of royal Mabari provided additional reassurance.

The crowd of stewards parted for the bann as he made his way towards Fergus. Fergus, regret writ plain across his face, gestured his friend forward and the two men conversed for several minutes. Alistair watched them like a hawk, wishing that the elf was present with his preternatural hearing.

Flora had now realised that something was not quite right, a crease very similar to the one dividing Fergus' brow forming beneath her hairline. She lifted Taron to her shoulder and sat up a little straighter, narrowing her eyes. There was no anxiety in her gaze, only a steely Herring readiness. Looking at his queen in that instant, Alistair had the distinct idea that Teagan could have returned with news of a _sixth_ Blight; and that Flora would have responded with only a grumble and the instruction to recall the armies.

The grim-faced bann returned, and the king braced himself.

"Well," Teagan said, lowering himself back to the bench. "That's a Maker-damned shame."

"What's happened?" demanded Alistair, legions of Howes, Carta dwarfs and Darkspawn dancing the Remigold in his head.

"Remember that Chasind that travelled here with us? Talented carpenter, with the infant lad."

Alistair nodded as Flora glanced up, the crease in brow furrowing deeper.

"Fergus gave him work," the king said, recalling the gratitude on the weary man's face. "He carved a chest for the twins. It's one of the finest pieces of woodcraft I've ever seen."

His queen said nothing but listened with increasing trepidation, thinking on the motherless babe that she had coaxed from the brink of starvation.

"Apparently," continued the bann, returning his attention to the report. "According to the steward, the man was suffering from some growing _mass_ in his bowel – had it for a while. Only told a few people about it."

Flora knew well enough what the bann was referring to. As a child she had called it the _crab-disease,_ in reference to how the foreign mass stretched out malignant fingers within the body. It had been one of the few conditions that she had not been able to cure; since it was invisible from the outside and she could not reach it with her rejuvenating breath. On one occasion – when the mass had protruded through the skin – Flora's father had sliced it off with a descaling blade and she had healed the wound left in its wake. This was a rarity: in the majority of cases, the crab-disease crept insidious through the recesses of the body, only manifesting to the naked eye when it was too late.

"Anyway," Teagan said, a rueful grimace creasing his handsome, prematurely lined face. "The man's condition had been worsening for a few weeks, according to the wet nurse feeding his son. Then – well. She went to get payment for the last week of her services this morning, and found him dead in the bed."

To Alistair's slight shame, the first thought in his mind was _relief:_ relief that it was an individual and impersonal tragedy rather than some catastrophic news that might endanger his family. Beside him Flora took a deep breath; swallowing a hard lump of sadness for a man who had clearly been suffering in silence for many months.

"What about his son?"

"What's that?" Teagan had returned his attention to the Rainesfere report.

"The baby."

"I'm not sure, pet-"

The bann trailed off as Flora rose to her feet in the middle of his sentence, clutching the drowsy Taron to her shoulder. Alistair immediately made to follow, a helpful steward darting forward to hastily collate the Orzammar reports. The Mabari also roused themselves accordingly, heaving their muscled bulk upright; curious eyes settling on the queen.

Flora headed towards the vast double doors at the far end of the hall, her face grave with purpose. The teyrn, who had noticed his sister's movement, fell into step beside her as she came to a halt between the wooden entranceway.

"It's a damned shame," Fergus observed, watching the guard scuttle to open the vast door. "The bailiff showed me the moulding that the Chasind fellow had done on the Fereldan tower stairwell – it was exceptional."

The doors were opened; the guard moved forward to clear a path through the band of petitioners still waiting to make their cases before the teyrn. At the sight of the royal family, an excited murmuring broke out. The Mabari trotted forward to flank the king and queen as they proceeded through the small crowd; far more intimidating than any armour-clad guard.

"It's a shame that he didn't say anything about being sick," the teyrn continued as they turned towards the servant quarters. "I would've sent for an apothecary from the town, or a bloodletter. At my own cost, of course."

"They wouldn't have been able to help him," replied the distracted Flora, only half-listening. _"Especially_ not the blood-letter. They don't help anyone."

She remembered the derision offered by her _Golden Lady_ in the face of some of Fereldan's more _traditional_ healing methods. Blood-letting, the application of leeches and the drilling of small holes into the skull to release demons were all met with pity-laced disdain.

Fergus' eyebrows shot up: blood-letting was the theory favoured by the legendary Ancient Tevinter physician Hypokratus, whose works had shaped medicine for half a dozen Ages.

But Flora had no more time to explain her aversion to current medical practice. She was thinking on the little nameless Chasind babe, whom she had first fed as a scrawny, malnourished newborn. Over the past month at Highever, he had grown into a plump and jolly infant; she had seen him occasionally in passing in the arms of the wet-nurse. On a few occasions she had sought the babe out, eager to check on his progress.

Teagan and Fergus shared a swift, astonished glance as they followed in the wake of the determined queen. Alistair, conversely, was _not_ surprised in the slightest. He kept pace with his wife, patting Theodora on the back as she gurgled and cooed beside his ear.

The servants' quarters were mostly empty; it was the middle of the day, and the occupants were undertaking their duties throughout the castle. However, a few of the night guard and lesser servants were gathered in a gossipy huddle about the doorway to the Chasind's room. Death in the Dragon Age was not an unusual occurrence – medical theory and practice was rudimentary at best – but the suddenness of the carpenter's death had captured their imaginations.

"Get back to your rooms," Fergus ordered, irritably. They scuttled hastily off into their own chambers, gawping at the unexpected arrival of their lord and master. It was almost unheard of for the teyrn to enter the servants' quarters – the old teyrn, Bryce Cousland, had never set foot within them.

"I need to have the ceiling repaired in here," the young teyrn observed mostly to himself, as Flora made her way towards the doorway.

From the moment they had entered the servants' quarters, the queen had felt a now-familiar pang in her breast. The indescribable tug was prompted by the distant sound of an infant's grizzle; which grew louder and more plaintive with each step taken towards the Chasind's quarters.

The chamber itself blazed with light – the Chantry were attending the corpse, by order of the castle bailiff. Initially they had been reluctant – the Chasind was one of the wilder folk, who did not follow the way of the Maker – but the offer of a hefty donation had secured their services. Candles were placed on every service, making the air heavy with scent.

The body itself was still on the bed, a sheet draped from head to toe. A nearby priestess murmured under her breath, eyes downcast; fragments of the Chant occasionally audible.

Placed on the edge of the bed beside his father, the Chasind's son grizzled miserably. He was unable to see anything, save for the impersonal white plaster of the ceiling. From a stain on the blanket beneath him, it was clear that he had been there for a while.

Flora inhaled in dismay, ignorant of the stares of the priestesses as she deposited a sleepy Taron into the arms of his uncle. As soon as the Chasind baby saw her, his face lit up with recognition and he thrust chubby arms into the air, desperate to be held. Flora immediately scooped him up and held him to her breast, cradling his head with her cupped palm.

"He's cold," she breathed to Alistair, who had hastened across the room with concern furrowing his brow. "And wet. And _hungry."_

The orphaned baby let out a thin whimper of need, his fists anchoring themselves in the queen's blouse

"Poor little chap," replied Alistair, looking about him for a clean blanket. "Looks like he's been left alone for hours."

At a loss for anything to wrap the babe in, the king shrugged off his own tunic; transferring Theodora carefully from one arm to the other. Now clad in undershirt, he passed the clean garment to Flora, who carried both tunic and babe over to the armchair. With a practised hand, she removed the soiled blanket and replaced it with fresh linen. The baby continued to grizzle hungrily throughout, his huge, dark eyes fixed plaintively on Flora's face.

"Shh," she whispered down to him, feeling dampness prickle at the corner of her own eyes. "It's alright, little lobster. Here, here-"

The Chasind babe clung to her breast, cheeks flexing frantically around her nipple as he drew sustenance for the first time that day. She smiled down at him, swallowing a hard knot of emotion that rose unbidden in her throat. Gradually, the infant settled himself down, the angry creases in his face smoothing out into contentedness.

Alistair watched his wife feed the baby, and suddenly found himself wondering who had fed _him_ for the first time; his father long-departed and a mother dead in childbirth. He supposed that Eamon must have arranged for some wet-nurse, though the king had no memory of any maternal figure.

The Chantry priestess finished her vigil promptly, deciding that there was no point in completing the last few stanzas for the soul of a heathen. Adjusting the angle of her hat, the old woman turned to the nearby bailiff in expectation of a hefty donation.

Flora, rousing herself from the odd reverie that suckling brought on, turned her face up to Alistair. He gazed back at her wordlessly, admiring the play of candlelight across her finely-hewn features. Her mouth was full and still, her eyes like silver-flecked granite; the Chasind baby nestled at her breast with small fingers waving before a thoughtful face. As always, he was able to read her thoughts as though they were scrawled in ink across her smooth, pale forehead. For several long moments they stared at one another; both children raised by someone other than their natural parent.

"Can I have a few minutes alone with my wife?" Alistair asked eventually, his voice soft and thoughtful. "We have to… discuss something."

* * *

OOC Author Note: Bit of medical history in this chapter! Hypokratus is my DA universe version of Hippocrates, a doctor from Ancient Greece who came up with the hideously incorrect Four Humours theory of medicine and distorted medical treatment for nearly fifteen hundred years! And Flora calls cancer the crab disease – that was the name given to it by Hippocrates (Cancer means crab, like the star sign).

Alistair of course was raised by a conglomerate of people at Redcliffe Castle; Flora was adopted by her Herring-parents…

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	232. The Bloom After The Blight

Chapter 232: The Bloom After The Blight

Eamon Guerrin departed Highever on the last day of Harvestmere; bound for Denerim to ensure that the castle was ready for the return of the king and queen. Teagan, who was resolved to see the royal progress through to completion, chose to stay at Castle Cousland. He would escort Alistair and his family to the nation's capital, and then continue south to Rainesfere – and, to Redcliffe. Eamon, with Alistair's seal of approval, had officially transferred the arldom to his younger brother, with the humorous aside that the deal also meant accepting the castle's arlessa, Isolde. Teagan blanched for a split-second, until his chuckling brother offered reassurance that he was _only joking._ En route to Redcliffe, the new arl was intending to stop at Gwaren and inspect the beginnings of Anora's building efforts. Alistair had already received a letter from the mayor of Gwaren, stating that although they were somewhat wary of their new teyrna – the name Mac Tir did not inspire confidence - she had proven a capable leader thus far.

The royal couple were beginning to learn how to accommodate the needs of a third infant. The twins had such overwhelming supplies of linens, woollens and other necessities that there was an abundance for the use of the nameless Chasind babe. He was several weeks older than Taron and Theodora, but the twins were large – they took after their father – and all three were roughly the same size. It was no small task to parent three young babies; and Wynne's assistance soon proved to be invaluable. As for Taron and Theodora, they readily accepted their new companion into their midst. The crib was wide enough to accommodate all three infants; though they tended to sleep curled together like Mabari pups.

The compassionate queen, thinking on the cruel treatment she had received from her own Herring-mother, was determined to shower the babe with as much affection and tenderness as was possible. Like the linens, Flora had an over-abundance of love to share; especially in the wake of the loss of her spirits. The Chasind infant – still nameless, since it was tradition within the tribe not to tempt fate by naming a newborn too soon – was a jolly and good-natured baby, despite the hardships of his early days. He giggled in response to Alistair's grins, and offered a gummy smile whenever anybody glanced in his direction.

As their nursery expanded, the young couple at the heart of the little family grew closer. Already bonded at the hip with leatherworker's glue, the king and queen now barely left each other's side; sitting with fingers entwined at the council table and falling asleep in simultaneous weariness at dinner. Flora, for her part, was not subtle in her adoration of her husband. She often put her arm about his shoulder and kissed his cheek unprompted; choosing to perch on his knee rather than on any nearby seat. Alistair, who had received more affection in the past year than during the first nineteen of his life, could not quite believe his luck. He was prone to staring at his wife for long, wordless periods, as though still in mild shock that she was _his_.

The king and queen also made frequent love, seizing every available opportunity to join themselves in the act of ultimate intimacy. It was not unusual to find the royal bedchamber shut in the middle of the day, the rhythmic thud of a headboard against a wall echoing through the door. Likewise, on several occasions, servants – and once a traumatised Finian – were requested by the Royal Guard to take another route to their intended destination; as muffled moans and gasps of pleasure drifted from around a nearby bend in the corridor. Afterwards, they clung to each other; sweaty, satiated and dizzy with delight.

 _I love you more than words can say,_ he would breathe hoarsely, stroking a strand of damp crimson hair behind her ear. _Sweet wife._

 _Well, I love you more than fish love water,_ she would reply, earnest and immediate. _My husband._

One grey and dreary morning, a few days before the company was bound for Denerim, there came a tapping on the royal bedchamber window. A servant, who had been delivering a basketful of fresh linens, jumped in shock – a large raven was pattering its beak against the warped glass. Alistair and Flora looked up in simultaneous surprise; the latter let out a squeak of delight.

"Morrigan! Alistair, it's _Morrigan!"_

"Or a very precocious crow," remarked Alistair cheerfully; bouncing the Chasind babe on his knee while Taron gurgled contentedly on his elbow. "You'd better let it in, my darling, I've not got any spare hands. Ah – nothing's wrong. Stand down."

This latter directive was aimed at the pair of Royal Guard who had leaned into the room at the mention of _something at the window._

Flora, who had been in the middle of dressing Theodora after a bath, hastily swaddled the infant in a blanket and rose to her feet. She scuttled across the chamber, turning the window-latch south and swinging open the frame. The raven fluttered inside, bringing with it a gust of wind that saw a stack of letters blown from desk to floor. Before its slender, clawed feet had hit the ground, its silhouette began to blur and shift; expanding into the shape of a human woman. The faint tingle of arcane residue lingered in the air as Morrigan emerged from her avian trappings.

"I thought you'd left without saying goodbye," Flora breathed tremulously; it had been a few weeks since she had last seen her friend.

"I do intend on leaving soon – though don't _weep_ over me as you did the lay-sister," the witch instructed, patting Theodora gently – if awkwardly on the head in greeting. "This little one is as round as a pumpkin. No surprise, if she's got your appetite."

Flora, who adored fat babies, beamed. Morrigan turned her attention to Alistair, who was juggling two infants and the royal seal. She crossed the chamber in a half-dozen swift strides, seemingly unbothered by the bite of the cold flagstone against her bare foot. Taron received the same greeting as his sister; the sweet-natured baby offered Morrigan a gummy smile and she curled the corner of her mouth in return. Finally, her attention fell on the Chasind babe; who was sucking a loose fold of Alistair's sleeve with purpose writ across his tiny features.

"You kept this secret well," the witch commented acerbically to Flora, who – not detecting the wry tone, hastened to explain.

"Oh, I didn't _spawn_ this one."

" _Spawn?_ You arenot a _fish_ , as much as you may desire otherwise. And, I did surmise that you did not birth this creature; though you do have some passing similarity."

Morrigan was not incorrect in her observation. Although the queen and the older babe had different subtleties of complexion, the Alamarri features manifested strongly in them both: full lipped and high-cheekboned, with wide and smooth brows.

The queen, who had followed Morrigan across the room, beamed once again; leaning down to kiss the Chasind babe's upturned nose. She then kissed Taron and Theodora in rapid succession, determined that each infant would receive equal shares of parental affection.

"This is the baby we met on our journey. I _fed_ him."

"His mother died in childbirth," Alistair explained, lifting the little boy towards the witch so that she could hold him. "And his father had a disease of the bowel; he perished a few weeks ago."

Flora grimaced, feeling a twinge of sadness deep in her gut. She found her gaze drawn to the top of the dresser, where she had Alistair had collected all of the Chasind carpenter's scant possessions. These had been carefully wrapped in silk and twine, ready to be presented to the man's son when he reached appropriate age.

Morrigan took the babe, unable to stop a reluctant smile creeping at the corner of her mouth. He smiled up at her, then made a grab for a loop of beads hanging from the witch's neck. She let him clutch them in his plump little fist, ducking her head so that they would not break.

"Does this waif have a name?" she murmured, and there was no malice in her tone as she brushed a dark wisp of hair away from the baby's eyes.

Alistair and Flora glanced at one another, before the king returned his attention to Morrigan.

"We were actually hoping that you might show up to help us with that," he said, frankly. "He was too young for his father to name. Flo and I haven't got much idea about Chasind names, and he ought to be given one soon. You… you've Chasind blood in you, right?"

The king bit back the temptation to enquire what else the witch might be related to; he firmly told himself that he was too _mature_ for such juvenile teasing.

"T'is true, Flemeth did lay with a man of the Wilder tribes to conceive me," Morrigan conceded, avoiding another flailing grab from the baby. "And – by chance – I've happened to eavesdrop on a few Chasind campsites in recent years. I am somewhat familiar with their naming traditions."

Flora's face lit up; she had been worrying to disproportionate degree over the child's lack of name. She wanted the babe to stake a defiant claim on life, for his identity and presence to be noted in the world.

"What you think would suit him?" she asked, bouncing lightly on her heels to soothe a grumbling Theodora.

Morrigan narrowed her yellow cat's eyes as she peered at the boy; he gazed back up at her with abject curiosity.

"Dark hair," she murmured, fingering an inky tuft. "I'd name him _Kieran._ It would be suitable."

"Kieran," repeated Alistair, glancing towards his wife to gauge her opinion. "I like it. What do you think, sweetheart?"

"I like Kieran too," said Flora, at peace with the fact that she would most likely never be able to spell the name correctly. "I think his father would approve. I _hope_ so."

For a moment the queen felt a brief, yet sharp pang of regret that she would not be able to ask her spirits to search for the Chasind carpenter in the Maker's Realm; to seek out his approval for the naming of his child. She closed her eyes for a moment, offering a hesitant prayer – as a mage, she had never felt welcome within the Chantry – that the man's soul had found some respite.

Morrigan gazed down at the baby, her expression as enigmatic and wholly unreadable as ever.

"Does it meet with your approval, little one?" she asked, and Kieran gave an obliging gurgle. The witch could not help but smile in return, hastily disguising it with a feigned cough.

"So it is, then: _Kieran."_

The next morning – the day of their departure from Highever – dawned fair and mild. Much of the preparations had been finalised already: the carts loaded, the horses rested and the baggage packed, the procession now only waited for its occupants. It would take over a week and a half to travel from the north coast to Ferelden's capital; with a brief stop planned at Amaranthine to allow the young family to rest. Morrigan, who was as elusive about her plans as ever, did not say whether or not she would be accompanying them to Denerim. However, the witch intimated that she was not intending to venture far during the winter; so they would not be rid of her yet.

As the ninth bell echoed its toll across the courtyard, the royal party and their companions were ready to depart. The infants were wrapped up against the autumnal drizzle; the Mabari bounded excitedly about the patient horses, eager for the off. Teagan and Alistair spent no small amount of time checking hooves for any stones or protrusions that might cause discomfort.

The mounting of the horses was underway when the queen suddenly turned a distinct shade of green. She thrust Taron and Kieran into the arms of a startled Finian, then scuttled off into the nearby privacy of the stables. Alistair, who had just handed Theodora to Zevran in order to boost his wife into the saddle, followed immediately in her wake.

"And so it begins," murmured Wynne, spotting Fergus and Teagan exchanging a meaningful glance. Teagan had been under strict instruction from his elder brother to keep an eye on the queen's condition. The new Arl of Redcliffe was already privy to the fact that her monthly bleed had not yet arrived; courtesy of a silver coin slipped to a maid.

Sure enough, Flora was huddled over a bucket in a far corner of the stables; nauseous, eyes watering and feeling far from queenly. Alistair, who had been less than three steps behind her, was also crouched unceremoniously on the hay-strewn flagstones. He rubbed his palm in soothing strokes along the length of her spine, keeping Flora's hair bundled away from her sweaty face. The dutiful Cod and Lobster, who had followed their mistress into the stable, twitched their tails anxiously nearby.

"My poor darling," the king murmured, fighting to keep the giddy anticipation from his voice. "Here, take a drink from my flask. What… what you think brought this on?"

"Dunno," mumbled Flora, in one of her less perceptive moments. "I didn't feel well yesterday morning, either. Sorry, I've held everyone up."

"They can wait, baby."

Alistair was determined to care for his wife during this second childbearing in a way that had not been possible during her first. He fussed over her like a mother hen, insisting that she finished the water and then wrapping her in his travel cloak in addition to her own.

The king had just finished bundling his queen up when both became aware of a pair of ashen red eyes focused on them, a wideset brow furrowed in silent confusion. Flora and Alistair swivelled their gazes simultaneously towards the looming silhouette in the nearby stall; Sten's seven-foot frame dwarfing the neighbouring horse.

"Sten!" croaked Flora delightedly, her throat still hoarse from her sickness. "Sten, have you been living down here with the ponies?"

The Qunari shot her a mildly incredulous look.

"No," he stated, blunt and uncompromising. "I have not."

Flora gazed huge-eyed at Sten's behemoth bulk; enamoured with her vision of him sharing a hay-bale with the diminutive pony in the next stall. Alistair, meanwhile, had spotted the leather travel pack slung over the warrior's shoulder. As he had done from the start of their association, the Par Vollen native travelled light.

"Are you going somewhere?" the king asked, reaching out to capture his wife's fingers within his own.

Sten nodded; a stiff duck of the head.

"I have received word from Seheron," he stated bluntly, naming the island on which he had lived prior to his time in Ferelden. "The Arishok has learnt of my journeys with the esteemed Blight-Ender. They deem our association an honourable one."

Flora realised that he was referring to her. She blinked in astonishment at the notion that the Arishok of Par Vollen held her in some sort of _esteem._ The queen did not know what an Arishok _was,_ but she was suitably impressed.

"Therefore, I have been recalled; my exile lifted. I intend to depart for Seheron on the next available ship."

The Qunari spoke in his usual blunt, abbreviated cadence; the words emerging flat and emotionless. Yet, Flora was sure that she could see a glimmer of _something_ lodged within his deadpan stare; flickering like an ember before dying away.

 _Twice you volunteered into the Deep Roads at my side. Once in search of a Paragon, the other on a quest for Darkspawn blood._

 _The thought of failure – or defeat – never even crossed your mind._

"Thank you," she said, knowing that he did not value gratitude. "It was… an honour to fight at your side."

This last comment was more acceptable; a grunt of acknowledgement emerged from Sten's throat.

"And I owe you a debt," added Alistair, recalling how Sten had assisted in the rescue of his wife on the smugglers' isle. "Anything you require in the future – you only need to ask."

The Qunari's mouth twitched, vaguely amused at the prospect of requiring something from a human. Still, he inclined his head a minute fraction, nodding in faint acceptance.

"As you wish."

Nothing more needed to be said. Sten turned abruptly towards the stables' northern exit, _Asala_ gleaming like a bright streak of flame at his back. The king and queen watched their former companion as he strode out of their lives; his ashen stare set purposefully towards his future.

Left behind in the stables, Flora took a deep and steadying gulp of air. Almost immediately, she regretted her decision; the smell of manure made her feel distinctly nauseous again. Alistair, seeing his wife go green about the gills, hastily drew her into the direction of the open doorway and plugged her lips with the nozzle of his flask.

Outside the stable - after several more gulp of cold well-water – some of the normal colour began to flood back into Flora's cheeks. She raised grateful eyes to her husband; Alistair cradled her cheeks in his hands, brushing away the dampness from her lashes with broad thumbs.

"Maker, what _wouldn't_ I do for this precious face?" he murmured, a vein of raw tenderness running through the words. "You make me feel as though I could cross the Frostbacks in a single stride, my love."

She reached up to twine her arms around his neck; he returned the embrace with equal fervour.

The royal procession left shortly afterwards, taking the road that wound in a lazy arc to the south-east. Soon, they would join the old Tevinter highway that led on a straight plane from Highever to Amaranthine. The Waking Sea was visible for the first few hours of their journey, then abruptly vanished behind the lie of the land. Its disappearance took Flora by surprise: she had glimpsed the choppy grey waves a moment prior, but then grown distracted by one of the infants grumbling against her breast. After it had been soothed, she looked around once more and the sea had disappeared from view. The queen had felt a twist of panic in her belly; memories of her forced departure from Herring rising to the forefront of her mind.

 _It's not the same,_ she told herself firmly. _This is only a temporary farewell._

 _Besides, Denerim is on the coast. The Amaranthine Ocean isn't the Waking Sea, but all saltwater is connected in some way._

After three days on the single-lane road, the company glimpsed the white jutting stone of the Imperial Highway; emerging from the hills like the backbone of some ancient creature. Once they had found a suitable access point – many of the old rampways had crumbled away – the pace of their journey increased.

Two days later, and they had reached the port town of Amaranthine. Both Flora and Alistair had some reservations about visiting Rendon Howe's old domains. Finian, to his credit, had done a remarkable job of purging the town of any traces of its old master. In the six months since the Archdemon's death, the new arl had stripped away the bear and the mustard yellow livery; replacing it with Cousland cobalt and his personal suit. Rendon Howe's manor had been renovated, the oppressive oak interior replaced with light and airy cedar wood in a vaguely Orlesian style. New paintings replaced mouldering tapestries; fresh-cut flowers sprung from every surface

The company stayed at Amaranthine for several days to give the young family a short respite from the road. The original plan had been to stay for a week; however, Flora professed that she was fine to continue after two days. Alistair, who was keen to return to his capital, also wanted to press onwards. Finian and Zevran's farewell lasted the entire night and the majority of the next morning. The elf parted from his lover after securing a promise that Finian would visit the capital very soon. The former Crow also left the young arl with a gold earring on a chain around his neck.

News of the royal couple's return to Denerim spread faster than they themselves could travel. With each mile closer to Ferelden's largest city, more people lined the roads to shout out greetings. Villages spilled out the entirety of their occupants; excitable children squealed _Theirin, Theirin!_ and flailed crimson ribbons in the air. Smiths abandoned smoking forges, bread was left to burn in ovens, even Chantry services ended prematurely if a royal sighting was reported. The excitement only grew on glimpsing the twins – and the third babe garnered interest, too. Word quickly spread that the king and queen had taken in an infant orphaned by the Blight; it was close enough to the truth that it was not checked.

Gradually, the rugged landscape began to wane as they approached Ferelden's eastern coast. Wild moorland was tamed and harnessed into arable farmsteads; the fields sprouting golden stubble in the wake of the harvest. The river, wide and gleaming as a silver ribbon, snaked its leisurely way through the valley; eventually, it would open up into the estuary that ran alongside Denerim.

On the fourteenth day of their journey, both Flora and Alistair realised that they recognised their surroundings. They had re-joined the road that they had taken to Denerim many months ago, before the fateful Landsmeet that had disgraced Loghain and awarded Alistair the crown. The last time that they had taken this road, their party had been split up to avoid recognition; they had needed to sneak into the city in disguise to avoid attracting the attention of Mac Tir or Rendon Howe.

Now, in a most dramatic reversal of circumstance, they were returning to the city in a company of three dozen; with baggage carts, livery-clad servants, and a family of their own. In contrast to the harried secrecy of their first entrance to the city, the second would be public and involve cheering crowds. Already, from their viewpoint on the high bluff above the city, swarms of people were lining the road leading up to the western gate. Soldiers from the city garrison were lining the streets, the sunlight glinting off their fresh-polished armour.

"The last time we stood up here, _carina,_ I was dressing you up as _Madame du Poisson,"_ Zevran breathed, pulling his horse to a stop beside the royal couple.

"Mm," replied Flora distractedly, transfixed by the sight of the city spread out below them. "I… I remember."

The walls, which had been left crumbling in the wake of the Darkspawn horde's siege engines, had been rebuilt to new heights. Vast buttresses had been added to bolster the stone ramparts; circular forts housed trebuchets crafted from dwarven design. The silhouette of Fort Drakon in the distance stood proud and unbroken; the tower cleaved in two by the Archdemon's claws made whole again and decorated with a defiant banner. The road to the northern gate – the entrance closest to the market square – was crowded with traders' wagons, waiting impatiently to gain access to the city. Likewise, merchant ships queued in the estuary to gain access to the harbour; sporting flags from the Marches, Antiva and even further afield. In the distance, the Royal Palace gazed stern and benevolent across its domain; the banners of Denerim, of Theirin and of Cousland fluttering from its high towers.

"The city is in bloom," observed Wynne, drawing her own horse to a halt on the royal couple's other side. "Life has returned to our country after the Blight, it seems."

Flora felt Alistair inhale behind her, steady and purposeful. His lips brushed against the back of her neck, followed shortly by a rustling of leather. Moments later, he drew out the twin golden bands from where they had been carefully stored away. They were the crowns of office, identical save for the broadness of the band, raised at intervals in delicate points.

"Ready to put this on, sweet wife?" he murmured in Flora's ear, inhaling the salt-soap scent of her hair.

Flora took a deep breath of her own, feeling the stir of an infant against her chest. Kieran and Theodora were fast asleep; Taron was surveying his mother thoughtfully, his grey eyes round and curious.

 _Am I ready?_

A voice replied that had nothing to do with her spirits; the whisper arising from deep within the queen's own grit-lined soul.

 _Yes, I am._

"Let's go!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: OOOOH I can't believe we're at an end! After… well, I don't know how many years – I guess 2.5 since I posted the first chapter of TLATL. It felt like a nice way to bring the story to an end – Alistair and Flora, with their expanded family, looking down on the rejuvenated city, since the original story ended with them looking down at the city in its post-final battle, post-Blight exhaustion.

Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with this ridiculously long set of stories (1.7 million words altogether) and who has put up with my inability to edit, lol. Hopefully you have enjoyed the ride, it's been so much fun to write! And I don't think I'll be able to resist the temptation to pop in on the royal couple in the future, see how they're doing :P

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


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